Ruth caught me doing reps with The Count of Monte Cristo under my desk as Mr. Nuñez went over the syllabus.
“What are you doing?” she hissed.
“Getting swole,” I whispered back, flexing my biceps.
Ruth tilted her face up and looked to the heavens as she slowly exhaled. News flash, Ruth: God probably had better things to do than worry about my new dedication to fitness.
“If you embarrass me today, I will never speak to you again,” she muttered, her face deadly.
This coming from someone who let her mother dress her in Hello Kitty for her first day of school.
And not in a cool way.
■ ■ ■ LUNCH FINALLY
It was still nice enough to sit in the courtyard, which meant we didn’t have to deal with the cafeteria. I had a feeling that the second fall ended, me and the freshmen sitting outside would have to fend for ourselves at the lunch tables indoors, probably upsetting some kind of weird social hierarchy that was established by the seniors. I was not looking forward to it.
How did people even know where to sit? It was like this big unspoken map where it was just understood that certain groups sat in certain places. Middle school had, like, five tables. Here, I counted at least thirty. Ruth and I were living on borrowed time by eating in the DMZ that was the courtyard.
I spied Wesley sitting at one of those indoor tables through the window as he chuckled with his fellow khaki friends. I wondered what it would be like to sit next to him every day. In my fantasy he’d offer me some of his lunch and we’d split a soda, his arm protectively around my shoulder as he told a joke that the entire lunch table laughed at.
Nobody would mispronounce my name or ask if my eyelashes were real. Nobody would make me feel like I didn’t belong. Instead, his group would invite me to their cool golf parties and beg me to sit with them at a town hall meeting, or whatever it was they did. Then Wesley would pass me a bag of Hot Cheetos, and I’d know it was True Love.
“Why?” Ruth groaned as she opened up her lunch box. “It’s not like it’s a different message, either.”
I snapped back to reality, my radar for things that could potentially embarrass me going off. “Oh no,” I replied, staring at the note in Ruth’s lunch. Please tell me Mrs. Song did not write what I think she did.
Ruth held up the paper, her fingers holding the tiniest corner of the offending note. It was the same note that Ruth’s mom had put in her middle school lunch every day, too.
You are filled with Jesus’s light. He loves every fiber of your being, it said in Mrs. Song’s perfect script. It was then followed with the words, And remember: no boys :) The note was the size of a five-by-eight-inch index card and could probably be seen from outer space, like the Great Wall or Australia.
How could Ruth’s mom still do this? We were in high school now. We had real bras. It was a war crime at this point.
“I mean, at least Jesus loves you,” I offered, trying to cheer Ruth up. “I feel like you should laminate it, though? Save her some time?”
Ruth thunked her forehead onto the table. “Do you think my mom would be okay with me not being straight? Or would she be even more harsh?” Ruth asked.
“Ummm,” I replied helpfully.
The truth was, I had no idea. Ruth’s mom was so strict it was scary. She could either take Ruth being pansexual as the worst thing ever or a miracle from God that her daughter could fall in love with someone who couldn’t get her pregnant before her first PhD. Mrs. Song was a big deal in the Washington DC academic crowd and expected Ruth to be just as famous in her own field one day.
I put my hand on hers. “Don’t worry, Ruthie. At least she packs you lunch.”
All my parents had ever packed me was a stray cookie and maybe a stick of chewing gum.
Ruth glared at me over her crossed arms. “I know what you’re trying to do.”
“What?” I asked innocently.
Ruth sighed, opening the metal containers inside her lunch box. She began stacking tiny side dishes of Korean food on our table. Little dishes of kimchi, pickled cucumbers, scallion pancakes, acorn jelly, and potato salad peeked out of each one. My mouth watered. Ruth’s mom made her the most amazing meals, and she always packed extra for me. That didn’t stop Ruth from whining about carrying enough food for two to school every day, though.
Fabián sat down with us just then, slamming his overflowing tray of fries onto the table. I envied him—his parents gave him a big allowance to buy lunches and order delivery since they traveled so much for work and were never home to cook.
“Hola, chicas,” Fabián said with a grin, popping a fry into his mouth.
I’d known Fabián and Ruth since elementary school, when the three of us had teamed up against Spencer Tunstall for making fun of Fabián for going to dance class. The cherry on top had been when Fabián beat him in the hundred-yard dash in fourth grade and proudly announced to Spencer that he’d just lost to a gay kid. No joke, that was actually how Fabián had come out to our school: in the form of a savage takedown. Ruth wasn’t ready to come out, though. For reasons I still didn’t understand, I didn’t have to come out for liking guys.
It was a mystery.
Fabián’s first-day-of-school outfit was excellent: a white T-shirt with the sleeves rolled up that made his copper skin glow. His blue jeans were
