Outer Layers
Outer Layers
The girls in front of me in the lunch line debate the
nutritional merits of a brownie versus an Oreo in terms of fat grams. On my tray I have both the brownie and the
Oreo along with a cheeseburger and fries.
“Shut up about fat grams,” I say. I almost get into things with Brownie and
Oreo. But then “Excuse me, ladies,”
intervenes.
He has the kind of skin that tans dark in the sun, his hair
is short, almost black, and though I try not to notice, he has these teen idol
brown eyes.
I look down at my tray and reconsider all of my food,
especially the cookies. If I could, I’d
find a way to disappear from the line and melt into the pea soup green
cafeteria walls, the posters from pizza and burger restaurants and the clubs at
school. Not one of those posters tells
me anything about how to talk to this boy.
But he talks to me first and I don’t hear anything Brownie and Oreo say
after that.
“You into Rush?”
I glance up from the desserts long enough to see that he is
smiling at me and not in the leering predatory way that some boys do. But he smiles like someone I would like to
know.
“They’re awesome,” I hear the music second hand, filtered
through the headphones that dangle from his neck. I think I hear the word, “Subdivisions.” I know the song.
I smile up at him. My
head nods in time with the beat.
He has a clean and casual way. His shirts look too pressed, too neat as if
his mom and dad send their laundry to the dry cleaners. He seems unusually confident too, but there’s
no meanness like some boys wear, as if they have this outer shell, a coating of
artificial toughness. This guy has none
of that. He seems perfect like he
belongs in one of those supermarket commercials you see around the holidays,
where all the relatives gather around a long dining table and there’s a ton of
presents and a turkey as big as a whale and everyone is bubbling over. He smiles carefree without it being annoying.
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