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In...
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"Marina, come back to earth," Christy said.
"Hmm?"
"You're doing it again, staring into space."
I straightened up and pushed away my lunch tray, the untouched macaroni and cheese having congealed into a yellow science experiment gone awry. "Sorry. I'm listening, go on."
"You sure?"
"Totally."
Christy glanced around the cafeteria at the hordes of teenagers stuffing their faces. We were sitting together at the edge of the stage rather than at the tables, a privilege reserved solely for seniors who were "academically excelling and consistently not absent," as Miss Farghasian was fond of reminding us. Three months into the school year, those of us who qualified had dwindled from roughly forty to just seventeen.
"Okay, let's just do this," Christy continued. "Which of the following is the correct formula for the ratio of cosecant? Opp over hyp, hyp over opp, hyp over adj... Macy Taper is pregnant, by the way."
"Hmm?" I brought my attention back to Christy from where it had landed: a spot on the stage that used to contain the words "Down down down to DW," but now sported a brand-new floorboard, its shiny goldenrod color not quite matching that of its neighbors. "Oh, hyp over opp."
Christy slammed the book shut.
"What?"
"You're not listening."
"I am. It's hyp over opp. Wait, did you say something else?"
Christy just laughed, plopping the book back in her bag and shoving another bite of spinach salad into her mouth from a perfectly proportioned bento box, lovingly prepared with a real cloth napkin. "Never mind, it was a joke."
"Oh." I felt embarrassed by Christy's tone. She was right, I never seemed to be able to pay attention to anything for more than a few minutes anymore. I figured a change of subject was in order.
"What's today's note?" I asked.
Christy hummed a sort of "I don't know" tone and dug into the flowered lunch bag for the note her mother included every day. She straightened her neck and assumed a deep, rhythmic voice which I'm sure was meant to emulate her mother's. "If you don't like something, change it. If you can't change it, change your attitude. Maya Angelou."
"I like that one," I said, always getting a vicarious surge of affection by reading Mrs. Thompson's motivational notes and imagining, if only briefly, that they were intended for me.
