Page 6 of See You in Your Dreams

Gradually, the other students take the hint and leave me alone. All except one.

“So, how’s your first week going?” the perpetual thorn in my side asks, somehow singling me out the instant I slink into the cafeteria. Greta Mathers strikes me as the poster child of overachievers. While my other would-be welcomers quickly gave me up as a lost cause, she seems to have taken my standoffishness as a personal challenge.

I grunt noncommittally and try to brush past her toward the lunch line, but she falls into step beside me.

“Great,” she says cheerfully. “Glad you’re fitting in.”

I eye her askance, unable to tell whether she’s being serious.Fitting inhas never been a legitimate possibility for someone who can do what I do.

“Speaking of fitting in,” she continues, “there’s a few clubs I think you ought to consider. As the new kid here, it might help introduce you to everyone. What are you into?”

“Privacy,” I mutter.

“Oh, you care about privacy rights? Me, too! Maybe you’d enjoy the debate club. I could help you convince Mrs. Federo to make that a topic this semester. Or there’s always the programming club if you’d prefer to take a more direct approach to internet privacy.”

I whirl on her, trying to use my height to my advantage as I loom menacingly. “I prefer to be left alone.”

The effect is somewhat ruined when she refuses to retreat, smiling up at me instead. “Ah, a loner then? Well, if you’re not into programming, I’m sure I can think of some other clubs that might work. How do you feel about reading? I’m part of a book club you might enjoy.”

Abandoning my failed intimidation tactic, I grab a tray from the bin and edge forward in line toward the food stations. “Don’t you have anything better to do than follow me around?”

She shrugs. “Honestly? Not really. I try to keep my lunch period flexible so I can prioritize whatever needs my attention the most.”

Andof courseshe’s decided that what needs her overbearing attention most right now is me.

Greta keeps up a steady stream of chatter through the rest of the line. I do my best to tune her out, but she barely seems to notice my lack of response. She’s telling me all about the drama club and their upcoming list of performances when I finally exit the queue, depressing cafeteria slop in hand.

“So, where do you want to sit?” she asks, killing off my hope of escaping now that we’ve gotten our food. Apparently, she’s allotted her entire lunch hour to me.

I glance around the cafeteria, scanning the tables, but no help comes from there. Most of the tables are packed, and the few that aren’t have enough seats to accommodate both of us.

“Hmmm.” Greta purses her lips, performing her own scan of the cafeteria. “It’s pretty crowded. Want to go find somewhere outside to sit? I don’t know if anyone’s told you, but upperclassmen are free to eat lunch wherever they want so long as they remain on school grounds.”

And there it is—the opening I’ve been waiting for.

“Actually,” I say, “I’m supposed to meet someone for lunch.”

“Oh!” She perks up at that. “Look at you, already making new friends! Where are you meeting them? I can show you where to go if you—”

“That’s okay.” I make a beeline for the cafeteria doors, praying she doesn’t follow. “I know where it is.”

“Cool. Catch you later, Ash!”

“Right,” I mutter as the doors swing shut behind me. “Later.”

I wander aimlessly for a while before finding a quiet corner in a secluded hallway. I think it’s the science area, though I’m not sure—all these beige hallways look the same to me.

Settling down on the vaguely sticky floor, I pull out my sketchbook and a pencil. Drawing’s been one of the few constants in my life. I’d picked up the habit when I was young as a way to make sense of my experiences—to capture what I saw in my dreams.

Back then, my sketches had tended toward the fantastical. These days, however, I prefer to keep my work more grounded, focused right here in the real world where I’m determined to stay.

I don’t stop to think about what I’m going to draw, letting my fingers speak for me as they sketch the initial lines of their own accord. Gradually, the lines morph into the rounded curves of a face.

That boy from Monday—the scrawny one in the hand-me-down clothes too big for him. The one who’d been staring at me outside school.

My pencil strokes have captured the soft lines of his cheeks and plush lips. The messy mop of hair crowning his head.

I should stop. I’m not above a no-strings-attached hook-up now and then, but thirsting after anyone I have to see every day seems like a terrible idea. Just look at how things between Harvey and me had turned out.