Foreigner

Chapter 12

The cafeteria at lunchtime is chaos incarnate. Trays clatter, voices bounce off the walls, and the air reeks of overcooked meat and too much cologne. Under the flickering fluorescent lights, I sit with Tommy and Max at a table near the back, wolfing down whatever questionable meat is on my plate like my life depends on it.

And in a way, it does.

P.E. is next, and with me officially benched thanks to my broken nose, the rest of the class will be conveniently out at the stadium. It's the perfect moment for a clean, surgical break-in. By the time Julian realizes his beloved box of stick-on tattoos is missing, the evidence will be long gone.

I'm so focused on this genius plan—running it over and over like a mental heist montage—that I forget one small, crucial detail: humans cannot swallow and breathe at the same time.

It hits me like a truck. The chunk of mystery meat catches in my throat, and I launch into a violent coughing fit. My tray rattles, my lungs convulse, and, in one glorious moment, a chunk of saucy meat goes airborne.

Splat.

"Eww!" Tommy screeches like he's being murdered.

My eyes water as I finally hack up what's left of my pride. When I blink through the tears, Tommy is wiping his cheek with a napkin, horrified. Across from me, Max stares down at his shirt with the quiet rage of someone who just watched their favorite sweater die in battle.

"...Sorry," I croak sheepishly.

Tommy glares at me while dabbing delicately at his face, looking far too affronted for someone who's in a place like this. "Boy, can't you chew? What's the rush? You trying to break a world record?"

I shift uncomfortably and scratch the back of my head, avoiding Max's gaze. If looks could kill, his would've left me a heap of ashes on the floor. Tommy, at least, looks more intrigued than furious, though he's clearly lost his appetite, shoving his tray away with dramatic flair.

Max's scowl deepens. I swear his forehead veins are forming an SOS signal.

"I have a plan I need to execute," I mumble, stirring the remains of the mystery sauce with my fork to avoid eye contact.

"A plan?" Tommy's ears practically perk up like a labrador catching the word "treat." "Is this like that thing you pulled on Oliver?"

He arches an eyebrow, clearly reliving the chaos I apparently caused last time. Beside him, Max looks about ready to strangle me for ruining Tommy's lunch.

I nod vaguely, still swirling the sauce. I'm probably just painting circles on my plate at this point.

Tommy leans closer, his grin pure mischief. "Wait, wait. Is this about that guy? The one who smashed your face into the table last week?"

"And made you look like Kung Fu Panda?" Max deadpans, his tone so dry it could absorb the cafeteria's entire mystery meat supply.

Tommy elbows him, snickering, and Max—the stoic hunk of granite that he is—lets out the faintest chuckle. It's quick, but Tommy catches it and beams like he just won a gold medal for flirting.

Meanwhile, I stare at the two of them, unimpressed. "Yes. And I'll take that as a compliment," I say, giving Max a flat look. "Kung Fu Panda was badass."

Tommy, still riding the high of pulling a smile out of Max, snaps back to me with renewed interest. "So, what's the plan? C'mon, spill. Are you gonna prank him? Humiliate him? Something illegal?"

I shove one last bite of food into my mouth, chew, and stand, grabbing my tray. "You'll find out tomorrow."

Their confused faces are almost enough to make me laugh, but I'm already halfway out of the cafeteria before they can press for more details.