Page 53 of People Like Us

“Why wouldn’t you go?” Emily leaned in from my left, her blonde hair brushing my arm.

I shrugged, popping another tart grape into my mouth. “No one’s asked me.”

An exasperated sigh came from my other side followed by the sound of a plastic bottle being set down too hard. Andy muttered, “I didn’t know I had to ask my own girlfriend to the dance.”

“You asked me last year—with roses and everything,” I reminded him, voice lilting. I’d meant for it to be a gentle tease, but his jaw ticked, and I instantly knew he wasn’t in the mood to be playful.

He shifted, a familiar stiffness in the way he moved like he had a fresh injury though he hadn’t taken any rough hits at Friday’s game. “Yeah, but that was when we first started dating.”

Paul, a couple seats down, leaned toward Jack and murmured just loud enough for me to hear, “He means before she put out.” Jack grimaced in response.

“I’d like to be asked,” I said, ignoring them.

Andy inhaled deeply through his nose, and chewed on the inside of his cheek. I was pushing him, and I knew I shouldn’t. I could tell he was in pain but it seemed like my usually romantic and playful boyfriend was irritated by something much more than his prick of a father.

“Fine. Lola, would you—” His words died as a forearm laced with prominent veins reached between us, setting a grease stained brown paper bag in front of me.

I looked up to find August’s green eyes searching mine. “You left your lunch in the lab this morning,” he said, voice low with an almost teasing tone that sent a dangerous thrill through me.

August and I rarely texted each other—an unspoken rule between us. He mostly hated anything that had to do with cellphones—texting, social media, taking selfies. So, other than the few seconds we shared in the morning as he handed me a coffee before the bell rang, we hadn’t talked since our encounter in his bathroom. An image I couldn’t seem to get out of my head—the way his mouth hung open as he came.

The corner of August’s mouth ticked upward with a knowing smirk, as if he could see exactly what I was picturing.

I pushed the thought away immediately.

Tracing the bag’s rough edge, I forced my tone to remain even. “Thanks,” I managed, mirroring his curt nod before he melted back into the crowd.

Andy leaned forward. “I don’t like the way that kid looks at you.”

“He doesn’t look at me in any way,” I said, pulling a white styrofoam tray from the bag and popping it open. Inside, golden-brown french fries nestled beside crisp fried pickles, a small cup of ranch perched at the edge. The tang of dill and garlic hit me, and I had to bite the inside of my cheek to hold back the smile.

Andy took a swig of his beige protein shake. “Honey, I think I know how guys look at girls better than you do.”

Emily snorted. “Are you scared a misfit is going to steal your girl, Andy?”

He scoffed, but his jaw clenched. “No.”

“Then shut up—you sound insecure.” Emily shot back. Andy’s teammates let out low whistles from the other end of the table.

With a huff, Andy pushed back his chair and grabbed his gym bag from the floor. “I’m going to work out. Enjoy your lunch,” he muttered as he stalked off.

I watched his large form slip between two groups of loitering students, his movements cat-like. Andy could sometimes move like a dancer—when he was on the football field, or when he was desperate to go unnoticed. Which made the fact that he was constantly bumping into me feel like a small child begging for attention.

For a brief moment I considered chasing after him, but my empty stomach protested. I hadn’t eaten anything but grapes since breakfast before service yesterday.

Turning back to the table, I reached back into the paper bag and found a cold can of Cheerwine, droplets beading on its surface. Taped with condensation was a yellow receipt, edges damp, handwritten letters scrawled neatly in the top corner: IWYH.

Lindsey tapped her nails on the table, drawing my attention back to her. “So…shopping?”

I bit into a ranch-drenched pickle, the juices burning the roof of my mouth as I spoke, “Yeah, sure.”

Fourth period in the library always felt haunted. Not in the Hollywood-cue-rattling-chains way, but in a quiet, though definitely not alone kind of way—like a shadow that lived in the seams between dusty shelves and settled into every lonely heartbeat that ever sat there.

It made me feel alive to move through it all.

The air tasted of mildew trapped in stiff hardback spines. Dust simmered under flickering fluorescents. Weak waves of burnt coffee drifted down the hall from the teacher’s lounge, mingling with the chemical sting of printer toner. Outside, rain-laden clouds pressed low against the tall windows, turning the world beyond into a churn of dirty dishwater gray.

Mrs. Morgan perched behind the circulation desk, humming along to a crackling gospel station on her tiny radio. She flicked overdue slips apart with a lick of her thumb, each sticky click magnified in the hush.