High School Lunchroom: the Overview.

Here I stand just beside the corner entrance to the lunchroom, or the cafeteria, if you prefer. My left hand is curled around the handle of my plastic lunchbox: it used to have the Power Rangers on it, but I painted it black last night. (I was on the phone with Mark, and we started singing the Rolling Stones' Paint It Black. I was inspired to follow their recommendation.)

It's my first day of high school, I'm a freshman, and I only know Mark… just adorable Marky Cohen. I couldn't help but sigh as my eyes scanned the noise-filled jungle set out before my feet. There were cliques galore, each gathering around their own table.

The popular girls, wearing their hair big and crimped, hung all over the jocks at their table, which was located at the center of the lunchroom. It went along with the logic of the storybook football player and cheerleader couples being the center of attention. I knew I could never fit that mold, because I hated the way pom-poms sounded when they hit the air; it just irritated me to no end.

Then, the musicians and the thespians and the painters, sculptors… Ah, Bohemians in the making, I'd say. The theater kids, mostly the crew and tech members, were always dressed casually in black or overall dark colors. Sometimes they had bizarre pangs of color in their wardrobe, but mostly blacks and navies. But the actors and actresses were far more colorful than those who held up their theater and kept it going behind the scenes: thespians were great, but a lot of the older students had mountain-sized egos and needed to cool off a bit. The art kids were cool; they drank their coffee black, or so I've heard. The singers and the musicians and the poets were creative, too: they didn't have particular trademarks, since they were proving to be a little more original but less outgoing about expressing it. I'd never fit in there: I'm too much of a bitchy diva.

I never really understood the concept of being gothic. I mean, wearing all black all the time, and the heavy dark makeup… it just makes me think of death. I shuddered, but looked away from them.

My attention was turned towards the outsider table, where few people sat. It was the table you sat at if you didn't fit into a mold or a clique. But I still couldn't find Mark; I promised I'd sit with him today.

Next to the outcast table was the nerd table. I could tell because two of the suspender-wearers were caught in a game of chess, which they'd probably confess was "the most riveting game of their lives". Running my free hand through my hair, I just kept looking for Mark.

Finally, I found him. He was sitting at the small round table near the total opposite corner from where I was standing. Figures, only Mark would want to sit in the damn corner. I gave a smile and walked over to join him. Sitting down beside him, I elbowed him in the side when he stuck his tongue out at me.

"Wanna trade sandwiches?"

"Only if you have peanut butter, banana, and Nutella on white," I smirked back, opening my painted lunchbox. The inside was still fire truck red, which made him giggle. "Why are you laughing?"

"I thought you were kidding when you said you painted your lunchbox, Maureen."

"I wouldn't joke about something like that." We swapped sandwiches: I gave him turkey and cheese with honey mustard on toasted wheat bread. He had a thing for wheat bread, which always confused me. "You know, I almost couldn't find you in this… jungle. Middle school was so tame compared to this,"

"I know what you mean. But, at least we're here together."

"Yep," He shyly kissed my cheek and I took a bite of my traded sandwich, cheekily grinning to him.