Dish 7

            “What’s a six letter word for poisonous?” My dad says, tapping a pencil against his plate.

            “Dinner,” I mutter. I poke my fork against the creamy brown sauce drizzled on a chicken leg. Broden is stabbing toothpicks all over his chicken and mashed potatoes. There’s a jug of Berry Berry Crush well within his reach. My mom pulls the toothpicks out angrily and rearranges them in a straight line.

“Honey, can you please put the paper away? We’re eating.”

My dad has a bad habit of doing crossword puzzles all the time. He wants to do 1,000 by the end of the year. When he finishes a puzzle, he tears it out and saves it…on their bedroom wall. My mom hates it, of course, so he’s only allowed to do it on his side and if they’re taped in chronological order.

“Eating is break time. When I’m on break, I like to do my puzzles,” he says. “ This is my 83^rd, can you believe it?”

“When are you gonna get a real hobby, Dad? Like collecting knives or swords or something?” Broden says, giving us a full view of his chewed food.

My dad smiles and scoops some more mashed potatoes. It takes him a couple shakes to get it to plop on his plate. Disgusting. As OCD as my mom is, you’d think she’d be a master chef, but since she’s a little over the edge, everything she makes seems to be too. Sadly, her food only marginally beats the cuisine of Ben Franklin High. I guess the picture perfect American family with the mom who cooks delicious food is all just a sham.

I feel my pocket vibrate suddenly. I pull out my phone and see a text from Adem.

“Is that a cell phone I see? You know the rules. Why does no one act like we have any rules here?” my mother says, raising one scarily arched eyebrow. I think she looked madder than she meant to be because of her new brows.

“Putting it away, Mom,” I say, despite my desperate urge to read the text. I’m impatient and I’m not afraid to admit it. I grew up in the instant gratification generation, so it’s not totally my fault.

I rush through the rest of my dinner so I can go back to my room and check the text. My dad lounges on the couch to continue his crossword puzzle. Broden helps our mom put away the dishes—his way of raking up brownie points to boost his already sky-high “perfect child” jackpot. The little devil.

“WOO HOO! Party this Friday 8pm @ Josh Gomez’s. Ask for plus ones. Be There Suckas!!!!”

The text looks like part of a mass text, something I rarely receive since I am not exactly in the contact list of party people. The only chain texts I get are those one about little girls dying or showing off how many people love you. Why did Adem send this to me? It must have been by mistake. Josh Gomez hasn’t talked to me since the eighth grade because I made him get a zero in a group project because I told the teacher he didn’t do anything. Now he thinks I’m a loser d-bag. He wrote this on a bathroom stall so I know this. But hey, I’ll only have your back if you’re a friend and Josh had been far from that.

I call up Adem to figure out what it’s about. It takes my phone awhile to connect, because the service sucks really bad around my house.

“Hey Zac. You got my text?”

“Yeah. That’s what I’m calling about. Did you realize you send that to me?”

“I meant to. Think you can come?”

I laugh and roll over on my bed, knocking the remote and a bag of Doritos Cooler Ranch. I sneak my hand inside the bag but there are only crumbs.

“You’re asking me. Zac, the nerd who works in the cafeteria and is in the AV club to go to a party held by Josh Gomez. I bet he has a restraining order against me that I don’t even know about. I’m sure all his friends do. What would I be doing there, really?”

I hear Adem sigh. “I hate how you always beat yourself up like that. That’s even more reason you need to go to this party. You’ve got to see yourself as someone who can hang with anyone and be confident and strong. Susannah even agrees with me.”

I snort. “Susannah? You were talking to her about me? How close did you guys get on the car ride to her place?”

No way in hell does that harpy know anything about me or have any right to discuss my flaws with my best friend.

“Chill dude. We were just talking about the party and when I mentioned that you wouldn’t go, she asked me why. I just told her the truth, hat you’re not comfortable around people who aren’t in your crowd and you don’t go for that sort of thing. But there’s still hope for you, Zac. I think you should go,” Adem says.

“Why now? You’ve been to parties before and you never invited me.”

Not that I cared. I am scared of high school parties. I’m not sure if they are like how they’re portrayed in movies—wild orgies or deadbeat poetry slams.

“Well, seeing you get all caught up with Katie made me think that you need to get yourself out there. I was cool with you being all over her for the past year, but now that she’s with Tyler, you can’t be holding on to her. I mean, Tyler’s a nice guy.”

I rolled my eyes. “I’m a nice guy too, you know. And he’ll be gone by the end of the year. Aren’t I doing Katie a favor by saving her the distress of a long distance relationship? You know those never work. I’m the one who’ll be here for her.”

“Zac, I’m serious. Go to this party and have fun. Don’t think about Katie. Even if she’s there, which she might be, if Tyler goes. But still, I’m telling you. Stay away,” Adem says. “There are plenty of girls for you. Katie is just whatever.”

He doesn’t get it. Katie is not whatever. If she was, would I be so crazy about her and concerned with what was going on with her? We could have been together until Tyler got to her and some alien life force drained Katie of her personality. You don’t get over a person through one party. How superficial does Adem think I am?

“Well, I better have VIP class treatment for being your plus one to the party. That’s my only requirement,” I say, sarcastically.

“Actually, you’ll be more my plus two. I asked Susannah to come to the party too.”

I want to punch a hole in the wall. “Way to kill it, Adem. Thanks. You’ve already replaced me with a girl that you just met. Now I know how much our friendship means to you.”

“Whoa, it’s not like that, Zac. You know you’re my bro, but she’s new to our school. I thought it’d be nice to invite her. She’s a really cool girl. I don’t get why you’re hating on her like that.”

“Whatever. It’s your choice. I’ll come to Josh’s dumb party not because you want me to, but to prove to Susannah that I can hang with people who aren’t in my crowd. I’ll show you guys that Zac Daniels isn’t the lame-o you two think I am. Katie won’t see what’s coming and Tyler will be nothing more than a ghost in the back of her head. I’m gonna be the life of the party and everyone’s gonna remember me!”

“But—“

I hang up on him and exhale deeply.

“Hey, does anyone know a six letter word for foolish?” my dad yells out.

Stupid. Which is exactly what I am.

Dish 6

I get home a while later after taking some injera bread to-go. I don't feel like waiting around for Adem like I'm his sad little puppy. He can come home and think about whether that ride with Susannah was worth it. I can disappoint people too, you know. My parents know that very well. 


The one good thing that perked me up on the walk home was seeing that someone had stolen the 'e' of our neighborhood sign again, making the words read Red Butt. This was a routine vandalism that bugged Mrs. Peterson so much that she personally would go out and replace the 'e' herself, a lot of times the very next day. She must have some kind of personal collection of e's in her house. I don't know where she gets them from.


"What are you doing, Mom?" I say, dropping my backpack by the umbrella stand. I walk into the kitchen. There are spice bottles and cans all over the counters.


"Hi, honey! How was school?" she says, standing on a stepping stool to reach up to a shelf in the cabinet. 


"Mom, are you organizing the spice shelf again?"


She sighs. "Well, I'm not the one who put oregano after paprika! Who's gonna keep this family together, huh?"


"School was great. Here's some injera from Mrs. Y," I say, placing the plastic bag on the table. My mom is slightly OCD about organizing things as well as blowing everything out of proportion. She works as a secretary at a dental office and I don't think she knows how to leave work at work. So I try to allow her unusual tendencies slide. I'm kinda hoping those skills will rub off on me and make my school binder magically tidy.


"Can I have some more of that Berry Berry Crush drink?" That would be the yell of my 12 year old brother Broden.


"Berry Berry Crush, you only get that for him when he's sick? Is Broden sick?" I ask.


My mom steps down and folds her arms together.


"Broden had a rough day at school today. Some kids fought him at recess, so I brought him home early. Be nice to him, Zac."


"I'm always nice! He's the one that gets in fights all the time," I say, shaking my head. "I bet you he started it."


"Zachariah, you take that back! He's your brother and you need to support him. Those kids at school are out to get him, I swear. Just because he's different they decide to pick on him. And that arrogant vice principal is no better," My mom exclaims, opening the fridge door. 


Poor Mom, she is so delusional that she believes Broden is this angelic kid that gets ganged up on. He might be slow in the classroom, but he sure isn't slow in taking kids down that annoy him.  She won't admit it, but Broden is her favorite child. This has completely blurred her sense of judgment. My father is always too tired from his construction jobs to even notice Broden's behavior problems, so I'm the only rational one left. Broden's pictures and quizzes are all over the fridge door under colorful alphabet magnets. To be fair, Mom did put some pictures of me up before, but they were all really unflattering ones, so I ended up just taking them down.


"It's not my fault you don't like taking proper pictures," she said.


 If I ever ask her about her not so subtle favoritism, she always says, "Could I ask you to choose between your left and right eye, which one is better? I could never!"


Actually I could, because my left eye is weaker by .75 degrees than my right, so I'd have no moral qualms about that one.


"Here, go pour some more juice for your brother and ask him how he's doing. Your father will be home soon and I need to start preparing dinner," my mom says, handing me a blue jug.


I take the jug with a groan and walk down the hallway to Jungle Boy's room. I push open the door and a waft of strong minty-ness invades my nose.


"Gross! What did you do roll in Vicks?" I say, pinching my nose shut. Broden is slouched under the covers of his bed, his thumbs rapidly punching buttons on his PSP. I step over a box of cookies and a skateboard wheel.


"It makes me think faster and play better. My personal secret," he says. "Did you bring me Berry Berry Crush? I'm playing the boss level. I need to refuel now. "


Refuel with a sugary blue drink that says "with real berry flavor!" but has 0% juice on the label? Berry Berry Crush is probably one of the worst drinks Mom could buy Broden, but he's loved it since he was little and got the chicken pox. He was part of the last bunch to get it when the vaccine came out, so Mom thought he was some kind of hero and babied him the whole time.


I poured the drink in his cup to the halfway mark. 
"So you got in a fight at school?"


"Yep."


"Why?"


"None of your beeswax."


"Oh that's fine, Broden. Would you like me to pour your drink on this?"
I pulled out one of his Spiderman comics from his pillow.


"No idiot! Stop it!" he says, finally making eye contact with me. He has a bruise on the side of his right cheek. "Go away!"


"Tell me what happened at school," I say. "I thought bullies were supposed to enjoy sharing their exploits or is that just the stereotype?"


Broden smirked.
"I thought nerds were supposed to be skinny or is that just the stereotype?"


Why did he have to turn 13? I miss when he didn't know how to talk and pooped in a diaper. 


"I can't talk about it. That's the rule," he says, picking up his cup.


"What? That's the rule?" I say.


"Rule number 1."


 "Says who...Oh no, Broden. You didn't!"


He shrugs and takes a sip. 


"I'll take that," I say.


"Hey!"


 I grab his cup, the jug and march angrily out of Broden's room. I bump into my dad and his giant lunchbox, as he walks in from the garage door.


"Whoa hello there, Zac. What's the rush, son?" He says, patting me on the shoulder with his tanned, rough hand. "What were you doing in your brother's room?"


"Nothing. Everything's fine."


He tilts his head and scratches his beard.
"You're holding a jug of Berry Berry Crush? Wait, is Broden sick?"


"You could say that."


"Aw man, poor kid. I just brought him that new game he's been asking for. One of my buddies from work said his son doesn't want it, so he told me Broden could have it. Isn't that nice?"
My dad pulls out a black box from his jacket zipper pocket.


"But-"


"Here, take my stuff to the living room. I wanna check in on my little guy."


Great.  Just great. My brother just admitted to starting a junior high version of Fight Club and was being rewarded with free video games. I can't believe I'm even related to these people. They're crazy. It's no wonder I have issues.

Zac on inkPop!

Breaking News: Zac is going to be serving a greater audience on the awesome website inkpop.com!
It's still only the past 5 dishes, so nothing new until December as I said. I will continue to upload on the blog as well as inkpop.com I welcome you to go on both sites and experience the communities!

thanks again for following!

-reserved until december-

Zac will be out serving an important party for the special occasion of NaNoWriMo. So until December, he will not be posting any dishes during the month of November. Please enjoy the previously served dishes and feel free to encourage others to stop by as well.


Thank you to all who have subscribed so far!

Dish 5

"Come on, time for food! Time to eat, everyone! Go wash your hands," Mrs. Y calls suddenly.


 The thought of food interrupts my outrage at Susannah's revelation. I run to the nearest bathroom, completely violate my cafeteria hand washing code and hurry over to the kitchen. The table is set with a large round plate and steaming pots of veggies, rice and spicy meat stew- the traditional cuisine of Ethiopia. My favorite thing has got to be the bread called injera. It's hard to describe exactly what it is--spongy, sour, pancake-y. All I know is it's incredible and one of the few things that won't burn my tongue off.


"Always the first one at the table, Zachariah," Mrs. Y says, smiling.


I shrug and pick the seat where everything is within arm's length. The Ethiopian tradition involves everyone gathering around the plate and sharing the food. I'm very territorial, so my side of the plate disappears pretty quick.


"Adem, turn of the TV and eat!" 


"Mom, I'm coming, there's only 3 minutes left in the game!" Adem shouts back
.
Mrs. Y sighs. "And where is that girl?"


"Probably looking googly eyed at your son," I mutter under my breath.


"What's that?" Mrs. Y says.


"Uh, she's coming, I'm sure," I say, putting a napkin on my lap. I picked up the sad habit from my grandpa. He always has clean pants and I looked up to that as a kid. I'm surprised I haven't knocked  out my teeth and stuck in dentures too.
Susannah slides into the chair next to me and Adem sits down across from us.


"Everything looks so good, " Susannah says, eyeing the steaming pots.


"And it's all homemade," Adem says, spooning some yellow rice onto the injera plate.


I smile. "This one's the best, Susannah. You have to try some." I point to a small dish of dark red sauce. It's a special mixture of spices called berbere that I think would make any grown man cry in pain.
 I lean over and whisper, "Adem loves it."


Mrs. Y joins us at the table.
"I want you all to eat up, no skimping on me. You have to finish your plates.


Susannah bites her lip.
"Sure, I'll have some of that thing. And some carrots, please"


"Great!" I say, dropping some berbere next to the carrots on the injera. "If you wanna  be one of the guys, then you gotta eat like one of the guys." 


I try hard to keep a straight face. It's a lot harder than you think. I'm physically able to lie no more than three times a day without giving myself away. I'm really not fit to be evil.

Adem shrugs and spoons some of the berbere sauce onto Susannah's side of the plate.  Mrs. Y. and I pick our various vegetables and meat stews and place them in artful circles on top of the injera. My stomach growls again, so I cough to play it down.

"Everyone eat!" Mrs. Y pats me on the back. We all dig in, tearing the pieces of the injera and folding it together with our thumb and forefingers. Half the fun of eating Ethiopian food is getting your hands messy. It's more satisfying than eating hotwings. I decide I want some of the lamb stew, and scoop it up, savoring the ginger flavor in my mouth. Susannah hesitates, carefully tugging the injera like it's a piece of paper.

"It doesn't have to be perfect. Just tear it like this." Adem shows her.

Susannah giggles.

"Okay okay!" She tears the injera and scoops up a ridiculous amount of the berbere sauce. 

Susannah opens and swallows. I'm smiling like the old witch when she gives Snow White the poisoned apple. Mrs. Y quietly chews her food, her fingers curled around some injera with beans. Adem's head is turned around, craning to see the TV.

"Ohmigod." Susannah coughs. "This is really really hot." She fans herself, sticks her tongue out and starts breathing hard.

I look at her as casually as possible.

"Isn't it delicious?"

She coughs and stares at me incredulously.

"I wouldn't know since I think I burned off my tastebuds!"

Mrs. Y frowns.

" What is it? Which one did you eat?"

Susannah exhales and points a shaking finger at the dark red berbere sauce.

"This one! Ohmigod, ohmigod, can I have some water?"

Adem spins around.

"Did you see that one?" He sees Susannah's face reddening. 

"Whoa, what's wrong?" 

"Water!" Susannah squeals.

I wipe my mouth.

"Actually, water doesn't do anything for spice. You should have milk or bread. Eat some more injera."

"I'll get some milk for you, hold on, " Adem stands up and runs to the fridge. He brings back a carton of milk and fills up a glass for Susannah.

She gulps it down faster than I thought humanely possible. Did she even swallow?

Adem sits down again, his face distressed.

"Why the hell would you eat that? Do you know how incredibly hot berbere is?  I can't even handle it, and I mix it with yogurt. That's some guts, right there."

"You mean you don't love bebe-this spicy stuff?" Susannah asks, setting down the glass.

Mrs. Y laughs.

"This one is a baby. I always tell Adem to eat berbere, but he refuses. It's good for the sinuses, you know? It will burn now, but you'll feel better later. Everything just flushes." She squeezes her nose.

 "Well that's good news, 'cause cold season is coming up." I eat another fistful, this time chicken and peas. I can feel Susannah's glare emanating towards me, but I happily munch along.

We eat in silence, except for the cheering sounds of the TV and then Adem's groaning when the game's over. We finish and head back over to the living room.

"Alright, next up study session," Adem says, clapping his hands together.

Susannah tosses her head.

"Actually, I'm a little tired. I think it's better I head back."

"Aw, are you sure? Still feeling the berbere?" I say innocently as I prop my feet up on the couch.

She puts on a fake grin.

"No, I actually have some things I forgot to take care. New school stuff and all. We'll have to do this some other time"

"Oh, want me to give you ride?" Adem offers. " I feel really bad about what happened, Susannah."

"That would be wonderful! I think I'd get lost on my own!" Susannah says, beaming.

"Yeah, just give me your address and I'll put it in my GPS," he says.

"Hey,what about me?" I say, waving my hands. What are they thinking leaving me here? My plan was for her to leave us alone.

"Dude, you live like five minutes away. You can walk," Adem says, grabbing his shoes.

"Can I sit in the front this time?" Susannah says, nudging Adem.

"Sure," he says with a laugh.

"You can stay and chill if you want to, Zac. I'll take her and be back before you know it. See ya." He opens the door for Susannah.

"Bye now!" she chirps, putting her messenger bag around her shoulder.

I roll my eyes as they walk out together. God, I hope I'm not that annoying around Katie. It may look like I've lost this one, but Operation Save-Adem-from-the-Scary-Hyper-Flirty-Fake-Girl-that-I'm-So-Not-Cool-With is just getting started.

Dish 4

I'm having trouble deciding what's shorter- Susannah's attention span or my 12 year old brother's. Seriously, this girl can talk, talk, talk and I know that's what girls are genetically programmed to do, but still. I try to be polite and sit in the back with her to keep up some sort of conversation as Adem drives, but when I finally come up with something to say, she goes, "You know what else I think is weird?" I cough several times to signal Adem to drive faster. He has a Mustang for crying out loud, but he insists on being a "safe driver." Ah, youth is wasted on the young...

       We finally arrive at Adem's house in the Crystal Lakes neighborhood. Most of the popular girls at our school live around here, which kinda freaks me out. Sometimes I like to mess with them and walk down their street wearing my sloppiest outfit ever and just stand there, knowing that I am completely ruining their picture perfect exclusive paradise. 

     Sure, I don't fit into their world-- neither does the rustic lion statue in front of the gate as soon as I lean on it. I got caught taking someone's boat out on the lake that I thought was for the public and got in a tad bit of trouble for that. Nevertheless, I'm over here just as much as I am at my real house and I don't have to pay home owner's association fees and can golf whenever I want to. Win.

"Alright, everyone out," Adem says after taking five minutes to perfectly park his car against the curb.

Susannah bounds out of the car, clutching her messenger bag just as surely as she did when she walked into our psych class this afternoon. I lug my backpack out, wishing for a second that rolling backpacks were still permissible at our age.

"So what's the plan again?" I say, stepping on the cobblestone path up to the front door.

" She's here for a psychology study session," Adem says, dribbling his soccer ball.

"Right, so, that's great, but isn't your mom going to wonder how we're studying if we're watching a game? It looks more like 'hanging out' and you know what your mom thinks of you and girls 'hanging out.'"

I chuckle as Adem fumbles with his keys.

"We're studying athletic social norms and group dynamics in regards to professional soccer," Susannah says cheerily.

Touché.

Adem pushes open the door.

"Mom, I'm home!"

We step over the threshold and the smell of spices and oil creep into my nose. My stomach grumbles again. I kick off my shoes immediately and set them by the door. It's become a habit now when I come over to Adem's house to take off my shoes inside. He says it's a culture thing, but I'm sure it's better for the carpet too. Susannah slides her moccasins  next to mine.

          "Your house is so gorgeous," Susannah gushes.

          "Thanks," Adem says with a nod. The Yohanes household is simply amazing. It doesn't look like it's straight out of a Macy's catalog. It actually has a real personality  with a mix of their family's traditional Ethiopian paintings and statues with Italian style pillars and marble work. Not to sound like a HGTV nerd here, but hey, I appreciate a nicely furbished home. And a woman who can roast lamb the way it should be.

        "Adem, you're here?" Mrs. Yohanes calls while clanging sounds ensue. I lead the way to the kitchen which easily takes up half of the house's bottom floor. Adem's mom is stirring a pot on the stove, chopping onions and tomatoes and has a million other things going on at the same time. She wipes her hands on a towel and tugs her red bandana tied across her forehead.

       " Zacariah, dear, how are you doing? Always good to see you in your home. You know it's your home too, right? Our home is your home!" She breaks out a brilliant smile of perfectly white, square teeth and then hugs me. 

        "Thanks, Mrs. Yohanes. I'm fine. Thanks for asking," I say. "A little hungry, but fine."

         She lets go of me and wags her finger.

        "I know you're hungry. That's why I love you. You always come and enjoy my food and here my son always wants to go eat outside," she says.

         Adem rolls his eyes.

         "I would love to try your food. It smells wonderful," Susannah pipes up from behind me.

        "Hi, I'm Susannah. A friend of Adem's from school." She puts her hand out.

         Mrs. Yohanes studies her and then looks at Adem.

       "A friend from school? I've never heard of her before."

       "I just moved into their psychology class today and uh, we planned to have a study session today," Susannah says, bringing her hand back. " I know it's very rush-rush, but I hope it's okay with you. I'm very serious about school just like your son. I don't normally hang out during the school week."

         We all stand in awkward silence as Mrs. Yohanes's brows knit together in thought. 

        "Okay, but I want you to sit in the living room where I can see you," she says finally.

        "That's perfect, 'cause we have to watch the soccer game on TV for our assignment," Adem says, kissing his mom on the forehead.

        Mrs. Yohanes shakes her head.

        "I don't understand what they are teaching in schools these days. Not like back home..."

         We don't hear the rest of it, because Adem races over to turn on the TV. Susannah laughs and shoves me out of the kitchen. I settle down on the leather sofa as cheers roar from the screen and stacatto commentary of players I don't know and Adem pumps his fists in the air.

        "Wow, he's really into this," Susannah says, sitting cross-legged. 

        "Mhm," I say, digging through the front pouch of my backpack for some leftover candy or mints.

         "Yes, go, go! Oh my god, no why did you let it go? What was that?" Adem buries his head in his hands.
         "Did you guys see that?" 
         I nod instinctively;  Susannah laughs.
         "You know, he's kind of cute," Susannah whispers.
          "Mhm," I say again. How did I forget to restock my snack inventory? Next time, I won't pass up Mom's Costco run and think she'll get what I need. I guess I have to hold out 'til Mrs. Y is ready with lunch. Unless I go over and help her now...
         "Zac, did you hear what I just said?"
         I look up at Susannah and her ginormous brown eyes with muddy brown shadow stare back at me. And she's smiling for some reason.
         "No, sorry," I admit. I don't actually hear a lot of things girls say. Mostly because I  assume (rightly) that they aren't talking to me.
        She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and leans closer.
       "I said, I think Adem's kind of cute."
        A part of me groans on the inside and I feel like all my surroundings are out of sync. Adem sits frozen in front of the blaring TV screen, oil sizzles while Mrs. Yohanes hums in the kitchen and Susannah is clapping eagerly, her bangles jingling incessantly in my ears. 


What a conniving little witch.

Dish 3

I take my seat in the fourth row, all the way in the far right corner. I always choose this seat in every class. I think it's my karma seat, because the teacher never looks in my direction and I can get a good view of the other students... and sometimes their tests. Hey, I'm not perfect. Sometimes you gotta give a guy a break.

But today, my lucky spot doesn't seem so great, because I sit right behind stupid Tyler Stanley. Before I found out he liked Katie, I used to kind of like the guy. Being from the land of potatoes and leprechauns and all. I mean, we don't really talk, mostly because his accent is so thick. I can't keep up a conversation without repeating, " Yeah. I'm sorry, what?"
Plus, I like to play connect the dots with the freckles on his neck, which has gotten me weird looks sometimes because I unknowingly move my pen in the air as I'm drawing with my eyes.

"Psst."

The voice is coming from behind. I turn to face Gina Hilton.

"Do you have a piece of paper I can borrow?" she asks.

"What do I look like a paper factory?"

She gives me a confused look, but I don't care. One of my biggest pet peeves is when people ask to "borrow" paper when I obviously won't be getting it back.

"Dude, remember it's Tyler you're pissed with,"Adem says, pulling out his binder from his backpack.

"What? It's the third month of school. How does she not have any paper?" I say, shrugging.

"Alright class, let's get going. The bell rang two minutes ago, so let's not waste time," our psychology teacher, Mr. Morrison says, standing behind his podium.

He then transitions into his lecture mode, which is slumped posture, monotone voice and frozen stare off in space.

Everyone's pencils and notebooks are out, ready to report for duty, except for me. I'm more of a visual learner. I have to sit and watch the teacher and the presentation to really get it. Taking notes just gets in the way of things and distracts me. Well, at least I think it does, because somehow my words start going off into doodles of food-shaped objects or me as a superhero and Katie as my damsel in distress. I know, I'm lame.
Mr. Morrison drones on for half an hour and I'm amazed that everyone's actually listening to him for once. I, on the other hand, am trying to figure out a way to make Tyler talk. I'm just not good at randomly bringing things up with people,without setting off any alarms. Adem's the real charmer. He'd be an awesome secret agent. I'm more of an observer, the wingman that tests all the food to make sure there's no poison. No way am I gonna do the cliche drop-my-pencil thing. That never works. I can't go to the pencil sharpener; all I have are mechanical ones. I have to do something real smooth. What if I-
"Mr. Daniels!"
"Huh?"
" So what will it be?" Mr. Morrison says from his podium.
"Uh, I, uh."
My notebook is blank.
" What is at the top of Maslow's hierarchy of needs?"
The whole class has their eyes glued on me. Why do people always do that? Why does everyone have this weird reflex that makes them whip their heads around and stare at whoever is talking or answering a question? It really freaks me out.
"Uh, I, uh."
Adem starts mouthing something.
"Not you, Mr. Yohanes. I'm asking Mr. Daniels," Mr. Morrison grumbles.
"So the top, you said? The highest need... is at the top," I reply, with a weak smile.
" Mr. Daniels, I just said the answer. You're not giving me the answer."
The door suddenly creaks open and a blonde girl with a leather messenger bag strolls in. The bobbleheads all turn towards her as she walks towards Mr. Morrison. Blondie is clutching a wrinkled paper in one hand, while her other hand jingles with bangles at her side.
"Is this AP Psychology with R.Morrison?" she asks.
" Rupert Morrison, yes. That's me. Are you a new addition to my classroom?" His glare suggests that better be the only reason she's interrupting his lecture.
"Yeah, today's my first day. Sorry I'm late," she says, fingering her braided ponytail
"Well, take a seat somewhere," Mr. Morrison says with a sniff. " I don't know if there's any left for you."
Gina raises her hand.
" This seat is open here..."
" Susannah," Blondie says. "Thanks."
Old Susannah weaves through the desks, jingling all the way to the chair between Gina and Jorge Martinez. I catch a glimpse of a small tattoo on her neck. It looks like a cow? Or a walrus? She doesn't spark me as the tattoo kind of girl.
Mr. Morrison clears his throat, signaling a return to work.
"So, where was I? Oh yes, the top of Maslow's hierarchy of needs is-"
"Oo, self-actualization!"
This time, I even turn around to look at Susannah. She's smiling confidently and holding one of those girly pencils with frilly stuff spilling out of the top.
"Well Mr. Daniels, it seems you weren't able to answer me after sitting here this whole time, while she knew the answer and she just walked into the room. How's that?" Mr. Morrison says, one eyebrow arched.
Great, thanks for making me look like an idiot even more.
" We've done this chapter at my old school, that's all," Susannah says.
"Seriously?" Gina's eyes light up. "We should totally be study partners."
Susannah shrugs.
Mr. Morrison raps his knuckles on the podium.
" Enough yakking, people. Back to the lecture..."
Bring! Bring! Bring!
"What? It's time already?" Mr. Morrison glances at his wristwatch.
No one disputes the bell; echoes of zipping and shuffling erupt as everyone itches to get out of class. For once I wish I could stay longer, since I didn't get a chance to talk to Tyler at all. How am I ever going to figure out what's going on between him and Katie and destroy it?
" Come on, Zac. If we make it home in time, I can catch the last half of the LA Galaxy game," Adem says, slinging his backpack over his shoulder.
" If your mom's making her special salad, I'll promise to power walk," I say.
"Mind if I join you guys?" Susannah's voice chirps in.
Adem frowns.
"You like soccer?"
"No. Well not particularly. I don't not like it, so I think it would an interesting experience," Susannah says, adjusting one of her bangles.
" Well, we would invite you, but Adem's mom isn't big on bringing girls over. Actually, scratch that, she'd go nuts if he brought a girl over," I say, smacking Adem on the back.
"I think that's why she likes me, 'cause she knows I'll never get a girl."
"What if it's for school stuff? You could tell her I'm there for a psychology study session. Which wouldn't be a complete lie, since Zac obviously needs one."
"Hey-"
Adem laughs.
"Look it sounds cool, but you don't even know us. Why do you want to hang out with two random guys? You seem more of a girly girl, no offense."
Susannah sighs.
"Everyone thinks that, but I'm a lot tougher than I look. Plus, I want to meet some new friends. Please? I promise I won't complain or get in the way. I could make us snacks."
My stomach growls.
" Sold! Let her come, Adem. We'll take it nice and slow and not scare your mom."
Adem picks up his soccer ball.
"Alright then. Fine, Susannah, you're welcome to come over. But we gotta leave now. My parking spot is way in the back."
I shove my notebook in my backpack and follow Adem and Susannah out. As we go out the door, Susannah slips her arm around mine.
"This is gonna be so much fun!"
Feeling her skin touch mine, I suddenly feel really guilty. Then I remember that Katie is probably somewhere putting her arm around Tyler Stanley and not caring what the hell I think, so I just smile as the three of us run across campus.

Dish 2

I breathe a sigh of relief when the bell rings for the end of lunch. I pull off my gloves, crumple them up and drop them in the trash can.

“Why you don’t eat anything, Zac? Where’s your food?” Mrs. Chen says, pushing up her ginormous glasses.

I shrug.

“Not really hungry, I guess.”

Mrs. Chen’s face looks like I just told her Desperate Housewives was canceled.

“Eat something, child! What you talking about not really hungry. What’s wrong, child?”

She clicks her tongue and closes the cash register.

Mrs. Chen and I have a strange relationship, which includes her calling me “child” but actually sounds more like “chi-yul.” In a way, she’s like my second mom, except she lets me eat junk food unlike my real mom, who’s a dental hygienist and doesn’t have zebra nail tips.

But just like any good son with their mother, I never tell Mrs. Chen my real problems. I make something up just to make her happy and get her off my back. I would never,ever,tell her that the girl of my dreams was moving further away from being the girl of my reality. Ever. She’d just tell me I’m too good for her and that I’ll always find someone else and crap like that.

“I’m fine. I’ll just take a can of Coke.”

I quickly grab my backpack before Mrs. Chen can protest and make my way around the giant freezers and rows of boxes to the back door.

Standing outside is my best friend, Adem.

“What up, Zac?” he says, dropping his soccer ball and bouncing it up on his knee.

Adem Yohanes is one of the star soccer players at our school. He’s also insanely smart and good looking. He’s an AP Scholar and won Mr. Ben Franklin High, so it’s not my opinion- it’s fact.You’re probably wondering what he’s doing being my friend. Trust me, I ask myself that same question everyday.

Believe it or not, I used to be an athletic guy. Played soccer, basketball, Pop Warner football all that. I met Adem in sixth grade and we played on the same soccer team. He was a forward; I was the goalie. I was a great goalie, if I do say so myself. I was one of the only kids not afraid to dive into the grass, even if it meant having to get a chipped tooth or bruised eye (which did happen, we have it on tape.)

Adem and I carpooled to games, practiced at each other’s houses and eventually came to that level of friendship which allowed trading our cherished Pokemon cards. Thanks to him, I became popular with the rest of the soccer team and all the other jocks. Life was good at the top of the food chain.

Well, when I stopped diving for soccer balls and started diving for cheeseburgers and Slushees, I was no longer goalie material, let alone athlete material.

All the other guys ditched me and wouldn’t talk to me at school once I left the world of amateur soccer, except for Adem. He didn’t care that I wasn’t a cool jock or a cool anything. I can honestly say I wouldn’t have survived junior high if it hadn’t been for two people: Anthony Bourdain and Adem Yohanes.

“ What’s wrong? You look dead, man,” he says.

“ I’m just tired, I guess.”

“ Come on, really. Tell me,” Adem says, tucking the soccer ball under his arm.

I shake my head.

“ Did they run out of your dish of the day?”

“No.”

“ Are you having lady problems?” he nudges me with a sly grin.

“ Why does it have to be lady problems,huh? Can’t I just be tired for once?” I say, throwing my hands up.

“You’re always happy after lunch for two reasons: one-the food and two-a little someone named Katie Glass. So there’s got to be problems with one of them, am I right?” Adem explains, as we turn the corner towards the mobile room classes.

I take a swig of soda and frown. Why did my best friend have to be smart?

“It’s just... I dunna know. She’s not acting like herself. She’s hanging out with this group of stupid, you know, plastic girls and now she’s barely eating as if she’s on some kinda sick diet. She’s just not my Katie.”

A wave of walking students part for Adem and recluster right in front of me, causing Adem to stop and wait for me to catch up. Story of my life.

“Look Zac, you seriously need to stop calling her ‘your Katie.’ You sound all crazy and Edward-like,” he says.

Well, who wants that? Who wants millions of lovesick, adoring girls following you for eternity? Who?

“ It’s just not cool,” Adem says.

“Aw, come on. I get it. I haven’t asked her out yet so she’s not mine officially,” I say, rolling my eyes.

“ Um, actually... I think she’s Tyler’s.”

Adem tilts his head to our left. Right outside our psychology class is Katie laughing in the freckled arms of Tyler Stanley.

Tyler freaking Stanley? The exchange student from Ireland that barely speaks intelligible English? Did our year of exchanging conversations of love through our food mean nothing to her?

Suddenly Katie leans in towards Tyler, hovering two millimeters away from a kiss. I wince as I swallow my soda, the liquid souring and burning in my nose. I refuse to wipe away the tears pouring out of my eyes and continue to issue my death stare.

Adem coughs and steps in between me and the disgusting display of affection.

“ All I’m gonna say is this is gonna be one awkward class period.”

Dish 1

My name is Zachariah Daniels and I have the greatest seat in our school cafeteria-behind the lunch counter of Express Munch Line. Yes, I am one of those student workers who gets free meals for working during lunch and simultaneously doesn't have to worry about who to sit with. I have Mrs. Chen, the cashier lady who loves zebra nail tips.

On top of getting to serve the charming inhabitants of Ben Franklin High, I do it while wearing a stupid chef's hat, despite not actually cooking anything. But whatever. I stopped caring about what people think of me after the first month of freshman year—I'm a junior now. Everyone knows it's not what's on the outside that counts. It's what's on the inside. Seriously. I've found what people eat is a much better reflection of who they are. If more of us paid careful attention to the lunch hour (that for some reason is scheduled three hours after breakfast), we would get to know each other much better.

I, for example, know a ridiculous amount of info about my fellow high school students just by checking out their lunch orders four out of five school days. (Fridays, I go to AV Club meetings.)

The bell rings and the cafeteria begins to fill with the buzzing sound of hundreds of conversations and rumbling stomachs and screeching girls. I pull on my saran wrap gloves, slap on my cream puff hat and prepare to serve.

My first customer is a scrawny boy, freshman I bet, who orders a footlong with the works, two bags of Doritos Nacho Cheese, a Dr. Pepper and a chocolate cookie. This kid is either overcome with joy for high school food or he is certainly deprived of junk food at home. I want to break it to him that by week two, he is going to despise the cafeteria food as much as he'll despise gym, but his toothy smile is so refreshingly innocent, I simply hand him his food with a nod.

The next group jumps to the counter with smug faces that scream " We just cut in front of the whole line. What you gonna do 'bout it."

Nothing, of course. They've been line cutters since birth. I've no doubt when the nurses were scheduled to deliver in the next room, these wise guys forced their ways out of their moms early just to be a pain.

As the dudes shout out their orders, I'm forced to pick up and put items back as one guy chastises them in questionable language that he can't afford to pay for all their crap. They laugh as if I'm some poor pawn in their game and take several more minutes wasting my time and that of the rest of the people in line. Their final order turns out to be fried chicken boxes and Gatorades. Greasy and neon-colored. And that's why they're such slimeballs.

Following them is Phil, who orders every carb and protein packed item we have. I noticed he's been recently trying to bulk up for wrestling. Plus, he's been trying to impress this girl, Shelby.

" Wanna try this new granola bar?"

I hold it up over the glass. He grabs it and scans the nutrition facts.

"Sure."

He scoots to the cashier station. His unenthusiastic tone worries me. I wish he hung out with more encouraging athletes that didn't see their diet as a miserable punishment. But who am I kidding? I would sooner down a dozen donuts than a salad.

More students order lunch, nothing special. Which explains why I don't know anything about them. It's the people that like mustard and vinegar on their sandwiches like Victoria or nachos with ketchup and jalapenos like Mark that are worth remembering.

The next customer is my history teacher, Mr. Wahlberg. Instead of being like the normal teachers who collectively put in an order at Wally's Taco Stand and eat in the lounge, Mr. Wahlberg insists on "rubbing shoulders with his pupils" and "dining with the masses." There should be a rule against this.

" Zachariah, my main man," he says, putting his hand up for a high five.

"I touch food,sir."

" Right," he mutters. "So I'll have an iced tea... Uh, a cheeseburger and ... some Cheetos."

He acts like it's a tough choice, but he has the same order every day. The iced tea is his weak attempt at a caffeine source, the cheeseburger a soggy excuse for manliness and the Cheetos-so he can "look cool" licking orange fingers.

I glance at the clock and then she's standing in front of me. She stole my heart when she ordered a salami and swiss cheese sandwich, milk and Double-stuffed Oreos- my favorite snack. I've been taking Katie's order for over a year. She says she doesn't like bringing lunch because she enjoys the spontaneity of cafeteria food. Gosh I love her.

"Hi Katie," I say in my most suave manner.

"Hey Zac." She runs her fingers through her amber hair.

"So I got a great one for you today. How about a teriyaki chicken—"

" I'll have a water and some crackers,please," Katie interrupts.

I laugh.

"Sorry, we're out of the Nurse's Office Special. How about chow mein? Onion rings and relish?"

Katie sighs.

"I don't eat that stuff anymore."

Suddenly a ridiculously skinny girl strolls up.

"Helloo, we're waiting."

Katie eyes me nervously. I look at her, trying to bring her back to me with my stare.

"I'll get right on it," I say finally.

I open the fridge to get a bottle of water, grab a packet of crackers, then slam them on the counter.

"Enjoy," I say lamely.

As they link arms, I remember not to judge Katie by her new fake friend, but by my lunch philosophy. I'm sad to report my soulmate is barely holding on, floating on little salty lifeboats in the choppy waters of peer pressure. I wish I could save her, but from where I sit, I'm not close enough.