Dares, Stares And Underwear

Meat Chunks And Handsome Hunks

I was almost certain he was staring at me. It was his cold, intense glare, hard and focused yet smooth and sleek, bouncing back and forth across the room like a ping pong ball. From here his eyes appear to be steely, but I can't help but ponder what they'd look like up close: silver, frosty at the centre but rimmed with slate around the edges, showing hints of blue, melting me utterly and completely. I forget where I am. I am no longer in a crowded dining hall, but in a world where we, this boy (if you could even call him that) and I, know each other, share feelings for each other, and where I could converse and share my thoughts with people without turning into a socially impaired wreck.
I laugh at my thoughts. It comes out unintentionally, and when it does it brittle, coarse and unstable. Instantly I regret this action forced upon me. Automatically eyes begin to linger on me and I panic that he has seen me and is now out to ridicule me. Little, timid, plain me, standing alone in a corner, friendless and vulnerable. I am an injured zebra without its pack, prey to so many vicious, wild, ravenous creatures. I guess I am like a zebra. There is nothing out of ordinary about me. I am mediocre and weedy. If I was taller I could be considered willowy, but I am not. I am short and thin, as flat-chested as an eight year old boy. My hair is thin and limp. It is blonde, but dishwater blonde; no one wants dishwater blonde hair. I push my spectacles up to the ridge if my nose and sniff miserably. I am growing weary of being an observer of life. And I am very, very hungry.
Anxiously, I edge towards the pasta bar. Internally debating, I join the line after letting about five rowdy sixth formers barge in front if me. They push and shove each other, jolting the rail and eventually crashing into the salad station. However, they are not removed from the line for their behaviour. The dinner lady smiles weakly as if it's a regular occurrence (which it probably is), scoops up the soiled salad, tips it into a black bin bag, replaces the old salad with fresh, greener salad and acts as if nothing has happened. It's almost unbelievable. Almost.
Two people to go. One gets a meagre portion of pasta, barely a quarter of the tub, without any topping and an apple and moves on. I can't help but notice that she doesn't pay, although no one seems to notice and if they do, they don't show signs of minding. One person to go. The boy in front of me is not a boy but a man. He is built like a ox and intimidating. He gets two bowls of pasta, one with meat chunks and one with tomato purée. Then he gets three biscuits: two flapjacks, one shortbread. He attempts pays for his meal, but doesn't have enough money on the machine which results in him abandoning half of it.
There is no one in front of me now. I just stand in a daze until I am poked sharply in the back and physically propelled forward. If that bruises, I swear I'll ... Do nothing. Is there anything I could do? I doubt it. Before I know it, the dinner lady is tapping my forehead with quite great force.
"Is anyone in there?" she asks. I know it is a rhetorical question but I feel an sudden urge to answer.
"Yes! Ow!" I practically yell. This is the loudest noise I have made in a long while and I don't like it. I don't like branching out, trying new things and meeting new people. I prefer to stay on the safe side and stick with what I know and, to me at least, the safe side is on the quiet side.
"What do you want, pet?" The wrinkled woman inquires. However, her voice is too soft and the background murmurs and the vast room drone her out.
"Pardon?"
"I said what do you want?"
"I can't hear you!"
"I said - Never mind ..." She seizesa small container and fills it to the brim with pasta. She proceeds to smear it in an icky sauce and raw-looking meat.
"Here," she grunts,
"But I'm a vegetarian," I mumble, not wanting to speak up for myself.
This is going to be a long, long day.