LUNCH; AND OTHER THINGS I CAN'T HAVE.

I used to love this school.

That was when we first moved to this town, of course. I was blinded by the sparkling canals that the civilians glided on in crescent gondolas, covered by the spring mist. Poppy says that the nymphs like to skinny dip in those canals when the Cheshire cat moon lays it's blanket over us. I loved the way the sun rose from behind the red-brick middle school, and Aunt Carol loved driving me there early to snap photos of it so she could show her friends.

I used to love it, yes. Before I started going there.

I met Poppy on my first day in the bathroom, and she gave me some of her plum-colored lip gloss because my fleshy, cracked lips were not good enough for her. Nothing is good enough for Poppy.  Even on the days where I wear my best dungarees--the pink and yellow ones that she likes-- and make sure that my brown braids are perfectly up to her standards, she always rambles about a single hair on my arm pointing in the wrong direction, or a spot where purple ink seeped into my socks and never scrubbed off. I always want to tell her that she needs to stop acting like some sort of moderator in charge of making everyone feel bad about themselves, and that she should go cry to her rich dad about how much my hair sucks and my shoes are beaten-up. But I never say it.

Today, me and Poppy sit on the ledge of the fountain in front of the school at lunch time, as we always do. Poppy brought in pasta with shrimp, and red grapes on the side. I brought in a grease-dripping burger from the dirty café that Mama works at, and floppy French fries that taste like wearing shoes that give you blisters. They're messily thrown together in an oil-stained brown paper bag.

Poppy talks about those boys that are always in vampire movies, and how her dad never lets her put up any posters of them in her room. I want to tell her that I'm on her dad's side for once, because why would you hang up a photo of a 90's "dream-boy" in your room to watch you sleep? I don't tell her this. I think it, though.

As I fumble with the staple at the top of the paper bag, I see Bug and Rich out of the corner of my eye. I can't stress this enough, and I don't think you heard me right: Bug and Rich. I rapidly blink, I hope they're just a hallucination, but they're real. And they’re coming my way. 

I tug the sleeve of Poppy's pastel pink polo shirt in alarm: I tug it three times speedily, three times a bit slower, and three times speedily again. I pray she knows Morse code, but I know it's unrealistic. She just slaps my hand away.

 Even when my gaze is glued to the ground, I can see Bug and Rich's figures taunting me, towering over me like shadow people.

"Poppy!" I whisper. She ignores and nibbles on her penne like she's got all the time in the world. I want to scream at her and tell her to stop acting like being friends with me is something to be ashamed of, but I know everyone else will have it all on tape. They'll scurry themselves to that damned mansion and knock on the spruce door (three times speedily,  three times a bit slower, and three times speedily again) and they'll complain to her dad. They'll tell him a lowly girl with bruised knees and uneven braids called Nastya raised her voice when talking to your daughter, and he'll storm over here with his puffed chest and sharp stubble and take me out with a .38 caliber pistol. I don't know why I'm friends with Poppy. 

I can still see the two boys: the lanky body of Rich, with his freckled face and tall legs, and the roly-poly plumpness of Bug. Rich has long fingers, good for sketching out uncensored anatomy (he gets weird when you talk about it) and snatching all my lunch from between my eager hands. Bug is stronger, though, and he could strangle me with one arm until I pop like a blueberry if I don't give them what they wanted. Poppy would watch. She doesn’t like getting her hands dirty. 

I rip the green bento box out of her hands, and I don’t care about her stuffy dad this time. When she looks up, annoyed, I nod in the direction of the thundering boys and she knows what I mean, but she isn’t of any help. It’s not like she ever is. I don’t know why I ask her for help, she only grabs her lunchbox back.  

“Them again?” she says with her lovely voice. She goes on and on about how I’m such a baby and I’m so weak that I can’t stand up for myself. Or maybe she was talking about how her mom is having a baby in a week. I don’t know, I wasn’t listening (but I’m putting my money on the first option) because I was too busy thinking of ways to disappear from the face of Earth in the next three seconds that it would take Bug and Rich to arrive here.

One: I could recite a magical chant in ancient Latin that will either A: make me invisible or B: kill Bug and Rich. Although when I take into consideration the time I’ll use up memorizing and searching for a secret necromantic chant that will do my bidding, I realize that this isn’t possible. 

Two: I could steal Poppy’s pointy fuchsia shoes (they aren’t allowed, but principal Humbert lets her wear them because he’s got double standards) and smash them into the ground until they make a tunnel. Then I could crawl to China and live there until I was sure these two ratbags were dead meat. Then, and only then could I come back to this town. 

Three: I could flee. Right now. I could throw my burger and fries into the dry fountain and spring up from my uncomfortable seat. I could run as fast as I did when I was on the track team, scale the school gate and run to the gas station on the outskirts of town where the nice man who always says I can take food home for free works. I can tell him how much Papa sucks, and how Mama deserves better and I can tell him about Poppy’s lush luxuries and I can tell him about Aunt Carol and maybe ask him if he wants to come to one of her tarot readings or cleansings. And then, when I manage to tell him all that--if I manage to tell him all that--I’ll tell him about Bug and Rich and their obnoxious snotty-noses and long fingers and repetitive sexist jokes, and he’ll give me six packets of Coca-Cola gummies instead of five and pat me on the head and tell me that he’ll have it all done by tomorrow. I’ll go to school the next day and Bug and Rich won’t be there, Poppy will be wearing hand-me-downs instead of beautiful apparel that Marie Antoinette would have died for, and Aunt Carol and the nice man will be burning white sage and talking about the seven chakras at the side of the school. 

But it’s too late. I’ve spent my time thinking of what to do next and now Bug and Rich are standing in front of me, eager. 

“Hey, kid,” says Bug. I gulp. I gulp again. My throat is dry. I want to tell him to shut up and never call me a kid again, because I could beat him up until his teeth were broken and his eyes were purple and I could enjoy myself doing it. I want to tell him that someone needs to humble him and that he needs to start bringing his own lunch to school, and also, why doesn’t he pick on people his size? I don’t see him talking smack about Ike Makowski. You know why? Because Ike Makowski is tall and strong, and he’s not a puny girl with free lunch who’s knees knock together at the sight of anyone basically. I only think this. I don’t say anything. 

“What’d your ma give you today?” 

He knows what she gave me today because it’s the same thing she gets me every day: the soggy burger and the spongy fries. I wonder why they love my lunch, and if they actually eat it or they just dump it in some alleyway where hairless cats with bite marks on their ears can feast alfresco. They don’t like Poppy’s shrimp and pasta--or maybe they do, but they’re scared of her. Not her, because Poppy from the outside is as threatening as a white kitten with a pink bow on its head. They’re scared of her dad, they’re scared of principal Humbert, and they’re scared of everyone else who would bow down to Poppy in a heartbeat. They’re not scared of me because the only person who might protect me is the nice man at the gas station. I wish I could kick Bug on the jaw and, as he writhes on the ground and wails, I’ll tell him how he needs to get that foot out of his mouth and stop underestimating everyone because they aren’t 5’9”. 

Rich pulls the bag out of my hands with his slithery snake fingers. 

“We’re talkin’ to you!” he says. 

I know. I’m not deaf. I can hear you, but I’m trying to pretend you aren’t there while I dig my fingers into my skin and hope that this is a dream.  

Rich’s piercing emerald eyes peer into the bag as if he was expecting a gourmet dine. His eyes are like the eyes of a nighthawk, and I can feel them burning holes into the brown paper. 

“Ah. This again? This is what you had for lunch last time,”

“And every time before that,” added Bug.

I want to tell them, why do you care? Why do you care about my nutrition? You’re just going to steal my food no matter what, why does it matter if I’m not getting balanced meals? 

I look to my left, but Poppy is gone. Of course she is. What did I expect? 

I scrunch my eyes shut, but I can still hear the two monstrous boys rummaging through my paper bag as if something extra would appear. Just as I felt like I was mentally transcending away from my earthly form (aunt Carol would be proud) I heard one of them say something. Not something ordinary. They didn’t say that they were retiring from being obnoxious tyrants and that they were sorry about everything, or that they were going to buy me twenty-eight oily burgers and French fry bags  to apologize about the past weeks. 

What Bug said was “Check her backpack.”.

I wince and try to lunge for my backpack, but Rich’s skinny arm blocks my way. He already has it, his finger looped around the strap at the top as he sways the blue  patch-covered bag in my face jeeringly. 

Everyday since the fateful day when I met Bug and Rich (the sun has not risen on this school ever since), I’ve hidden two red velvet cupcakes in my backpack to have for lunch in the bathrooms just before the bell rings. It's the only way I can get food. They’re not one of those fancy cupcakes, though -- not the kind Poppy would bring in. They’re tiny, dry, in a plastic wrapper, and I get a dozen from the gas station every weekend (the nice man gives me a discount). But to me? They’re perfect. I love the vanilla filling and frosting on them that always leaves marks around my mouth. I love every crumb of them, no matter how ‘bad for my system’ they are. The first ingredient in them is sugar, after all. I think they’re good because I’m always hungry when I eat them.

And as soon as Bug and Rich unzip the bag, they see them. They see the two cupcakes, in all their sickly sweet glory. A smirk is plastered across their faces-- and I want to slap it off. I want to beg for them to leave the cupcakes alone and eat the sloppy burger and fries, though they don’t even deserve those. 

But as they go to pull the cupcakes out of the bag, something miraculous happens: I don’t think. I don’t think for once, and I’m glad I didn’t. Cold air fills my lungs and my throat is not dry anymore, so I clench my fists and rip the bag away from Rich’s sneaky grip, and I say one word. For the first time since I met these two, I say one word. 

“Stop.” 

Bug said something like “she speaks?”, but I don’t care. They give me the brown paper bag and walk away. 

Poppy never talks to me anymore because she says ladies ignore, but they never abhor. That’s OK. I’m fine with not being a lady, because at least I can wear whatever I want now, and I can have my lunch, and I don’t have to worry about wealthy dads with possible mafia connections, or runny-nosed barbaric boys who crave red velvet cupcakes. Aunt Carol gave me a free tarot reading and I got The Fool, which she says means I should take more chances and have faith in the universe. And you know what? I agree. Because as soon as I spoke, as soon as my teeth brushed together and sound finally emerged from the depths of my throat (and it wasn’t a whisper), my troubles seem to have left me alone. The nice man at the gas station gave me six packs of Coca-Cola gummies as well as sour lemonade and a packet of chips that taste like coleslaw even though they’re supposed to be devilled-egg flavor. Principal Humbert was fired and arrested over charges of child exploitation and Ike Makowski got into a fight with Bug and Rich--rumor around the playground according to the girls that whisper gossip on the swing set, is that he beat them up with one hand and gave them both nosebleeds. After school (and this isn’t a rumor) he gave me a blue raspberry popsicle, and I ate it on the porch steps while drowning out the sounds of Mama and Papa arguing and watching the marmalade sunset. 

So Poppy, Bug, Rich, I want you to know one thing: I can finally tell you to shut up now.