His tongue trails from the side of my chin to the corner of my mouth. I'm frozen on spot, barely breathing. When he pulls away, his eyes are the same shimmering silver I had seen the other night. My breathing spikes, and his eyes dart to my mouth. B...
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— 2 —
By the time we make it, the cafeteria is completely filled. The size of four classrooms combined, it's not nearly big enough to house all three-hundred sophomores and seniors, so there are plenty of people crowded around each other. Each table, meant for ten students, has at least twenty, some sharing seats, others on their knees. The lunch line is backed all the way to the hallway (we passed a lot of people in line on the way here), and the cooks are scrambling about, trying to get each student food as quickly as possible.
On the left, placed conveniently next to the long windowed-wall, is a row of circular tables. Right in the middle is a single table with only a notebook on top: our table, the only place bare of the chaos.
"Looks like Leon's already here," TJ says.
"Awesome." Nikki beams. "I've been missing my eye candy."
I smirk. "Nicole? With Leon?"
"Don't judge me," she says. "Have you seen that boy's abs? They're practically edible."
TJ nods. "Yes. Yes they are."
I laugh, shaking my head.
As we walk towards the table, people stop what they're doing and glance in our direction, shoving each other out of the way so they can give us room to pass.
"It's like how Jesus parted the waters," TJ says.
"Only I have a nice ass," Nikki retorts, scraping the chair against the tiles before she sits down.
"How do you know?" TJ challenges.
"Have you seen my ass? It's practically God. And, if I remember correctly, God is a rank above Jesus," she says.
"Actually, Jesus is God depending on what type of Christian you are," he informs us.
"What?" we say at the same time.
"You know what, never mind. I don't want to know." Nikki waves it off.
"Hey, assholes." Whitney announces her presence by dropping her virtually empty tray on the table, a couple fries tumbling to the floor as she sits next to Nikki.
Whitney's like the rest of us: eccentric. With long, white and blue hair, she's probably the craziest of all of us. Pushing twenty-two and stuck in her senior year for the second time, she knows all of the quirks about the school and the best places to skip. She's not stupid, by any means, but she is lazy, almost never taking the time to do homework and rarely showing up. Like most of us, she hates her name, preferring to go by "Whit" or "Whitler," a gag name we came up with when she dressed up as Hitler on Halloween a few years ago.
"You seem in a wonderful mood today," I note, stealing a fry.
"Yeah, well, that's 'cuz Dr. Fuck-Trumpet decided that I deserved detention for something that wasn't even my fault," she grumbles.
