A Tragic Kind of Wonderful. Eric Lindstrom

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       The first day of freshman year is hard enough. It’s harder starting in a new town, like joining a game of musical chairs after the music’s already stopped when you don’t even want to play. For me, it’s even worse than that. I’m still deep in my hole, hardly speaking, a month after moving here, four months after the divorce, and less than a year after losing Nolan.

       Despite begging Mom to let me bring my lunch, so I could eat whatever I want and not wait in the cafeteria line, I’m the disappointed owner of a lunch card. For more variety of healthier food, according to Mom. I think she’s just afraid I’d sit alone outside if I brought my lunch, and I totally would.

       On the first day, I get to the cafeteria ahead of most everyone; my previous class and locker are right around the corner. I’m already halfway through my grilled cheese with apple slices—the messy spaghetti was out of the question—before the room starts filling up. Then a group of four girls lines up in front of me.

       “This is our table.”

       She says it without emotion, not snotty or falsely sympathetic. I’m not even worth a sneer. They look like freshmen, too, so they can’t possibly have a regular table. There’s plenty of room for all of us but I know the score. I grab my tray and scuttle off, silently cursing my mother.

       The same girls chase me from a different table the next day. Again I scurry away. This is the next level of harassment. I’ve been elevated from a random nobody to a specific target.

       I hang out in a bathroom stall the third day until I think my oppressors must be sitting down, and then I wait another few minutes, just in case. From the lunch line, I see them at a different table than either of the days before.

       As soon as I sit, wondering what Mom would think of the corn dog on my tray, the four girls appear again.

       “This is our table.”

       They actually got up and came over this time.

       I start to stand but get stopped by a hand on my shoulder. I look up and see a blond with a French braid beside me.

       “Scooch,” she says, pushing me sideways hard enough that I instinctively move over.

       She plops down and clatters her tray on the table. Another girl sits on my right, close enough that I’m squeezed between them, shoulder to shoulder. All I can see of this other girl is a wall of straight black hair draped down to her black hoodie.

       “Oh, I’m sorry,” the blond says to the four. “Are we interrupting?”

       “It’s too sunny here,” the tallest harasser says to her friend who’d been talking before. They leave without acknowledging us further, like we’d vanished.

       “What’s your name?” the blond asks me.

       “Mel.”

       “Like Melody, or Melanie?”

       “Just Mel.”

       “Okay … weird. Anyway, I’m Annie, really Ann, but call me Annie because Ann sounds too … you know. This is Zumi, really Izumi, but call her Zumi. I think it’s because she used to zoom around a lot when she was little, and … well …” Annie frowns. “Sometimes she still does. And this …” She twists around and waves impatiently for someone to come over. “This is Connor.”

       A guy walks over and sits across from us. He doesn’t look up from his tray but he seems relaxed.

       “The tall one’s Gloria Fernandez,” Annie says. “The one who does most of the talking is Tina Fernandez, but they’re not related. The other two are Elena and Sofia. They’re just minions. Gloria’s the leader and Tina’s her muscle. Like you’re my muscle, right, Zumi?”

       Zumi turns toward me. Her face is tipped down, but unlike Connor, she looks at me intently, like something creepy from those Japanese horror movies Nolan liked.

       “If Team Fernandez ever looks at you again,” Zumi says, “tell them you’re with us: Annie, Zumi, and Connor. They’ll leave you alone.”

       She says their names all together like a law firm, like how Dad is a part of Jensen, Hannigan, and Hsu. Maybe Zumi’s mom or dad’s a lawyer, too. Looking around at them, I think they could also be called Sunny, Sullen, and Shy.

      Zumi’s still scowling. There are big white letters on her sweatshirt, all caps: DON’T ASK. I wonder what it means … but … there’s no way to find out. Is that the point, like a joke, or …?

       She winks. It’s so sudden and unexpected, it makes me laugh. Not Sullen after all.

       Zumi points at the untouched corn dog on my tray. “You gonna eat that?”

       I wasn’t keen on it but the breaded fish option looked worse. And I guess she wants it. Will I have to pay for this new friendship? Or at least the protection? I shake my head and slide the tray toward Zumi.

       She shoves it away down the length of the table. “I was just making sure you weren’t going to eat it.” She smiles. “They taste like shit.”

       The next day, I wait in the bathroom stall again before lunch. Yesterday seems ages ago and a little unreal. I don’t know when Annie, Zumi, and Connor will arrive. Even then, what if they’ve forgotten all about me?

       I carry my tray slowly by them.

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