Chapter 2 Lunch Map

By the time the lunch bell rings, the word pattern is still sitting in the back of my mind, quieter now but not gone. I tell myself Krizzy probably says things like that all the time, that it was more about the school than about me. If I move carefully enough, if I do not add anything new to the day, maybe this morning can stay small.

My plan is simple. Eat quickly, sit where I am expected to sit, and let the room lose interest. The cafeteria fills in waves. Everyone seems to know exactly where they are going. Tables form familiar shapes as trays land and chairs pull out in practiced rhythm. From the doorway alone, I can already see the layout and all I have to do is follow it.

I angle toward the back corner near the vending machines, where two girls from orientation are unpacking matching containers and talking about a chemistry quiz. It is not exciting, but it is safe, and safe is enough for now. A hand closes around my wrist before I reach them.

“Absolutely not,” Krizzy says, like I just tried to sit on the floor.

“I’m just getting lunch,” I reply, keeping my voice low. “It’s fine.”

“It’s predictable,” she says, looping her arm through mine before I can step away.

“And you are not predictable.”

She walks at an easy pace, guiding us away from the back wall and toward the middle of the room. It is subtle enough that no one would call it a scene, but obvious enough that our direction changes.

“Krizzy,” I tried again. She glances at me, amused.

“Relax.” That is easy for her to say.

From the center aisle, everything looks different. The back corner fades into background noise, and the rest of the cafeteria sharpens into layers.

The girls by the windows sit straight, blazers folded neatly over their chairs, conversations quiet and controlled. Across from them are the athletes, louder but not messy, confident in the space they take up. Near the entrance is a table that shifts week to week, girls who hover close to whoever seems most interesting at the time, their laughter slightly louder than necessary.

The scholarship corner sits near the vending machines and the faculty hallway, close enough to teachers to discourage anything dramatic and far enough from the center to avoid commentary. It is where no one asks questions.

Krizzy steers us to a table positioned between the windows and the main aisle, visible from nearly every angle. Not the highest tier, but close enough that sitting there signals intention. Every table carries a message and I do not need anyone to explain that.

She lets go of my arm once we reach it. Two empty chairs face the room and the placement is obvious.

“Krizzy,” I say quietly, “we don’t have to sit here.” She sets her tray down and looks at me as if I am missing the point.

“We do.”

A few heads lift and then drop again and no one stares for long. They do not need to because the shift has already happened. If I hesitate, it becomes noticeable. If I sit, it becomes official. I pull out the chair facing the aisle and sit. The legs scrape softly against the floor, and I feel it more than I hear it. Krizzy takes the seat beside me, close enough that our shoulders nearly touch.

“This is better,” she says lightly but I am not convinced.

We have barely opened our lunches when someone stops at the edge of the table.

“Hey, Krizzy,” the girl says, smiling in a way that is friendly but careful. She stands straight, her posture easy and confident. 

“I think there might have been a mix-up. I’m pretty sure this table’s full today.” Krizzy looks up at her. 

“It doesn’t look full.” The girl lets out a small laugh. 

“It usually is.”

“I guess today’s different,” Krizzy replies, taking a bite of her food. The girl’s eyes shift to me. 

“You’re new, right?”

“Yes,” I answer before Krizzy can. “If this seat is taken, I can move. It’s fine.”

“It’s not taken,” Krizzy says, still calm. “We’re good.”

There is a pause that stretches just long enough for nearby conversations to lower. The girl studies me again. 

“Smith, right?” I nod.

“From the scholarship list?” A few voices dip softer, not silent but attentive.

“Yes,” I say. Her expression stays pleasant.

“Oh,” she says gently. “That makes sense.”

She steps away, and for a moment the noise of the cafeteria resumes its normal rhythm. Another figure approaches, slower this time. Farrah does not fully stop at our table. She slows just enough to acknowledge us, her gaze moving from Krizzy to me with quiet assessment.

“Kriz,” she says lightly. “New project?” Krizzy smiles. 

“New friend.”

Farrah’s attention settles on me. There is nothing openly unkind in her expression, but it feels measured, like she is deciding where to file my name.

“Welcome,” she says. “Fletcher Academy can be overwhelming at first.”

“I’m fine,” I reply.

“I’m sure you are.” She holds my gaze a moment longer, then continues walking. The air around the table feels thinner after she leaves.

Across the aisle, someone leans toward another girl and whispers something I cannot hear. The second girl glances over, then quickly looks down at her tray.

“Is she in our literature block?” a voice asks.

“I think so,” someone answers. “Smith. She scored high on the entrance exams.”

“That’s the one who replaced—” The rest fades into a murmur.

I unwrap my sandwich and focus on steady movements. Chew, swallow and keep my posture neutral. Krizzy leans slightly closer. 

“You were never going to disappear,” she says quietly. I do not respond, because she is right.

A few minutes later, the first girl returns with her tray and pauses just behind my chair. Her voice is softer now, directed at our table but low enough to pass as consideration.

“Just so you know,” she says gently, “scholarship girls don’t sit there.”

Krizzy does not move, and I feel the room’s attention settle without anyone openly claiming it. The moment has already passed. Even if I stood up now, the story would stay. I came here intending to stay unnoticed.

Instead, I have just been assigned a position.