The Great Cool Ranch Dorito in the Sky: Chapters 21–25

I’m hiding behind the arts building, in the alcove provided by the rarely used emergency exit, my new favorite hangout during lunch period.

The din of students in the courtyard on the building’s west side still freaks me out.

Our school is massive—there’s like three thousand students—so you’d think I could find a clique that eschews the internet, maybe some Quakers.

She pulls a small Tupperware container from her handbag, opens it, and begins gingerly chewing on a floret of broccoli.

Her ruthlessness and cruelty are legend—she could be your classic eighties-movie bully, one dimensional and one-note, a Johnny Lawrence from The Karate Kid, for sure—but when she’s not insulting “troglodytes” like me, she’s vehemently protesting the use of plastic straws or posting about her work with Habitat for Humanity.

I want to believe her activism genuine, but I’m pretty sure her every move is calculated.

I marvel at how affected her diction is when she goes into politician mode.

My incredulity must show, because Robyn says, “How many times has Reed had to defend you? How many threats has he had to make to keep the wolves at bay?”

I begrudgingly obey.

Reed grabs another cup from the box of ranch dressings between us, which I scored as Scarface might: through bribery and extortion.

I want to say his mom has just made a mistake and that she’s sure to realize how miserable her life is without her family and she’ll be home before the end of the month, but this separation has been coming for some time, despite Reed’s steadfast denial.

Look at the silver lining: Now that your issues are out there in the world, there’s no need to hide from them.

It had nothing to do with hype or buzz.

The resemblance between Archer von Adonis and Reed is uncanny.

Now if you run your hand along the stark wall, you can still feel the ridges of the planets just under the surface.

I look like this kid from my eighth-grade drawing class, Danny Cavanaugh, just after he and Hal Garza got in a fistfight: face red and mottled.

I push the glasses up to sit above my forehead, wipe away a fleck of something half digested from my shirttail.

I stealthily slip down the hall and into the foyer, keeping my back to the wall to conceal myself from any prying eyes that might peer through the narrow window by the door.

Is this why she’s been doggedly after my attention ever since my food journal hit the internet?

I’m overcome with a visceral need to get her out of here.

“Printmaker, yeah. Mainly relief and intaglio. Screen printing is for athletic people.”

I don’t even know what intaglio is, but I like the sound of it—ancient, arcane.

My laugh is reflexive.

Mallory punches me in the arm, packing more of a wallop than I might have guessed.

I want to ask why these pictures are even here to begin with, but maybe the economy of a single question will yield answers to others.