We joined the herd shuffling toward the cafeteria on the first floor. Even from far off, as the smells reached me I got the feeling Torchie wasn’t kidding about the food. I grabbed a tray and went through the line with Torchie, letting a bored-looking woman with a net over her hair and clear plastic gloves on her hands give me a plate loaded with various piles of glop. I wondered if the gloves were for our protection or for hers.
We wove our way between the round tables that seemed to have been dropped at random on the cracked linoleum floor, heading toward Cheater, who stood there signaling his success in getting some seats by waving one arm. As I followed Torchie to our spot near the far wall and plunked down on a wobbly plastic chair, I could see that the kids were split up into different groups, with anywhere from four to eight kids at a table. I’d guess there were about two hundred kids altogether. Bloodbath was hanging out with a bunch of tough guys at a couple tables in one corner. Everything about them—clothes, hair, attitude—said, Don’t mess with us. The tables nearest them were empty. I guess nobody wanted to get too close to the sharks.
On a hunch, I looked at the table farthest from Bloodbath. Yup, the smallest, most scared kids were all clustered there, like a bunch of little bait fish.
“We used to have more tables,” Torchie said. “But they got rid of all the square ones last month.” He almost had to shout. There was a lot more talking than eating going on around us, filling the room with noise that seemed to wash over me from every direction.
“Rectangles,” Cheater said, correcting him. “They were longer than they were wide. So that made them—”
“Yeah, whatever,” Torchie said, glaring at Cheater. “Anyhow, I guess they figured round tables would make us behave better or something.”
“Fascinating.” I turned my attention to choking down the food. It’s hard to believe that anyone could ruin macaroni and cheese, but the school cooks had managed to do just that. And the potatoes were awful. “These mashed potatoes really suck,” I said.
“That’s because they’re turnips,” Cheater explained. “A popular food source in Germany before the introduction of the potato.”
I decided not to ask what the stringy green stuff was. Until now, I’d thought Mom was a pretty bad cook. Her idea of tomato sauce was ketchup with a dash of parmesan cheese. As I ate, I realized she could have been far worse. And at least back home we’d have takeout chicken once a week from Cluck Shack, and lots of pizza. I guess I wouldn’t be getting anything like that for a while.
Between bites, I checked out my companions. Besides Torchie and Cheater, there was one other kid at our table. He looked pretty tough. Big shoulders, dark hair, eyebrows that seemed to want to grow together to form one furry strip across his forehead, and the beginnings of a stubbly beard threatening to burst through his skin. A year or two from now, I’d bet he’d be shaving twice a day. They called him Lucky. I almost laughed when I heard that. I didn’t see how anyone who deserved that nickname could be stuck in a place like Edgeview. Unlucky was more like it. Or maybe Unfriendly. He didn’t seem all that happy to meet me.
Not that I cared.
By the time I’d choked down half the macaroni, I had the whole place figured out. Except for one person.
BREAK TIME
I’d watched him on and off during the meal, and I didn’t have a clue why he was by himself. Well, as my dad always said, if you don’t know the answer, ask a question. Of course, whenever I asked him a question, he usually told me to shut up and stop being such a wise ass.
But dad wasn’t here, so I figured it was safe to ask a question.
“Who’s the loner?” I asked Torchie, looking over toward the kid eating all by himself at a table near the opposite wall. There was nothing I could see about his clothes or appearance that would explain his isolation.
“Him? That’s Trash.”
“Nice name,” I said.
“It’s not like that. It’s just that he trashes stuff. You know, breaks things.”
“Yeah,” Cheater said. “I heard that at his last school, he smashed up a whole classroom—desks, chairs, windows. The kid’s wacko.”
I looked back at Trash. It was hard to imagine why someone would break stuff for fun.
“Hey,” Lucky said to Cheater, “you shouldn’t say wacko. It’s not nice.”
“Yeah, you’re right,” Cheater said. “My mistake. He’s not wacko—he’s bonkers. Or maybe he’s loony. How about deranged? I like that one.”
“How’d you like to be called that?” Lucky asked.