Prologue

Natayla

The lunch lady plops a tiny carton of whole milk onto my tray, where it rocks once and lands on its side. I pick it up and hand it right back over the partition.

“I can only have non-fat,” I tell her primly. “Please.”

“We’re out. Milk shipment comes on Tuesdays.”

“I’ll grab some water,” I mutter quietly.

I slide my tray down the metal rails to the cashier and then realize I have nothing to pay for. I’ve brought my lunch in a waxed white paper bag—the kind Mother buys at the gourmet grocer. Other kids have brown paper bags, but Mother is too good for brown paper bags.

Dutifully, I wait in line even though I’ve got nothing to purchase and bite the dry skin on my lip. It’s a terrible habit. Mother tells me all the time. My lips are chapped and she says they’ll never get better if I don’t stop.

“Why’d you wait in line if you’ve got nothing to buy?” the checkout lady asks me.

I shrug. The reason I waited is because I dread sitting down. Choosing a table is like choosing sides in a war at this school. The bun heads, the drama-theater-y kids, the musicians, the visual artists. Then there’s the demi-gods, the crème de la crème where Mother would have me sit if she were allowed to tag along.

I stand and stare across the span of the whole cafeteria. It’s bright enough in here that I might as well be on stage doing a solo. I exhale toward the ceiling and my bangs blow up with the gust. I want to scratch my head but both hands are on my tray, so I blow in the direction of the itch again and see an empty table by the bathrooms. Without hesitating, I truck in that direction, careful not to let my fancy lunch bag slide onto the floor. By the time I sit down, my heart is thudding in my chest.

The table isn’t empty. There’s a guy here. I just couldn’t see him behind the column. He’s on the other side of the picnic-style table, so I can keep my head down and eat and pretend I don’t see him.

I unwrap my sandwich and place it on the napkin, then delicately lift the black Russian Rye to peek inside. Watercress and goat cheese with sliced radishes. Not my fav, but it will do. I lift it to my mouth, ready to take a giant bite, when I notice him staring. Our eyes connect over the top of my sandwich. His eyes are dark and almond-shaped, but I recognize them immediately. They speak the same language as mine—urgent and horrible and one I’d know anywhere.

Hunger.

I’m only thirteen, but I’ve known this language for as long as I can remember. My grandmother was a famous ballet dancer. Mother became an even more famous prima ballerina. My path was written before I left the womb, and my body type had to comply with two generations of expectations.

I snap my mouth closed and lower my sandwich. Most people at this school have money. They’re not just moneyed—they are money. Made of it, eat, sleep, drink money—they probably even bathe in it.

Maybe he forgot his lunch or his debit card. I sigh and stare hard at my sandwich. He’ll probably think it’s weird. He’d probably rather I lend him my lunch debit card for a slice of pizza. I sigh, not taking my eyes from the small, dark morsel in front of me.

Then, with shaky hands, I tear the waxed paper in two. I set one tiny half of my sandwich on it and using one finger, I slide my other half across the table until it’s in front of him. I don’t look up because I’d rather not see my hunger reflected in his eyes.

Tags: Mila Crawford Romance
Source: readsnovelonline.net