Lucky for me, I’m sitting alone at a corner table near the bins, so no one notices when I scrape it all into the bio waste. Chewing on a hunk of rye bread, I survey the cafeteria. My gaze searches for Natalie. Remnants of a habit, I guess, or maybe because I still want to thank her for saving me from the magical fist this morning. It’s what I should’ve said in the first place.
She’s always in the same place, at a table over by the window—the one we used to share back when we spent lunch obsessing over Sailor Moon or the latest dystopian novel, complaining about the gag-inducing food, and coming up with headlines for my articles.
These days she’s surrounded by a group I can never be a part of. Maybe it has less to do with my lack of magic and more to do with the other thing that makes me different from them. Sighing, I scan each of the faces wearing various quantities of eye shadow and lipstick. Natalie should be there, but she’s not. Her seat is empty.
Ekaterina meets my gaze and I look away, swallowing the sudden lump in my throat. Without Natalie there to look at, there’s no point being in the cafeteria. I mince my way toward freedom, eavesdropping as I pass the popular tables in case some golden nugget of gossip falls out of a careless mouth. I have got to come up with something juicy for the Myrsky Messenger. Sadly, the conversations are irritatingly dull.
“What are you wearing this year to Kekri?” The question rises from a table of tenth graders.
“Guess it’ll be a sari for me again. Maybe I’ll add some blood splatter or cobwebs to it this time.”
“Why does it have to be cultural dress? Why can’t we ever dress up properly for Halloween?” another kid gripes, then grimaces as he nibbles at a potato.
“Properly like what? A vampire?” a girl asks, and the others erupt in laughter as they cast snide glances at the table farthest from the windows.
Sorin Popescu and two girls with Strigoi blood sit talking softly. No one wants to share a lunch table with the vampires. No one wants to watch them eating raw meat or slurping on bloodshakes. Except, my brother is walking over. When did Toivo learn to swagger? Mildly curious, I keep watching. The girls get up to clear their trays, and Toivo slides in next to Sorin. Odd, but whatever. I wish I could hear what they’re saying, but their heads are tucked in conspiratorially close.
Maybe I could spin something about students wanting a Halloween free of Kekri tradition. Not that Mom would ever swap the traditional harvest festival for something “commercial and meaningless,” which is how she describes most of the non-magical holidays.