Lunch time at any high school is basically the same. You have your various designated tables that hold your stereotypical groups. Most times, you can walk through and determine who belongs with whom, within moments of viewing. East Dewitt High is no different. You have your intellectuals and over achievers, books open, studying while they eat finger foods they don’t really have to concentrate on, simply dip their fingers into a Ziploc bag and pop whatever sustenance their overbearing and high pressure parents packed for them. Then there are the artsy types, divided into tropes, the wannabe Broadway stars, the rock band and solo artist musicians, photographers and video kids, and the mix media art students daubed out in paints, charcoals and clay residue. You have marching band kids, student government, freaks, jocks, techies, slackers and kiss-ups. Now these groups can intertwine, mix, mingle and spill over, but then there are the fringe kids.
These are the kids that for one odd, trivial reason or another, never quite made the acceptance list into any of the other groups. They are the ones that sit alone, or have a single friend that may also be a fringe dweller. It may have been they were a notorious milk spiller in kindergarten, maybe they had a lisp or crooked, messed up teeth and wore braces for their entire school careers. Maybe they kissed the wrong person at the wrong time and someone gossiped it all over the school the following day. Maybe they barfed at an impromptu keg party, or maybe no one really knew why and it was just the way fate devised it to be with her cruel sense of humor.
Another avenue to become a fringe dweller, is to be the new guy on the block. Something that could mean certain social circle death, especially in the high school years. Add to that, a parent that teaches at the same school and you might as well find a custodial closet and plan to have lunch with the broom and mop bucket as your friends, all year long. By some miraculous turn of the high school social gods, I have escaped that fate. I’m Sawyer Payne, son of the high school history teacher, East Dewitt’s newest senior classmate and the recently added offensive back for the East Dewitt Devils.
Coming out from the cafeteria to the lunch quad, that first day, I had a moment of sheer panic, until I saw Cameron James, the Devils’ star quarterback. He signaled for me to join him and his crew. I stood at the edge of the outdoor, lunch table with my institutional, molded plastic, food tray in hand. “Hey.”
“Hey.” Cameron stood up and slapped his hand down hard on my shoulder, causing my tray to slant unexpectedly, nearly dropping my lunch onto the lap of the blonde sitting on the edge of the bench, picking through a bowl of salad for the few croutons that were sure to add ten pounds to her hips, if she accidentally ingested them. “Everyone, this is Sawyer Payne. He’s cool.” He turned to me. “Have a seat, Payne.”
The blonde, with the offending salad, slid over and gave me room on the edge of the bench. She propped her chin up on her fist and smiled. “Payne, as in Mr. PIA’s kid?”
I raised my brows. “PIA? If you mean the history teacher,” I sighed, “yeah.”
A girl dressed in an East Dewitt Devils sweatshirt, leaned across the table. “PIA, as in pain in the ass. Your dad is a real ball buster.”
I rolled my eyes, knowing all too well how difficult he could be. One of the reasons I had moved to East Dewitt, was so that he could keep a better eye on me and a stronger hand on my future. He had informed my mother and me, after my last bout with the local police, that it was in my best interest to leave northern California and move in with him for my senior year. Mom didn’t disagree. I suppose I had caused her enough grief, in my prior three years of high school, to last her a lifetime and make it easy enough for her to say yes.
“Yeah, my dad can be a hard ass at times.”
The whole table erupted with groans and murmurs of agreement. I knew then, I needed to steer clear of my father while in school and at extracurricular activities, if I wasn’t going to be banished to no man’s land.
“So, you play football, Sawyer?” asked the girl across the table.
“Yeah, offense.”
“That’s hot,” she mouthed.
“Lettie thinks all football players are hot,” interjected the blonde. “I’m Chanel.”
I nodded. “Like Channel West Coast?”
“No,” she snapped, scowling and continued. “Like the fragrance. That’s Loretta, or Lettie as we call her.” She lifted her nose to indicate the girl in the sweatshirt, who promptly gave me a twiddle of her hot pink, manicured fingertips. “You know Cameron and I am sure you know Josh and Marcus from the team. That one there, on the end, is Dallas, she’s from Texas, arrived here her freshman year, ripe as a Georgia peach, and we swooped her right up and saved her. Didn’t we Dallas?”
The lanky brunette at the end of the table gave Chanel a clear view of her middle finger.
“Love ya, baby doll.” Chanel blew her air kisses. “Gotta watch her like a hawk, that one. One day she loves boys and the next,” she shrugged. “Well, let’s just say she is a firm believer in love the one you are with. Or what you’re with.”
I smiled and gave Dallas a nod of my head. She was cute.
“Over there, that’s Mason and that’s his woman, Lara. Now you have the roster. Ready to play?” She winked and gave me a temptress’ smile.
I didn’t have any words. What did she want me to play at?
“Chanel, cut the crap. Give the boy a chance to get his feet wet before you strike, you barracuda.” Cameron shoved her over and squeezed in between us, rescuing me from her claws. “You ready for the game Friday?”
“Yeah, I think so.”
“No dude, you know so. We gotta kick some serious ass this game.” He slapped my back. I was beginning to see that Cameron was going to leave my body bruised on and off the field.
“I can’t wait to see you play,” purred Lettie. “I bet it’s hot.”
Chanel rolled her eyes and flicked a lettuce leaf across the table at her.
Marcus spoke for the first time. “I’ll never understand why adults say our hormones are crazy. You two girls make us boys look like saints.”
Chanel scoffed. “You were hardly a saint at Maverick’s party two weeks ago.”
“I take no responsibility for brews and brownie night, woman.”
“Mmmhmm,” sassed Lettie and Chanel in unison.
“Hey Dallas,” mocked whispered Chanel over the length of the table.
“Yeah?”
Chanel pointed down the quad and Dallas got up on her knees to peer in the general direction. “No effing way.”
Everyone turned and gawked. I moved to see around the mass of Chanel’s blonde locks, not quite sure who they were gazing at.
“I thought she moved this summer,” someone said.
“I heard the new place refused to take her,” said someone else.
“I heard she got arrested for arson and went to juvie.”
“That’s BS. She wouldn’t be out already.”
I started to look from female to female until I saw who they were referring to. She hadn’t been seated at the empty table when I came out from the cafeteria. I looked her over. She was sitting all alone, earbuds in, head down, black hair hanging down like a visible force field. She was a fringe dweller, no doubt about it.
“Who’s that?” I inquired. Probably my first mistake when it came to Cate.
“That’s Catherine Mullens,” whispered Cameron.
I shrugged. “What’s her story?”
“She’s a foster kid. Been in and out of East Dewitt since elementary school. I think her mom ditched and we’ve never heard about her pops.”
I grimaced. Chanel, Lettie and Dallas had moved into a small huddle at the end of the table. I could see them steal glances as they chattered. It’s never a good thing when girls secretly join to chatter.
“Hey, Sawyer?”
I lifted my head to see Mason’s girlfriend, I had already forgotten her name, signaling to me. I moved in closer to hear her.
“Listen, we try not to make a big deal out of it, but that girl they are all spouting off about, she could use some help. We try to, ya know, give her stuff, get her into shit and help her out.” She shoved a lunch plate of dark cake from Mason’s tray over to me and nodded in Catherine’s direction. “Be a good guy and drop this off to her, will ya?”
I looked back over my shoulder at the fringe girl and then down at the plastic wrapped cake slice. What could it hurt? Good deeds, new friends, it would be a good effort to a new start. The other three girls gave me an approving nod and waved me forward with their French tipped and ringed fingers. What was I going to do, say no? I climbed out over the bench and scooped up the foam plate, heavy with the dessert. I could feel all their eyes on my back as I crossed the lawn several feet to the table where Catherine sat all alone. Her head never lifted, the ear buds stayed in place. I could hear the heavy thump from the music piping up through the chord that attached to her cell phone. “Hi.”
She never glanced up. I set the cake down.
Nothing.
“You’re welcome.” I shrugged, left the plate there in front of her, and walked back to the table, facing a sea of grins and giggles. Once I was situated back in my original seat, everyone remained focused on Catherine, waiting for some mysterious event, I wasn’t privy to. The bell rang and we formed a mass exodus, back inside to classes. I looked back at the girl. She stood up, picked up the plate and dumped it unwrapped and unceremoniously into the trash.
Chanel turned and walked backward lagging behind the group. “Hey Cake, it’s good to know where you are, we can all sleep a little easier tonight.”
“Cake? I thought you said her name was Catherine?”
“What? I said Cate. Short for Catherine,” corrected Chanel.
“Oh, sorry. I misheard,” I said.
“Where you headed, sexy?” she asked turning back around and giving me her full attention.
“English.”
She pouted. “See you around.” And then she was gone down the adjacent hall without so much as a glance back.
I entered room 202, Senior English, and found a seat mid way up the aisle and off by the windows. Several other students filed in behind me and then the teacher appeared as the remainder of the seats filled up with students. I saw Mason and his girlfriend come in and sit in the last row, towards the back, giving me a friendly wave. The teacher went to close the door and someone stuck a torn, unlaced sneaker in to stop the motion.
“Nice of you to join us and nearly on time, Ms. Mullens,” said the teacher.
Catherine walked in and dropped her books on the closest, empty desk. A wave of whispers undulated through the class. I heard several people say “Cate” and I had to shake my head to clear my senses because, I could have sworn they said “cake” again. Maybe I had taken a hard hit in practice this morning. A pair of coffee black eyes locked to mine. Cate was looking directly at me, well not so much looking, more like glaring. I dropped my eyes and focused on the handout in front of me explaining the required reading list for the semester. She was stunning.
Mrs. Kuffs assigned us the first three chapters of our first novel and issued the syllabus for the semester, vowing to subtract ten points from our final averages, immediately, if we didn’t return the signature page at the end of the packet, that stated we read and understood the expectations of the class. I quickly scrawled my name across the line before I grabbed my books and darted out after Mason and the ever present girlfriend, who seemed attached to him at the hip. I jogged up to them in the hallway as people passed us in both directions.
“Mason?” I called.
He stopped and turned. “Yep?”
“Catherine? What’s the deal?”
“What do you mean?”
His girlfriend fidgeted behind him, looking everywhere, but at me.
“Why was everyone whispering about her in class?”
He shrugged. “Cake’s got her issues.”
“Did you just call her Cake?”
“Yeah man, everyone does.”
I glared at his girlfriend over his shoulder. She chewed on a nail and tried to hide her smile. I had been played.
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