1.
Ethan
The cafeteria worker wears her hairnet like a battle helmet. Her metal spoon is a loaded catapult. “Beef, chicken, or vegetarian?”
“Vegi-wha?” I stare at her.
She jabs at the mac ‘n cheese with a rubber gloved finger. The yellow, unyielding mass resists her stainless steel scoop like it’s afraid of her too. “Vegetarian,” she says. “We don’t do veejan here, so don’t ask, but you’ve got to pick something.”
I eye the choices in the pan in front of me. I’m late, last in line, and no steam rises from the trays. Sliced beef floats on a congealed gravy-type substance. The chicken? At least the chicken looks like chicken, even cold. How wrong can you go with chicken?
“I guess I’ll have the ch—“
“Don’t get the chicken,” a voice beside me says. I turn to the tall chick with black hair that I’d seen walking next to the path and not on it, the one with the nice—
I force my eyes up to her face. She’s shaking her head, nose scrunched up.
“Just…don’t.”
“Okay then, I guess I’ll have the—“
“Two salads,” the girl says, holding up two long fingers. “Please.”
The lunch lady shrugs and puts the bowls on top of the glass partition. The bossy girl snatches hers, places it on her red plastic tray and walks away.
“Alrighty then,” I say, claiming my own bowl. I shake off the surge that boils under my skin. Figures that the first chick my age who’s spoken to me in almost 2 years would be bitchy, but only an idiot would ignore a warning about food poisoning. And it’s been a long time since I’ve had fresh vegetables.
I follow the girl and watch as she hands over her plastic meal card to the cashier. I remember the card that came in my information packet during registration and reach into my pocket, pleased I’d made the connection before looking like a fool. The cashier swipes it without a look in my direction and I walk to an empty table across the room. I sit with my back to the wall, out of habit. So far, the Scholastic Honors Program has given me a fair amount of space. These are smart kids; they feel my boundaries.
I dig into my salad, reminiscing about my cheeseburger from three hours ago; a thick, juicy one from Burger Shack, with double cheese, and I’m picturing a pin-up spread of the extra bacon when I hear the salad guardian’s voice.
“That’s my brother’s seat,” she says to a redheaded guy from my dorm.
“I don’t see his name on it.”
“Give it up, Marcus.” She doesn’t back down. “Find another seat.”
“Nah.” A chair screeches across the hardwood floor, and the guy makes an exaggerated motion to sit down. “I think I’ll sit here with you. I’ve missed your feisty little ass.”
Feisty might be another word for bossy, or bitch, but he’s too busy staring at her chest to feel the energy rolling off her.
“Move,” she seethes. Her jaw is set and her hands are balled, that long, black ponytail trembling like the sash on a cocked spear.
He doesn’t. He mutters something I can’t hear, something that makes her cheeks stain red. His fingers circle around an invisible dick, and he opens his mouth, tongue thrusting in one cheek, working in tandem with his hand.
The girl jerks her face away from the orange-haired boy. Her eyes meet mine for one angry second. She’s mortified, but her back stays straight as she turns back to the asshole making obscene gestures. She’s feisty alright, but her hands are as slender as the rest of her, and she’s not even making a proper fist.
My switch flips.
Flashbulb-hot rage launches me from my seat, and I’m between them before she even has to raise her hand, and mine is cocked back for her. I hold back my smile at the euphoric rush when his skin splits under my knuckles.
“What the hell?” The girl’s gasp slows my second punch, but the guy still goes down. I spin to face her, but before I can reply I’m kicked from behind, and the real fight begins.
*
I’m escorted from the dining hall by a guy with the stiff walk of a college diploma up his ass, though his class ring marks him as only two years older than me. The rectangular tag pinned to his preppy shirt reads “Teaching Associate” under his name. The other boy from the fight has disappeared in the opposite direction. The blame for all this has landed on me—tends to happen to those with a record.
“Seems like you’ve done that before,” Jeremy says. “Pretty tight right hook.”
I make him nervous. I like that. I shrug, grin. “Yeah, I’ve been in a scrap or two before.” Or twenty.
“Not that I condone fighting or anything, but you couldn’t have picked a better guy. Maybe Marcus’ll back off a little if he knows someone is willing to put him in his place this summer.”
“So he’s been here before?”
“Yeah, last year. Smart as they come but he’s got a sore spot for Memory.” He grins at my blank look. “The girl.” We arrive at an old building with an ill-matched new addition. “The dean is pretty cool,” Jeremy says. “But fighting is a zero-tolerance offence. Even though people saw you defending her, you still started it.”
“Right,” I say, as we climb the steps to the director’s office.
“Just tell him what happened. Maybe he won’t kick you out, if you’re lucky.”
I’ll need more than luck. I’ll need a guardian angel. And she’s going to be pissed as hell at me.
*
“Mr. Tyrell.” The SHP director, Dean Burnett, drops my three-inch-thick file on his desk. My eyes flick from the file to his lined face. “I was hoping I wouldn’t see you in here so soon.”
I snort and lick my bottom lip. It’s swollen, tender. “Never hope for the impossible.”
He ignores me, which is probably for the best. Humor isn’t always my ally. “We had an agreement, your caseworker and I.” He holds up a sheet of paper. “You signed it as well.”
“I remember.”
“You promised to keep your anger in check. This means no fighting.”
I stare at the massive oak desk between us. A glint of silver catches my eye. A sleek, slim letter opener rests next to an antique ink well, its pretty point straight at me. I shift my gaze back to Mr. Burnett, and say what he wants to hear. “I understand.”
“I hope you do, Ethan. You are a bright, talented young man.” He opens the file to my academic scores, glances at them with raised eyebrows, measures the thickness of the stack of behavior reports behind them with his finger, and then cocks his head at the thumbnail pics of my photographs in the back. “This kind of work is exactly what we want to see at the Scholastic Honors Program. But this summer session will be difficult for you if you can’t abide by the rules. I also think we’re both aware of what happens to you if you do not complete this program.”
I nod. Getting back into an orange jumpsuit is not an appealing thought.
“The upside of all this is that we can kill two birds with one stone,” he says. “I believe you are to check in with Ms Wallman after you’ve been situated, and I’m supposed to call the moment you get into trouble.”
He picks up the phone and dials the number written in red ink on the sticky note on the front of my file—I know it by heart—and holds the receiver out to me. I cringe, but I can hear it ringing at the other end, and I take the phone.