The Truth About Books and Boys

seven

seven

“So, Emily, what do you think about Mr. Riley’s plan to give us a quiz a week?”

I momentarily glanced up from my phone and said, “Hmmm?” Then I realized what I had been asked, so I amended my response to, “Oh, I think it’s fine. It’s an AP class. We should be getting a quiz a week.”

“I think so too,” Nancy agreed.

Hadley rolled her eyes, all dramatic-like, and then expressed, “Well, I don’t think it’s fair.”

“Yeah, maybe it’s not fair,” Nancy agreed once again. That girl would agree with a squirrel if it made a compelling enough argument.

“What do you think, Felicity?” Hadley turned to the last victim, who was just content munching away at her salad.

“Oh, um, I don’t know…” mumbled Felicity, ducking her head to avoid eye contact. Gosh, she was the best.

My eyes flicked back down to my phone, and I realized that someone was calling me. I answered it and then put the device up to my ear, greeting the other individual with a, “One sec.” I then grabbed a banana from my lunch tray, waved to Felicity (the other two could interpret who the wave was aimed at once I was gone), and then exited the Dining Hall. I came out to the corridor beyond the rowdy room full of ravenous Barnes students, and only then did I focus back on the call. “Sorry. It’s lunch. I was in the Dining Hall. You can barely hear yourself think in there.”

“That’s quite all right, Emily Albert,” said the caller. “I’m currently enjoying my lunch, too, though not in a fancy ‘Dining Hall.’ Where I’m from, we have these things called ‘cafeterias.’” If he had been standing in front of me, I would’ve flicked him for that remark and making feel like so elitist.

“Never heard of those,” I joked lightly, trying my hand at humor.

“Well, they’re pretty basic. Lots of seating areas. Bad food. Teachers yelling at us to not catapult mashed potatoes—you get the gist.”

“Of course, of course.”

“Well, you see, Emily, the reason I’m calling is—IAN, I SWEAR, IF YOU TAKE MY PUDDING I WILL END YOU!” There was some screaming in the background, and then my friend returned to his light and easy voice, not the one consumed only by the horrifying thought of losing his pudding: “Sorry about that. As I was saying, Emily, when was the last time you had a home-cooked meal?”

I thought about it for a moment and then said, “Three months ago, but can I pull the Snob Card for a minute?”

“Isn’t that what you’ve been doing this whole time?”

My eyes formed into a glare, though he wasn’t here to witness it, so I just ended up rolling them. “I go to Barnes, Oliver,” I told him.

“Yeah, I know. I’ve been there. It’s your school.”

“And since I go to Barnes,” I continued, “I happen to be stuck eating what the kitchen staff makes.”

“Wow. You’re life is so hard.”

“The kitchen staff is made up of people who got out during, like, episode five of Top Chef.”

“Ah. So the food sucks?”

“It’s gourmet, Oliver.”

“Yeah, but that’s not what I asked. I asked when the last time you had a home-cooked meal was?”

“And I answered you: three months ago.”

“That is so sad.” I pictured him shaking his head in mock pity. “So. How would you feel about coming over to the Dobson residence for a bite to eat?”