Page 22 of If We Say Goodbye

“I have my new group therapy at three,” she says.

She’s tried to talk me into going to her therapy group countless times. “Oh yeah, I forgot about that.”

“I could take you with me,” she says, excitement filling her voice.

I rub my forehead. “No, no. That’s okay. I’ll figure something out.”

“Are you sure? They’d love to meet you.”

I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.

A new idea pops into my head. It might be a little bit of a lie right now, but soon it won’t be. “I have to stay at school later anyway because I have to be a math tutor to make up my volunteer hours. Are you sure you couldn’t pick me up after your group?”

She hums on the other line as she thinks. “I guess I could. The school isn’t too far from it.”

“Thank you,” I say. The tension in my chest releases, and I can breathe again. “I’ll see you then.”

I leave the bathroom and head down to the cafeteria.

The noise coming from it sends a shiver down my spine, making me want to run in the opposite direction. It’s packed with kids that have formed two lines between the rows of tables. One line is for pizza, and the other is for sloppy joes.

I scan the room, filled with a sea of high schoolers who all seem to have somewhere to be and someone to talk to. Except for me. I don’t belong here. I’m a lone wolf, and it makes me want to run away. I like to be alone, but not lonely. There’s a difference. When someone is alone in a situation like this, everyone else notices. They pity them and wonder why no one wants to be around them.

I join the pizza line and take out my phone to make it seem like I have something to do while I wait. The line moves inches up, taking its sweet time.

When I finally get to the front, the lunch lady takes the last slice of cheesy goodness and sets it on the tray for the girl ahead of me. All that’s left are empty silver cooking sheets.

“Sorry, we’re out of pizza,” the lunch lady says.

Despite trying to hold it in, I cringe when the soggy bread hits my tray instead. Then, she plops a scoop of green beans on the side, and not the good kind. These are the ones that have lived in their canned packaging too long and dissolve the second they touch your tongue—definitely not what I look for in a green bean.

I follow the line around the corner.

On my way to pay for my lunch, I grab a bag of chips, which becomes the only appetizing thing on my tray. The only way to eat the rest will be with a blindfold and a plugged nose.

I scan the cafeteria for a place to sit, but nothing stands out. There isn’t a single person I can sit next to without feeling awkward or unwanted.

At the very back, there’s an empty table. If my memory serves me right, it isn’t a claimed table. Kids rarely sit there, and if they do, it’s usually other loners like me.

I set down my tray on the far end, and sit on the hard bench. I rest my elbows on the table and stare at the disgusting pile of sloshy ground beef. Between that and my worry of people watching me, my appetite is nearly gone.

A lunch box clatters against the table as it’s set down directly across from me.

Sadie slides onto the bench and smiles wide as her hair bounces around her face.

My chest tightens, unsure what to do. Do I tell her to leave? If I did, would it make a scene?

She goes cross eyed for a second as she focuses on a strand of hair that landed on her nose. Moving it out of the way, she says, “You’ll never guess what I made for lunch today.”

Sadie loves to cook. I’d say she’s a magician when it comes to food because she can turn any combination of ingredients into a masterpiece. She’s been dreaming of culinary school for years, and she received a local full ride scholarship right before the beginning of the school year. At the time, we were both so excited, but also heartbroken that we’d be on opposite coasts if I got accepted into college in New York. Now, the proposed distance is a relief.

I shrug.

She flips the top off her lunch box and holds it out proudly. I’m not exactly sure what it is since it’s inside three smaller containers. She takes them out and begins to assemble her meal. The first container has rice formed into a perfect circle. Then she adds a layer of chard chicken breast, then some colorful vegetables. Her final touch is a sauce and some sprouts on top.

She shakes her head and sighs as she eyes it. “It’s never as good when I reheat it.”

She’s got to be kidding. Compared to the sloppy joe in front of me, that looks like a Michelin five star dish.