Food Chain p. 1

You know those stories about a new kid? How they come to a new school completely freaked out, and by the end of the week they’ve become a member of the in crowd? Well, don’t believe them. Except for the completely–freaking-out part, of course. Because when you first push open those cold, metal cafeteria doors you’re not thinking, Wow! New school, new chance, Hey, there’s the middle table! Oh no.

When I heard my feet echoing across the linoleum, what I thought was, Where’s there an empty seat? Crap, is that Ms. Snyder with another stack of extracurricular forms? So I grabbed the first empty seat and crouched down, hoping only to survive my first day as an eighth grader at Fremont Middle.

Nothing improved the next day (no geek-to chic miracle popularity!), excepting the fact that I could catch my breath long enough between hiding from the counselor (was “Snarky Snyder” determined to crush me under a thousand pounds of sports flyers and “Let the World Sing of Friendship!” forms?) and avoiding the ninth graders to actually map out the Fremont social hierarchy. At the middle table were the Populars; then around them were the True Goths, Drama Clubbies, and jocks; next were the Pink Goths, I’m-to Cool-For-you kids, and the Drifters. Finally, banished to the furthest reaches of the Kingdom of Cafeteria, were the Nerds, Geeks (yes, there’s a difference) and a table where a lone girl with dandruff-filled black hair and a spit problem sat. Guess how many tables had an opening?

“I’m Mary!” squealed the girl as I plunked down my tray at the other end of the table.

“Lanissa.”

“I’ve never heard that name before.”

“Yeah, well, you probably never will again. It’s a combination of my middle name, Marissa, and my last name, Lane,” That was probably the billionth time I’d repeated the story, cursing my parents the entire time.

Mary and I sat silently eating for a few minutes before she burst out,

“So your name is Lanissa Marissa Lane! They rhyme!” Combining this with the spit and dandruff factor, I suddenly had a very clear idea of why she was at the least cool table.

“May I have your attention please!” the secretary’s voice crackled from the PA system. In the background someone was yelling, “This is the last time, Robert! One more tack, one more, and I QUIT!” the secretary sighed. “Will Ramone Simmons please report to Mr. Relling’s office?” A boy from the True Goths table got up and sauntered off, just as the bell rang.

“Oh, Lanissa! I see you’ve made a new friend! Mary here is an exceptional student!” I whirled around to see Ms. Snyder. wanted to say something, but snapped my jaw shut before the “Friends with her?” could spill out.

“IhavetogotomathnowBYE!” I sidestepped the sheets of paper that Ms. Snyder was hurling in my general path and flew through the puke green doors, resolving to eat lunch in the library from now on. More than ever, I missed my old spot at the Drifters table of Chering Intermediate.

The next few weeks passed uneventfully. The librarian, a grandmotherly woman named Mrs. Klentrey, came to expect me. I got the usual checking out from one of the Queen Bee’s Wannabes, but I wasn’t expecting to meet their criteria and didn’t.

The only other people under the age of 18 I ever saw were the Pink Goth’s current queen (she liked to squash her kingdom’s rebels by writing choice insults about them on the bathroom walls and then go to the library so she had an alibi) and the occasional Drama Clubbie or jock who was too busy practicing the night before to do homework. That is until the fateful day when someone yanked one of my ear buds out of my ear.

“Hey!” I exclaimed, indignant.

“Just wanted to see what you were listening to.”

I looked up.

“Black Parade. Nice,” He was dark and tall, tall enough to make me feel like 5 feet 1 inch of short, and had shaggy black hair that fell just over the top of his ears. “Jake.”

“Well?”

“Huh?”

“Usually, when someone tells you their name it’s customary to tell them yours.”

“Oh,” I felt myself blushing, one of the top ten things I need to learn how to control. “I’m Lanissa.”

“Cool.” He replaced the bud to my ear, and I clicked the pause button to see if he was going to say anything else. But he only gave a little shrug and left, without voicing so much as a goodbye.

As I slammed the apartment door that night, I was still caught in the moment.

“You look happy,” My mother was standing over the stove stirring a pan of Hamburger Helper. We had the same light brown, slightly curly hair, but hers was cut at the jaw line, and mine was pulled back into a ponytail.

“Just being the absent-minded professor, I guess,” That was our joke, since the time a year ago when I had been preoccupied with an English story I had to write and put instant mashed potatoes instead of Tide into the washer. “When’s Dad going to be home?”

“He said he’d pick up Isabella on his way home. You know she doesn’t like to ride the bus, and we won’t let her walk,” For me, that had been the only good thing about moving from St. Louis to Chicago-the lower crime rate. Because of that, I didn’t have to ride the bus, I could take the street.

“Change out of your school clothes, its almost time for dinner,” I did what Mom asked, but for the rest of the night all I could think of was Jake.

I puzzled for the whole next day. Why would he jut come up to a random girl and, without even asking, pull out her ear buds, then just, leave. I didn’t know why I was so enraptured, maybe it was because the whole experience was just so surreal, maybe it was because that short encounter was the only socialization I’d had with any members of my generation for that past three weeks, or maybe it was because I’d gotten that feeling that you get when you try some exotic cuisine and know instantly that it’s your favorite food, you know, click.

Honestly, I’d never been one of those girls to believe in Love At First Sight or those newspaper filler stories about soul mates meeting over a recycling bin, or any of that crap. Jake intrigued me though, and I’m not one to let a question go unanswered.