The Problem with Lena

Chapter 2

The flimsy dining chair let out a loud creak as I dropped my weight onto it. I let out a sigh of relief when it didn't break under me.

I really didn't want to be the girl who fell off a chair in the middle of the crowded lunchroom during the first week of school.

"I can't stand German," Alisa complained, disdainfully twirling her spaghetti on her plate.

The cafeteria food was a total gamble - it could either be a delicious feast or an absolute abomination. Unfortunately, today's pasta definitely fell into the latter category.

"Do they really have to make telling time so complicated?" my friend continued, completely oblivious to the mini panic attack I just had with the chair.

"Yeah," I said, putting on my best German accent. "That's why they're so damn smart. They've got brain muscles."

"You can't have muscles in your brain," Alisa teased.

"Sure you can," I corrected her. "If you read, meditate, exercise, get enough sleep, and eat healthy, you'll have a brain that looks like Thor's."

"Damn," Lauren muttered with a smirk. "Then I guess I have cellulite in my brain."

Alisa's face lit up with amusement. She had the kind of face that didn't need makeup to stand out, with full lips and big eyes. But what I loved about her were the imperfections - her thick eyebrows a shade darker than her blonde hair, and those slight bags under her eyes that gave her a bohemian vibe.

"Did you know that Germans have a word for a serial killer who chooses victims randomly?" she continued indignantly. Alisa loved French, but the language course she took required learning other modern languages, including German.

"Really?" I asked, trying to hide my disbelief.

"Yeah, they do. They've got a damn word for that, and I guess they've got another one if the killer follows a logical pattern."

"So they call them the 'unmentionable' until they solve the case?" I joked.

Alisa grinned. "No, they probably have another super long word for a serial killer whose modus operandi is still unknown."

We laughed, and just as I reached for a potato on my plate, a warmer, larger hand intercepted my target. I frowned and followed the stolen potato's trajectory until it disappeared between Alex's lips.

He seemed to be everywhere that week. How was I supposed to notice anyone else with him always around?

He dared me with his gaze, challenging me to protest while he chewed the potato with exaggerated movements. I tried to show impatience, rolling my eyes, when all I wanted was to giggle like a silly girl and blush from head to toe.

Alex kept his gaze locked on mine from his elevated position. He took more potatoes from my plate and sat down beside me. There was a huge buffet behind us, with piles of food available for anyone who wanted to serve themselves, but what fun would that be for him?

He had a few days' worth of beard growth, and his dark brown hair was disheveled, with the tips tousled on top of his head as if he had just woken up late. It looked good on him. Only someone like Alex could make the "zero effort" style look so damn sexy.

I tried to take another potato, suddenly hungrier than before. But he snatched it again with a mischievous smile. I elbowed him back, perhaps too forcefully, but he had it coming. He always teased until I got violent. I liked to fantasize that he did it because he liked me, but logic contradicted that. We weren't kids anymore. Whenever Alex liked a girl, he made it clear, no excuses or games. So, I had to resign myself once and for all to the fact that, to him, I was just the tomboy he played football with and exchanged friendly punches.