Food Chain, p. 3

At 8 A.M. the next morning I was still in bed, it being the weekend. Mom was also taking me shopping as soon as I had eaten and showered, an agony that could wait as long as possible.

“Come on, Lanissa,” the family shoppaholic, a.k.a my mother, was pulling the nice, warm, toasty blankets off my cold body.

“I don’t wanna,” She stripped another layer.

“Mooommm!” With a final whoosh! The last sheets were gone.

Mom was dressed in her shopping outfit, a blue blouse with white jeans, and a sure sign she meant business. “Get up Issy! You promised, and with your display last night, you owe me!”

I slogged off to the shower. I felt so slug-like I was surprised I didn’t leave a mucus trail.

“Don’t be too long in there!” My mother’s voice echoed off the tiling.

Part of the reason shopping is so bad is that I have a body type where I can only wear jeans, sweat shirts and sweaters or I look like an over stuffed sausage. Isabella had it easy, between living, breathing, and sleeping soccer and a natural French build (why do they get to eat all that butter and chocolate and still be model-thin?) she could wear pretty much anything. Me, the first time I stepped onto a field I tripped on my own shoelaces and had an allergy attack.

The other part of why shopping is so bad is that the stores my mother drags me into have names like Purity, Unique, and Pink. Gag me.

That Saturday was no different, we sparred over everything.

“How about this sweat shirt.”

“Too baggy. How about this cute tee?”

“Too skinny.”

Finally we stopped to get lunch.

“How much longer?” I groaned.

My mother smiled, “Don’t you like shopping?”

I gagged on my hotdog. How could she live in the same house as me for 13 ¾ years and not know shopping for me was one of the twelve trials of Hercules? I gave her a weak smile in return.

The shopping day ended (to my great relief) two hours later, in a wave of sequined jeans and “cute” tee shirts with seventies designs.

Sunday was spent returning in secret the worst of said objects.

The first half of Monday was uneventful, an essay in English, twenty problems in math, a few pages to read in science. Then came lunch. Sauntering up to the library doors, lunch box in hand, my stomach dropped to my feet as I read the sign. ROOM IN USE FOR STAFF EVALUATION. NO ADMITTANCE.

I had to eat in the cafeteria.

Most likely with Mary.

Whom I had avoided for the past four weeks.

Great.

I stepped through the threshold, self-consciously feeling every set of eyes, whether they were looking in my direction or not. Mary was waving from the farthest table. I took a deep, deep breath and started, slowly as possible in that direction. Here I go again.

“Lanissa!” Spinning around I scoured the lunchroom. From the table of the Pink Goths Jake was waving. In the blink of an eye, I had landed. They looked relatively normal, except for the girl who had clothespins in her hair and another boy with a binder ring through his ear.

“Thank you,” I gasped, relieved not to have to listen to Mary prattle about how Ms. Snyder is the “bestest!” person ever. Hannah smiled.

“Mary Worthington,” she began, “Is the most annoying person I ever met. Two years ago, when I first came here, I sat with her for three months. I’ve got enough stories about Ms. Snyder memorized to recite her life history.”

“You never knew the Populars, though,” Jake stuck a fry in his mouth. “There are three Courtneys, five Jessicas, two Saras, two Ambers, and seven Ashleys. Oh, and Madam I-Rule-You is Desiree.”

“You were with the Populars?”

“Incredulous, but true,” he smiled. “For all of two days. They liked my earring.”

Something struck me. “So you’re just doing this to rescue me from Mary?”

“Not only that,” a girl with bright green hair said (Bethany, I think), “Ryan and I are in your English class. It was cool how you stood up to Mr. Larkin. Your poem was awesome, too.”

I’d forgotten about that day. It had only been my third English class, and Mr. Larkin was the most notorious teacher. He had made us write a free verse poem in ten minutes, then picked me to recite mine. “Let’s get a look at Ms. Lane’s level in this class, shall we?” were his exact words. “I guess I did throw him for a loop when I said a poem about the idiocies of English class.”

“Oh my God, did you see the color his face turned?” Green-Haired girl said to the boy next to her, Ryan, obviously.

“No one’s ever thrown something in his face like that before,” snickered Ryan.

“After class,” Suppressing a smile I slicked my hair over to look like Mr. Larkin’s comb-over, “he called me back and said, “That was a very impressive display, Ms.Lane. I would like to keep your copy.” Then I heard him shred it.” The table erupted in laughter.

I smiled.