I Don't Really Know...

Chapter 25: A Wanted-List

That’ll do, I say in my head as I wrap the sleeves of my sweatshirt tighter around my waist.  She won’t be able to see it now.  With the dirt and dust of the cavern now hidden under the layer of clothing, I walk back down the trail and to my house, anxious to go in because of the bitter wind now starting to form.  

 

Hearing Ms. Lasdon snoring away in her room and my brother shuffling around in his little place of privacy, I take off the sweatshirt and change into my pajamas when I enter my room.  Another day, done.  I’m pretty much just counting down now.  

 

I bury my face in my pillow.  I hope Mila doesn’t realize it’s me who wrote on the little note that I had slipped in her locker.  The last thing I want to happen is to lose another friend.  I’ve already lost 2...well, 3, if you count my old school.  I don’t want to lose another one just because I happened to intrude into their private thoughts.  I didn’t mean to, I didn’t mean to.  I just hope she knows that.  

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“I just don’t get it.”  Mila places her palms on the table and leans forward toward me.  I tense, moving backward in my chair.  

 

“WHY do they have to make this food if it’s gonna be this terrible?!”  My shoulders fall down with a deep sigh and a nod of agreement.  Yes, keep the conversation on food.  Don’t change the subject.

 

“I know, right.  They could at least put a little effort instead of serving stale pizza.” I take a fork I had been using for my pasta salad and poke my share of the Domino’s slice.  I don’t know what made me sicker….the cold bread, the hardened sauce, or the cheese that was probably made from molded milk.  All of it combined was just too much, and I walked away quickly with my tray to dump it into the waste bin.  Just as I dump it into the garbage, I remember the pizza Steffanie’s mom had made-completely homemade, sizzling cheese, bread with golden crumbs, still steaming hot from the oven…

 

Maybe I could get my friend’s mom to be the chef here.  That would be perfect.  

 

Returning to the table, Mila gives me a strange expression.  “What?”

 

“Why did you stand there for such a long time?” She asks, not being able to form the words because she’s giggling so hard.  

“Oh...how long was I standing there?”  Thinking about a homemade heaven, I add in my mind.  She giggles louder, even causing others to look at our table in confusion.

 

“For about a long five minutes.  You basically went up, were about to throw your pizza out, stood there frozen, and then threw it out and walked back to our table.” She had to basically shove her fist in her mouth to keep from going in hysterics.  I roll my eyes at her, smiling.  

 

“It’s a long story.  Not really worth explaining.” I shrug and pick at my pasta salad.  I never understood why it was called a ‘pasta salad.’  Pasta is supposed to taste great.  This, combined with a salad, basically is a much of greens and tube-shaped dough that was fused with a mysterious sauce.  I guess it could sound beautiful to some people.  Not to me, though.  I grimace as I see Mila placing a small bite on her tongue and swallowing.