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.