Trick questions always get me. I think I'm outsmarting them, and I just end up going in a circle, back to the wrong answer. That's why the test Ms. Finch handed back to me was graded at soixante pour cent, barely passing.
"You just have to think outside the box, be smarter than the test." she told me.
"You said we can't leave school." I told her.
"What... does that have to do with it?"
"Never mind."
I put my head down into my arms. My sleeves smelled so good, must have been that new detergent. We have to do our own laundry here, but thanks to the automatic washer, it's kind of fun... like chemistry. At home, Mom makes me do it by hand. I heard they only invented the machine last year, not many people have them yet.
Right before the end, we learned something fun: November first was a holiday. Actually, it was a few holidays, none of them very big or widely celebrated. All Saints' Day, Authors' Day... and the Gypsy Festivals in May. That caught my attention. Ms. Finch asked if anyone in the class was Romani, and my hand shot up. No other hands joined me. I put my hand back down. I was expecting questions about my lifestyle, but none came.

After class, I headed to the cafeteria. I waited in line for my usual pasta-pesto (a personal favourite). My mouth watered when the kid in front of me got a foot-long hot-dog with mayo, sauerkraut, pickled peppers, and ketchup. I imagined having one with mashed potatoes and gravy on top, munching on its sweet, savory tubed muck, and downing it with a Caramel Spritz... but my shadow had other ideas.
Don't even think about it.
Every time I try to get around my own rules, I end up talking myself out of it. I didn't want to disappoint my mom. She was always telling me not to eat "carny food", things that people at the circus would eat on a stick. I was only allowed to eat freshly butchered meat, and only the good cuts. Not the innards, all ground up. I don't know if it's true, but she tells me it's bad for my health. She's been right so far, I guess. I shook my head and swallowed my drool. Remembering how greasy I felt last time I ate a hot-dog, I graciously received my pasta, orange juice, and mashed potatoes with gravy. These portions were big enough that I could forget I was ever hungry. But like a wet fart in a dry hallway, that hot-dog smell clung to everything in the room.

I took a seat. There was a commotion behind me – some new kid, in my grade. Kids were swarmed around him, like puppies. I didn't recognize him at first, and assumed he must be in the English class. Suddenly, it hit me!
"Drake Tempest", he introduced himself to a pair of newcomers. "A pleasure to meet you." His accent was thick, something like Russian. "As I was saying: after years of tireless, back-breaking labor in the gem mines, I was finally able to escape thanks to the help of a friend." He told his story like he was at a book-signing: sweeping gestures, empathetic voice, fully-present. It was undeniably moving, and listening wasn't a choice – it was inevitable. "That friend, who may or may not be Romanian Secret Service – I cannot say, for to this day I do not know – helped me retrieve my precious belongings from the high-security orphanage."
"What were they?" I heard myself ask, through a mouthful of pasta. Augh, it slipped out. The words, not the pasta.
Drake looked at me intensely, frozen. It was like he recognized me. "Please do not interrupt my story, ma'am." He held his hands outward, as if begging for help. "They were of great importance to me, though I doubt very much they would be as well to you. A photograph, some clothes from my birth mother..."
A red-headed guy put his hand up, like he was in class. "Let's see it!" He seemed a little too excited to be there.
Drake looked at me again, like I had hurt him somehow. Some of his audience turned to glare at me with disgusted sneers. A bittersweet aroma slowly but surely overtook the hot-dogs: vodka. He pulled out a sepia-toned instant photo of a boy his age, curly hair, friendly face with wild eyes. "This is my half-brother, Rovin. His mother is from Serbia, and we grew up together."
The crowd oohed and awed. I knew how much heart-string that 'and' was pulling. Without it, he's talking. With it... he's telling a tale.
Satisfied that my interruption had only helped, he eyed the red-headed guy, who moved to my table, leaving Drake to his adoring crowd. "It was then, you see, that I began my formal training as an airline pilot..."
"His story's completely fake," I said, more to myself than anyone.
The red-headed guy sighed. "He's just telling them what they want to hear. Y'know, like when your parents lie about Santa Claus."
"Santa is real," I interjected, "he's an abandoned cloning project to create the world's jolliest man. Now his army of failed experiments roam local malls, in bearded, drunken splendor." I sipped some juice.
He took a second, then laughed. "YOU are FUNNY! Oh, Drake's going to love you." He smiled (but in kind of a fake way). "I'm Julius Arrow, call me Jules."
"You mean like a bow and arrow?" I asked, confused.
"No, like... I'm soaring in the sky! I'm majestic, and precise."
"Where's your family from?" I asked.
"Ireland, mostly," he replied.
"Oh, neat! I was born here, but I'm Romani, Scottish, Brazilian, Métis and, uh... Jewish...?"
"You're a mutt," he laughed.
"Y-yeah." Kind of like Drake, I thought.
"Anyway, Drake's pretty new to the country, so give him a hand whenever he asks. I think he only got here last year, and his English is pretty good." He pointed over to him, as he was wrapping up his story. 'Pretty good' is an understatement – he's already captivating. Jules, for whatever reason, was more than enthralled... he looked entranced.
Then, a short black-haired kid swaggered over. "Hey, Jules. Who's your friend? She in your class?"
"Hey Tony..." he cooed. "This is my friend, Tony Castanza. Kids call him 'Little Toe', but you don't know him well enough for that."
Tony was like four feet tall, pale with freckles, and had a sport-tee on, with cargo shorts and cleats. He was confident enough to walk wherever he wanted, like he was a threat to all the bigger kids. Between that and the fact that they gave him a nickname that wasn't 'The Accident', I was jealous.
"Oi, kid. My dad's from Italy, he's like... a major crime boss. You'd better not cross me, or I can have you WHACKED in a second flat."
I was mildly amused. He held his hand out for a shake, and I gave him one. He tried to crush my hand as hard as he could, but I'm not an easy opponent. I've arm-wrestled Felix on numerous occasions, and I almost won, once. Finally, he let go, flinging the 'pins and needles' feeling out of his hand.
"You single? I've got, uh... friends you can date."
I shook my head. "I'm good. I'm also a boy."
"Yeah, and I'm the president. Lemme know when you REALLY wanna GO places."
Tony patted Jules on his lower back, unable to tap his shoulder due to Jules' incredible height. Must have been four feet next to six, like a father and son on the town. I shuddered as they left, partly from the hot-dog smell Tony left behind on his breath. Other kids are weird.
I stood up, went to grab some ketchup for my fries, and sat down again. This time, Drake was at my table. The crowd was gone. He watched me with big, lazy blue eyes. He looked amazingly thirsty, and cold. "What are you thinking?" he asked, his face pale, licking his unnaturally red lips. Sensing danger, I decided to cram my fries down my throat and chew as fast as I could, but my gluttony only alerted him. "Please, slow down... I wish to speak with you."
A fry fell out of my mouth and back onto my plate. I ate it while looking him in the eyes. He narrowed his.
"I know you from somewhere, my boy. We have met, perhaps?" he quizzed.
Yeah, we were best friends before you ditched me.
"I don't think so, dude."
"You are a boy, correct? Your butt, it speaks of no gender to me." He crossed his arms, like I'd failed a test.
I blurted, "My BUTT?!"
"All men know to look first for the eyes, then the butt, of a maiden fair. It is the noble way of the gentleman, and backwards it is the way of the beast." he proudly explained.
Pretty sure being a pervert is always rude.
I looked over the guy. Slick-combed brown hair, bowl-cut. Nice black clothes, but dirty, covered in stains. The skinny, sharp face that says his parents make him eat every second day. Pants a size too small and shoes a size too large, with holes in them. Who was this guy kidding? What kind of rose glasses were the other kids wearing? Suddenly, though, a burst of warmth escaped him and swept over me, and I got chills. Before me, in an instant, was the spitting image of a handsome, eccentric foreigner with a fierce glare. Was there something in the ketchup...?
"One, two, three seconds, ahaha... you have not spoken." he laughed, in an oddly subdued manner. He flashed his pearly white teeth, sharp like a cat's. The room looked brighter too, and everything was suspended in slow-motion.
"I've got it!" he snapped. "You are like my brother Rovin!"
"You don't have a brother, Drake. I know that because we went to elementary together, just down the hill from here. Rovin's not real."
Drake was silent. Then, he laughed, and quietly gave up his accent for a moment. "Looks like you caught me. You were in Ms. Romero's class too, huh? Katie, right? Or was it Allie?"
"GARCIA. My name is GARCIA, remember? We hung out practically every single day?"
His expression brightened with a smile, his eyes lit with recognition. Finally. "GAR-SEE-A! I didn't think you went here, I thought you moved!"
"I thought YOU moved. You stopped coming by, remember?"
"It wasn't on purpose. My dad wouldn't let me hang out with anyone. I had to beg him to let me go to school, and now I'm late on all my classes by a month."
Now that he'd given up his act, I was a little more relaxed. It was almost like we were catching up.
Don't let your guard down!
"May I have some fries?" he asked.
I looked down at my plate. "These are my fries."
He smiled, and suddenly his smile was gold. Something warm was happening in my guts, and his eyes became diamonds. It was getting hot in here.
He said, "Yeah, but friends share things all the time, right?"
DON'T DO IT!
"Sure," I said, bubbly as a stream. "Sharing is caring."
He took a fry, and chomped it down. Then another. And another. I watched him eat, and rested my head on my hand. I couldn't say why, but I could have watched him all day. He seemed aware of this, somehow. Not out loud, but inside.
He stood up, and burped. "Well, if you'll excuse me."
"Of course," I said, letting him go.
He walked away, like he was on a mission, and my stomach fluttered – I wanted to go too. Then slowly the room returned to normal, and became grey and boring. The hot-dog smell grew stale. I looked down at my plate, and saw only streaks of ketchup. My stomach growled, and I looked to the counter, through the window to the kitchen. If I was quick, I could grab another plate. Then the bell rang, and the cafeteria ladies slammed the door shut.

It was at that moment I realized I'd been had.