1.8 - The Cafeteria

This scene is so tired, Wendy thinks, slinging her tote bag back onto her shoulder. Every year the same merry-go-round, last-player-standing shit. By the time she’s dropped off her books in her locker and made her way back to the cafeteria, the room is stinking and crowded with exactly the type of people Wendy would never sup with given any sense of option.


There’s the jock corner, full of farts and flying french fries and under the table vodka. Their female acolytes twist fingers in their hair and leave salads untouched. Catty-corner sit the off-season athletes, goofing around and swapping class notes gleaned from some poor unfortunate soul who loaned them in exchange for a party invitation or a baggie of weed or a date.

The slightly friendlier half of the room begins with band geeks and ends with a table of Wendy’s classmates, their heads bowed around a phone, watching Anime.

Somewhere in the middle of the drama club, the teen librarians, and the valedictorians sit the majority of the GSA crew. She nods at Frances, at Miriam, before trudging to the end of the salad line.

She pushes past the noontime blahs with two fingers pinched at the bridge of her nose. The mental countdown clicking slowly towards 3 o’clock.

With her eyes still closed, Wendy feels a small push at the back of her thighs. “Wha--” she blinks and turns around quickly, almost toppling over Riley’s chair. He stares at her briefly before looking away.

“Are we placing bets on the freshness of the tomatos today?” he asks, finally, and Wendy feels her body relax. She can see in his face a ‘sorry’ and even louder, a ‘don’t say anything about this *fucking* thing because I’m at the end of my rope.’ Half of the time, Wendy’s at the end of her rope, too. She knows the look.

“I’ve got five on soggy and half-frozen, so unless you’re thinking hopeful thoughts, we don’t have much of a game going.”

Riley shrugs his shoulders, rolls his eyes. “Don’t have five bucks anyway.”

His smile then, tiny and hesitant, feels like a lifeguard in a worsening storm. Wendy gingerly loads her plate with spinach and greenery (whatever looks the least dangerous) and waits, unrequested, for Riley before heading into the middle of the cacaughony.

“Here,” Alexis says, when they plop down/pull up. “No one should be expected to brave Edgedale salad without my dad’s secret dressing. Far more bearable.” Her smile is brief, and clear.

“Thanks.”