Subheads

“I swear, Journalism should just be called the Lonely Girls’ Club instead,” sighed Darcy to my right as she longingly stared at pictures of winter formal dresses on her computer screen. “Even the models have dates! And they’re not even going to a real winter formal!”

She tipped her computer over to me so I could get a better view of what was causing her painstaking amounts of hormonal frustration. All I could muster was a sympathetic look. But girl’s got a backbone—that much I could give her. After all, she was the Editor-In-Chief—confident enough to admit that the opposite sex wasn’t close to being her forte, something I, on the other hand, was too ashamed to do. I snorted at the thought; hell, there was no need of any admitting! It was plastered on my forehead that boys were not my thing and I was not any of the boys’ thing either.

“With Emma in the class, I don’t think that would be very accurate,” Alex to my left interjected.

“Please.” Emma rolled her eyes. “I’m over the whole high school food chain.”

Her boyfriend graduated last year and was off to a Navy boot camp this year. She definitely did not have what it takes to be part of the Lonely Girls’ Club even if the requirements are to not meet the requirements.

The clock at the bottom right corner of my screen ticked 4 p.m. and in an hour, I could finally go home. It was Tuesday and this week was layout week where the section editors of Journalism—Darcy, Emma, Alex and I—get to spend their afterschool hours wrapping up the latest issue of Astrophe, our school paper. We had it once a month and this was our third time this school year.

Being the Arts and Entertainment Page section editor was my first time to participate in extracurricular school activities; I was quite fond of it, really. Having something to do on a school night that was not with my parents or my little brother, for godsake, was my definition—not my sad excuse—of having a life. The only downside to it was the reoccurring all-out combination of starvation and my penniless pockets. No money for food; no food for stomach. Like now.

I groaned just as my stomach rumbled with protest.

“Do any of you have food?” I asked, looking around to a synchronized shaking of heads. I groaned again.

“Why don’t you check the back room?” suggested Alex.

I walked around the single row of computers where we worked on over to the door leading to the tiny room that contained school supplies, basic kitchen appliances, and—if I was lucky—some good ass food. But before I could even test my luck, or the lack thereof, the door was locked.

“It’s locked!” I cried. “Need keys!”

“Petrov,” Darcy said in response. Mrs. Petrov was the Journalism advisor and was currently missing in action due to a teacher meeting. And unfortunately, she had the keys.

“Hey, Lane,” Emma called out to me, her lips overly pursing into a cheeky grin. “I got you another kind of food.”

I looked at her in delight.

“Guess who Lexi wrote her soccer article on?”

I was about to demand how a soccer article could possibly tame the inner workings of my stomach when I finally put two and two together. Emma was grinning at me with her taunting eyebrows dancing up and down. “Fimmie!” I blurted out in excitement.

“That’s right,” she concurred, nodding like a high hippie.

“Got a picture?”

“Mm-hm,” she crooned, rotating her computer over to me.