To the stars beyond the blue || B. Hargrove

three: blue raspberry

I am of the strong opinion, that High School cafeterias are an amalgamation of all the worst things the world has to offer. It must be at least one of those circles of hell that Dante has to wade through.

It's loud and stuffy and most of them look like they haven't seen a touch of fresh color since world war 1. They smell of sweat and sharpies and some kind of vinegar sauce that hasn't been served in years but the scent lingers in the walls and the floors.

I walk through past the long rows of tables, awfully aware of the eyes lingering. I know I am being sized up, evaluated. It's one of those wonderful burdens that comes with being the new kid. I didn't have to be the new kid by myself in a long time. It's quite something really. And if my life was a movie, some quirky girl would walk up to me, hair in some intricate buns, and she would strike up a conversation about obscure underground bands or her passion for bauhaus style interior design or dutch painters. I would understand nothing but her enthusiasm would pull me in and we'd become friends and some uplifting pop song would play in the background of a makeover montage.

Alas — my life is not a movie. So no one walks up to me to ramble about their peculiar interests. All I get is judgmental glances and hushed whispers and the smell of vinegar sauce sticking to my hair and my skin.

As I reach the counter, I am faced with two more things I hate about High School cafeterias. The food and the lunch ladies. Now, I get that serving lunch to grumpy teenagers is all but a desirable job, but it's a job anyway. I don't expect them to smile at me or great me in a sing-sung. I just don't want them to make it so obvious that I (an all my peers) are ruining her day, maybe her life.

Then again, I can't really blame her. High School makes me miserable too, and my time here has an expiration date at least.

I glance towards the food, presented to me in the most unappetizing way one can only imagine. It's all a mush of browns and green and oranges and I can not tell you what even one of those things is. My stomach recoils at the idea of putting any of this into my body.

So I buy a pack of nutters butters and a bottle of sprite and thank the lunch lady because, even if I make her life miserable, I was raised to have some kind of manners.

It's after I leave the line that I realize, I have to sit somewhere now. I could take my nutter butters and eat them holed up in the girl's bathroom but even I am not that sad. My eyes travel across the room for a moment or two until they stop on a familiar head of blond curls.

Billy exudes a certain kind of endearing indifference. He doesn't want to be here and he wants everyone to know that, to be aware that he is too cool for any of this, any of us. The way his shirt is half unbuttoned (even though it's freezing outside), the casual way in which he almost cops a feel with the girl next to him, the can of coke lazily clutched in one hand. If his life was a movie, I wonder what his theme song would be.

For a second I consider sitting with him and his posse. I know he doesn't want me to do that but also I don't give a fuck about that. I offered him an olive branch and he didn't take it. So for a second I wanna go and sit with him, just to annoy him like he annoys me.Then our eyes meet and I know he realizes what I am thinking about. There's a fury in his eyes, one that dares me to do something — anything, so his disdain for me can find some basis, some footing, something to ground itself in. And that satisfaction is not something I will grant him. I don't wanna be here either, it's a two way street.

So I smile with all the cheerfulness I can possibly muster up, and walk towards the doors leading outside. The fresh air greets me though the vinegar scent lingers.

The sizzling sound of the phone trying to connect fills my ears and makes my heart speed up a litte. My stomach ties itself in knots over and over. Tangle - untangle - tangle - untangle. An unpleasant staccato of anxiety.