Lily and Dunkin

The guys who bothered Tim are in my math class. It’s hard to tell for sure it’s them, because there are a lot of kids at this school and they look kind of similar, and I only saw those three for a few seconds, mostly from the back. But I paid attention because of what they were doing.

So I glare at the guys on Tim’s behalf, but I’m in the back row, so they can’t see me. If one of them turned around, I know I’d look down because I’m a coward.

One of the guys turns around. And waves.

Surprised, I wave back.

He nods and faces front.

What just happened?

As I stare at the back of the guy’s head—at his very short hair—and think of Tim’s long hair, I feel like a traitor for being friendly to one of the guys who was so mean to Tim this morning. But then again, how well do I know Tim? He could have started something. Unlikely, but possible.

I’m shocked when the guy who waved punches the guy next to him and gestures toward the back, toward me. He whispers something behind his hand, then that guy turns and nods at me.

I nod back.

Are they being friendly or planning to do something mean to me later on? This doesn’t feel mean. It feels…nice. I take a breath and wonder: Is this what being popular feels like?

I sit taller and actually pay attention to what the math teacher says.

“I’m sure you’ll all be thrilled to know we’ll be expanding your knowledge of algebra and learning some geometry postulates and theorems, too. Oh yes, I can tell you’re exploding with excitement.” He pauses. “On the inside.”

Most of the kids laugh a little. I do, too, because I feel like I’m one of them. And it feels good.

Different.

—

At lunch, I hold the orange plastic tray in a death grip, wishing again that Phineas were here. Mom wouldn’t like it if she knew I were thinking that, but I hate navigating this loud, crowded, foul-smelling cafeteria alone. The good energy of feeling a part of everything in math class has completely evaporated.

“Dunkin. Over here.”

I head toward the table where Tim and Dare are sitting. They’re smiling at me, and Tim pats the seat beside him. I’m so glad I have someone to sit with that I relax the grip on my tray.

When I’m almost at their table, I hear, “Yo, Dorfman!”

I hunch forward, expecting those words to be followed by a hurtling chocolate milk carton, like what might have happened at my school in New Jersey. But nothing comes.

“Over here, buddy.”

A bunch of tall guys are sitting at the table one row away from Tim and Dare’s. I recognize three of them from math class…and from earlier this morning. One is waving me over, like he’s signaling a plane to land. I actually do that stupid thing and look behind me to make sure he’s not signaling someone back there.

No one behind me.

Tim and Dare watch.

I feel like this is a test I didn’t study for.

“Right here,” the biggest guy calls, patting the seat beside him. “We have to ask you something, dude.”

The other guys are shoving white bread sandwiches into their faces and nodding.

I glance at Tim and Dare, as though they might tell me what to do in this unexpected situation. Tim’s biting his bottom lip, his hair hiding his eyes, so it’s hard to read him. Dare looks pissed off, but I’m beginning to think that might be her natural look.

I offer a weak smile and say to Tim and Dare, “Catch you guys next time.”

This table full of guys might be my key to fitting in. I can’t give that up to sit with Tim and Dare. Even though Tim did slip me that note in Language Arts class. Even though those guys said something terrible to Tim. I think it was those guys. Maybe I’m wrong.

I walk toward that table feeling like this might be my year. I’ll bet these are the most popular guys at school. I get a pinch in my gut, though, just before I get to their table, a worry that the question they need to ask me might be something rude or embarrassing. What will I do then? Try to sit with Tim and Dare after all? Awkward!

I shake the thought from my head and decide to be positive, like Phin was always telling me I should be. They want me to sit with them because they think I’m cool. Maybe I am cool here in Florida; I don’t know much about life here yet.

I put my orange tray on their table and slide onto the bench.

The biggest guy—the one who had waved to me in math class—jerks his thumb toward Tim and Dare’s table. “You’re not friends with them.” He makes a disgusted face. “Are you?”

Am I? Is there something about Tim and Dare I don’t understand? They seem nice. I focus on the shriveled hot dog on my tray.

“Well, are you?” another guy asks. He’s got ketchup smeared on the side of his mouth, but I don’t tell him.

Everyone at the table has stopped eating, food squirreled in their cheeks, and is looking at me.

I feel Tim looking at me, too. And Dare, I’m sure, is glaring at me with her death rays.

Even though I’m perfectly still, my heart thunders. WWPD? What Would Phineas Do?

I make sure my back is to Tim and Dare’s table. “Of course not.”

The big guy pounds me on the shoulder, and everyone nods and goes back to eating.

I shove a giant piece of hot dog into my mouth. It barely fits with the lie taking up so much room, and I feel like I might choke on them both.

Defector…and Pop-Tarts

Lunch sucks.

Well, it was perfectly okay sitting with Dare until the new kid—my potential new friend from New Jersey, Dunkin—took one look at us and chose to defect. He marched right over to enemy territory and set up camp.

I didn’t see that coming.

I never do.

If eighth grade continues like this, I might have to spend it perched in the branches of Bob. Heck, if Julia Butterfly Hill—one of my heroes—could live in a redwood for two years, then surely I can manage eighth grade in a banyan tree. Mom and Dad would understand. At least Mom would. And Sarah would probably bring me food and a bucket to poop in.

When I look over at Dunkin sitting with the enemy, I wish I were wedged in the branches of Bob right now, instead of in this noisy, stinky cafeteria, filled with Neanderthals and a defector from New Jersey.

“Another one’s gone over to the dark side,” I say to Dare.

She responds by reaching into her bag and pulling out a razzleberry Pop-Tart. With icing! “This should make you feel better,” she says, handing it to me.

It smells of sweet, delicious razzleberries, and I don’t even think that’s a real kind of fruit, but it should be. I lick the icing. It tastes real enough for me.

I decide that even though Dunkin chose to sit in enemy territory, the world cannot be in total disarray when there are razzleberry Pop-Tarts in it.

“There is hope,” I tell Dare, holding up my Pop-Tart like a talisman against evil.

She glances at something or someone just beyond my shoulder, then back at me. “Indeed there is,” she says.