Donutheart Read Free Page A

While Bernie is willing to take whatever seat is available, I prefer to look around a little first. In fact, I am often forced to reach out and grab Bernie’s collar before he puts us in danger.
    “Not there!”
    “What? Why?”
    “Bernie.” I gestured in the direction he was heading. “Look at the aisles. Nothing but giant legs. This is where the football players sit.”
    “The football players? Where?”
    Honestly, if Bernie were a rabbit, he’d cross open fields under a full moon. While it was true that they didn’t have on the jerseys they wore on game days, it was hard to mistake a football player.
    “Right over there. Next to the food-dispensing line, with its easy access to seconds. Oh, for heaven’s sake, Bernie, look at them. They’ve been drinking hormone-laden milk since infancy. They could bench-press you.”
    “Okay, okay.” Bernie turned in another direction and headed for a table in the corner.
    I rushed to cut him off. “No, sorry. Not there, either.”
    Even he couldn’t fail to see the reason this area was off-limits. The girls wore dark makeup under their eyes; the boys had chains dangling from their pockets, and hair that stood up in jagged rows. The entire table was wearing black.
    Bernie sighed. “Why don’t you pick, Franklin?”
    “I’d be happy to.” There was just one other location, aside from the football players and the future juvenile delinquents, that I wished to avoid. And that was the table that included boys who had not survived Coach Dilemming’s summer basic-skills camp and, therefore, did not make it onto the football team. While I’ve no doubt they spent hours of their free time playing “first-person shooter” video games, these boys had no outlet for their anger during school hours.
    Among them was Marvin Howerton, a student with whom I had a long history of entanglement, dating back to kindergarten. There was something about sensitive, asymmetrical guys like me that incited Marvin Howerton to violence.
    I located Marvin’s table and then, using a quick geometric calculation, found a table in a low-traffic area that was farthest from the three points I most hoped to avoid. Keeping my elbows tucked close to my body, my lunch box in front of me, and a close eye on Bernie, I reached the table safely. Sliding into my seat, I stowed my backpack securely beneath it and breathed a sigh of relief.
    “Hey, Bern. Hey, Franklin.” Sarah Kervick slapped her tray down across from me.
    Sarah was the second of my lunchroom partners. Despite the incident in homeroom earlier and her lack of etiquette in general; despite Bernie’s lack of focus and his tendency to speak with his mouth full, Sarah and Bernie were my people. And I was grateful for them.
    “Hello, everyone,” I said cheerily, and lifted the lid on my insulated lunch box.
    Without a word of explanation, I set a wrapped sandwich in the middle of the table before fanning the lid of my cooler back and forth to redirect the scent of Sarah Kervick—a mixture of stale secondhand cigarette smoke and tuna-noodle casserole. Bernie, too, set out a bag of chips, a deli pickle, and a corn dog between us. Our mothers had begun competing to make sure Sarah remained full until the end of the day. Most of these items would be scooped into her backpack for later consumption. Sarah had a fondness for school hot lunch that I could not fathom.
    “Don’t forget,” I said to Sarah, “my mother wants you to remind your dad that she’s taking you to get your skating costume this week.”
    Sarah flipped her hair back over her shoulders. She was wearing a white blouse, a V-neck sweater, and a pair of green corduroy pants, all purchased by my mother at the beginning of the school year. I could just see her trying to formulate an excuse.
    “My mother said to tell you, and I quote: ‘We’re really pushing it. We have to go this week unless Sarah wants to make her first public skating appearance in the nude.’”
    Even though it