Chapter 23

Entering Forrester Hall, I saw the cafeteria on my left and a familiar knot twisted in my gut. A line of students of all different ages disappeared into an area where food was served. More kids passed me, picked up trays off a nearby counter, then stood in line.

I took a tray then got in behind them and glanced around, trying not to be too obvious, and then I almost laughed—not because anything was funny. At my old school, the cafeteria was the noisiest place in the whole building. Even though lunch monitors wanted to keep everyone quiet, there was no getting around all the shouting, laughing, and screaming.

My ears mourned the silence, while at the same time, the visual chaos assaulted my eyes. The cafeteria was filled with kids slapping their palms on the tabletops to get the attention of their friends. One little girl, about six years old with half a sandwich in her mouth, walked over to a table and tapped another little girl on the shoulder; the two began signing before the first girl went back to her seat. I saw students signing to one another from across the room, laughing at something, a joke maybe.

The weird thing was, though there were a lot of kids around, the silence made the place seem deserted, like we were ghosts or spirits wandering around, haunting a school campus.

A tap on my shoulder startled me. I spun around. Two boys stood there. The Asian boy sneered and pointed toward the moving line. I was holding everyone else up. I formed a letter “A” with my right hand and made a small circle over my chest. Sorry.

I loaded my tray: pizza with pepperoni, fries drowning in catsup, and a soda with lots of ice. My old school had a cafeteria, but nothing like this. This was most definitely a perk! I paid using the meal card sent in the mail last week. Dad had made sure money was on it, but I didn’t want to use up too much at once. As I tucked the card back into my wallet, I began the search for a place to eat.

The cafeteria was large and bright with big windows looking out onto the center of campus—green grass with picnic tables, some trees, and kids outside roaming about or playing. The cafeteria had lots of round tables and the room was about half-empty. Many of the kids were young enough to have an adult at the table helping cut up food or stick straws into drink boxes.

I saw empty chairs at most of the tables; a few kids that looked about my age sat at two of them. I wanted to sit with them, but there was no way I was just going to walk over and plunk myself down or ask if I could join them. What if someone told me to get lost? That was definitely not a way to begin my new life here. Just the thought of it made me sweat.

I spotted an empty table toward the back of the room. All eight chairs to myself. I sat down in one that allowed me to look around the room. Though I didn’t want to stare, I did want to see what was going on. So, I picked up a french fry and focused on it as if it might be some baffling, marvelous new discovery before I stuffed it into my mouth.

Suddenly, a lunch tray appeared next to mine. I looked up.

Remember me? It was Samantha, the girl I met when I visited the school with my parents.

I made a fist, held it with my thumb near my lips and wiggled it and said, “Samantha.”

She smiled, her eyes blinking slowly in a lazy, delighted way. And you are Marco. How’s school?

Good.

May I sit? She pointed at the chair.

Sure. I didn’t normally hang out with girls, but she seemed okay. I’d have preferred eating lunch with Patrick. Since that wasn’t possible, Samantha would do. Besides, I liked the red streak in her hair. It was different. Girls in Batavia didn’t do this.

After setting her art book down, she picked up a fistful of fries and crammed three into her mouth. Yeah, she definitely seemed all right.

What are you staring at?

I realized only then that I had been. You’re shirt.

She held the fabric out at the shoulders so I could get a better look. Four guys in leathers leaning against a brick wall. “The Ramones” was spray painted across the top.

You like them?

Never heard of them. Are they a band? I signed.

Never heard of them? She signed. I knew she mocked my ignorance when her tongue stuck out of the corner of her mouth and she rolled her eyes. She laughed. We are going to change that.

I wanted to tell her it was kind of late. I was deaf. How was she going to change my hearing this band. I almost laughed.

What’s so funny?

I shook my head. Nothing.

She shoved more fries into her mouth, nodded her head up and down, like these were the best fries ever.

I almost asked about the book, but felt my appetite come back, so I did the same with a few fries. She laughed.

Food’s not bad. Her signing was a little fast, but I didn’t want to ask her to slow down.

Not when you’re starving. I laughed.

Another kid came over with a tray of food. Samantha smiled and waved a hello toward him. Then she introduced us. This is Brian.

He and I shook hands. I’m Marco.

He was African American and at least two inches taller than me. I noticed his New York Yankees T-shirt right away.

She signed to Brian, Join us?

He shook his head, set down his tray. Can’t. Meeting some guys to kick around the soccer ball. He looked at me. Nice meeting you. See you later.

See you later, I signed.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw it. A french fry landed on top of Samantha’s head. The table beside her silently exploded. The six boys seated there slapped down their hands on the table and threw their heads back—presumably in wild laughter.

Samantha shook her head and tried to smile as she picked the fry out of her hair. Unfortunately, the catsup blended with the streak. I couldn’t tell how much was dye, and how much was condiment.

Without thinking, I took a fry off my plate and whipped it back at the table of kids. I don’t know why I did it. Patrick and I always had little food fights during lunch. The cool thing was, no one knew about them. We’d target someone, and then I’d take a pea or something and whip it at that person. We kept score—I usually hit more targets than Patrick, so I got more points. The points meant nothing, really. It was just in fun. One time, someone caught on and threw a grilled cheese sandwich back at us. It hit me in the back. Patrick didn’t hesitate. He took a blob of mashed potatoes and, using his spoon as a catapult, began one of the school’s most memorable food fights of all time. He did that for me… but it was all in fun, and felt like everyone in school knew it. I was in a new school, though. Patrick wasn’t here.

Two things happened simultaneously. One, the fry struck a boy in the face. Two, I realized the fry I’d sent flying was also covered in catsup. I closed my eyes for a moment and wished I could go back ten seconds in time to be given a chance not to do things the same way.

No such luck.

The kid jumped to his feet, wiping the catsup off his cheek and nose with a napkin. It was the same Asian kid who had been behind me in line. He looked even bigger now. He crumpled the napkin and dropped it on the floor as he marched toward my table.

He signed at me with lightning fast, angry hands. My eyes widened. I couldn’t keep up. He was mad at me, that much I knew.

Samantha jumped out of her seat and stood in front of the kid.

They argued with their hands. You could see it in their tight facial expressions, their rolling eyes.

Words flew off fingertips. Her hand speed was no match for his.

I wanted to press my hands over my ears; even though the fighting was silent, it felt like a thundering ruckus. It looked like Samantha was keeping her cool, but the kid she was arguing with kept shaking his head and making faces.

The argument ended when Samantha pointed toward the door, telling him to go. He turned and glared at me. It was like a laser beam of anger shot out of his eyes. For a moment, I tried to stare right back at him, but I looked away first.

The last thing I wanted or needed was trouble, though it was probably too late to wish for that. What a way to kick off the new school year.

As he stormed off, he hit the back of an empty chair. It slid a few feet and collided with a table. Samantha watched him and his friends leave. She looked over at me, made a fist, and rubbed it over her chest in small circles. Her lips moved, as she signed: You should not have done that.

It’s okay, I signed.

No. I mean, you really should not have done that. Eiji is not a nice kid. He likes to fight.

Oh. The bad feeling in my gut returned. I see.

She signed, Here’s my number… just in case.