Ginger Ale

Chapter 3: Antonio

"If there's only one thing you can eat for the rest of your life, what would it be?"

I stop playing with the peas on my plate, and think about the question carefully. Why some people put peas in their carbonara is beyond me. The canteen at the Institute serves a lot of great dishes (the Salisbury steak is heavenly), but this isn't one of them. I was in the mood for good old-fashioned carbo-loading with some pasta, but the carbonara was the only thing they had today. It had to do.

I pick up one of the peas with my fork and hold it up to my eye, like it was a specimen we were inspecting in lab class. "Hmm...okay, what are the rules?"

"Well, it has to be just one dish, or at least the concept of a dish," Ramona answers me immediately, as if she knew I was going to ask for the technicalities. "So you can't say the buffet at Sambo Kojin."

I grimace at her jokingly. "I wasn't gonna say that."

"Uh huh...", she mumbles, drinking lemon water from her water bottle, the kind that has its own straw. "But you can switch to different varieties of the dish, if that makes it easier."

Aside from us two, only one other person is eating here in the canteen, a short girl in a floral blouse two tables away from us. The clock says it's 4:03 pm; it's not exactly the lunch rush hour anymore. A NewJeans song plays faintly from the speakers near the food counter.

"It has to be pizza, right? And not just because I love pizza. I mean, realistically speaking, I think you can survive even if you just eat pizza forever, without dying from, I don't know, nutrient deficiency or something. You've got carbs from the dough, fat from the cheese, protein from whatever meat toppings you prefer. And then for vegetables, you can just switch it up and get one of those green pizzas at Shakey's that nobody buys."

I pause just for a second to take a sip from Ramona's water bottle, then continue on. "Ooh, and if dessert pizzas count, like a chocolate chip or those Nutella ones, well, I mean... you're set for life."

There's a small smirk forming in Ramona's face. Her golden yellow headband pushes her hair back, black and shiny and falling just below her shoulders. She reminds me of the Sphinx, and I'm the desert-goer that has solved one of her riddles. We love asking each other these silly questions, just to see how the other person responds. In the one year that we've known each other doing these random Q-and-A's, she already knows so much about me. Maybe even more than I know myself.

"And even if you do die, death by pizza sounds like a great way to go," I say. "Live fast, die young, baby."

Ramona slams her hands on the table, and we both erupt in an uproarious laughter. "That is why we're friends," she says.

On my walk back to Sycamore, I was mentally psyching myself to be my most personable self. Be approachable and confident. Big smiles. It's always best to be on good terms with your roommate, this random person you'll be in closed quarters with for ten months. And who knows? Maybe I'll even make a new friend.

"Hi, Luna!" I approach the front desk and pull out the baby blue chair tucked underneath.

"Tony, hi! How's it been?"

"I'm fine, thanks. Just got here this morning. I stopped by to get those residency forms to fill out. Miss Dahlia told me I can get them from you?"

"Yeah, Miss D had to do a few things for the Socials this Friday. You will be coming, right?"
I chuckle. "I'll try. But no promises."

"We'll be expecting you," she says sing-songily.

"Hold on, just let me pull those forms for you. They're here somewhere."