The Disappearance Of Sloane Sullivan. Gia Cribbs

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       Three

      I surveyed the cafeteria. Hundreds of voices floated through the air, wrapping around me like a cocoon. This was normally the part of my first day where I’d hang back and observe so I could find the perfect group to join: the one not too big and not too small; not overly popular, but not outsiders; not so involved in school activities as to draw attention to themselves, yet not so anti-school they stood out. Then I’d emerge from my cocoon as the girl I was going to be. The type of girl that, no matter who she was, would steer clear of anyone who looked at her with even the tiniest hint of familiarity. But this time was different.

      This time I had a First Day Buddy who swore eating lunch together was a nonnegotiable part of the First Day Buddy contract. Which meant this time I’d be sitting with the only person in almost six years who knew the real me.

      I eyed the table of artsy-looking kids across the room and sighed. They were laughing and teasing each other, saying hello to people walking by yet ignoring the attempts of the table of guys beside them to engage in some sort of food fight. I’d been artsy before, I could do it again. And sitting with them—acting like I not only didn’t know Jason, but had no desire to get to know him—was the safest way to convince him I wasn’t the girl he possibly remembered, the girl he’d grown up with. Instead, I was about to have lunch with him.

      I took a deep breath. It was just one lunch, just one first day to get through, then I could get back to my plan of lying low. You can do this. But first, I needed something to eat.

      I grabbed a tray and followed the familiar scent of cafeteria food to the open area at the back of the room where lunch ladies with hairnets were serving the day’s options. The pizza looked surprisingly good, but it had a line at least fifty people deep. My stomach rumbled, protesting the wait. I went to the other end of the counter and thanked the lunch lady for a plate of what appeared to be roasted chicken, salad and a glop of orange mush. I wrinkled my nose.

      Someone chuckled. “It’s not as bad as it looks.”

      Startled, I turned to find the tall a cappella guy standing next to me. I stared for a second, mesmerized by his piercing green eyes. Then I quickly peered back at the orange goop. “What is it?”

      “Mashed sweet potatoes.”

      I wrinkled my nose again.

      He laughed, flashing two dimples. “I’m glad I came over. Now I have something else to call you.”

      I tilted my head in confusion.

      “I’ve been referring to you as New Girl in my head all morning,” he clarified. “But now I can add Hater of Sweet Potatoes to the list.”

      “Ah.” I took a step closer to him to avoid the line forming for the chicken, glancing around at the same time. No one seemed to be paying any attention to us. “And what should I call you?” I pointed at his empty hands. “Disrespecter of Lunch Trays?”

      He grinned. “I already bought my lunch. I came over just to talk to you.”

      A wave of apprehension flowed through me. This better not be some kind of prank on the new girl.

      “I saw your collision this morning and just wanted to make sure you were okay,” he said with a shrug. “I thought maybe you could use a friend who isn’t trying to body slam you.”

      Okay, not what I was expecting at all. “You saw that, huh?”

      “You know, maybe I should call you Receiver of a Completely Uncalled-For Hallway Football Smackdown. Believe it or not, that’s not the way most of us welcome a new student.”

      A tiny smile formed on my lips. “Maybe I should be Creator of the Full-Contact First-Day Meet and Greet. Guaranteed to get you up close and personal with your new classmates.”

      He bit back his own smile. “Actually, I was hoping you’d be Needer of a Place to Sit?” He nodded at a table over his shoulder that was surprisingly empty.

      My reply was interrupted by a husky voice shouting, “There you are!” over the cafeteria chatter. I turned and saw Sawyer rushing over.

      Sawyer placed his hands on my shoulders. “Livie was afraid you got lost. Come on, you can pay over here and then I’ll show you to our table.” He nodded at the a cappella guy and muttered, “Hey, man,” before steering me away.

      I peeked back over my shoulder.

      “Watch out for flying sports equipment!” the guy called after me.

      I grinned until I spotted a girl with a short black pixie haircut glaring at me from a nearby table full of girls now watching me. I knew what that glare meant: Mr. Welcoming Committee probably once belonged at that table and according to its current occupants, he was off-limits. The СКАЧАТЬ