“Having cheerleaders at fencing competitions is ridiculous anyway, you should quit and then you can eat whatever you want,” I scoff.

“Did you see how cute the new cheer uniforms are? There’s no way I’m giving up the chance to wear one of those. And I’m a flyer, it’s practically a one-way ticket to Elite status.”

The uniforms are tiny fitted forest-green crop tops, with the school logo emblazoned across the front in gold, and an equally tiny green skirt with gold trim. I’m sure she’s going to look fantastic in it, but there’s no way I’d starve myself all year just to be able to wear it once a week to hop around cheering when one pretentious asshole stabs another pretentious asshole with a blunt sword.

Our food arrives and it looks as good as it smells. My mom is a quarter Italian. I’m not sure which quarter, because none of the relatives I know of on her side will admit to being a part of the Italian contingent. But her imagined heritage has given her a love for all things Italian cooking. Unfortunately, or fortunately, depending on how you look at it, this means that my house is always full of freshly made pasta for salads, sauces and lasagna. Cutting into the steaming square of tomatoey, creamy, cheesy goodness, I bring the forkful to my mouth and eat, it's delicious and I hum in approval as I chew.

“God, I hate you so much right now,” Court says, glaring at me then down to the green leafy salad in front of her. “You sound like you’re on the verge of a foodgasm.”

“That’s because I am,” I say, my mouth full of my second bite of yumminess.

“How are you so skinny? You should be the size of a truck.”

“Just lucky, I guess,” I tell her, although the truth is, I work too much, sleep too little and most of the time I forget to eat. The only time I had off this summer was the three weeks when I went to visit with my dad. He owns and runs a fishing boat in Maine so instead of relaxing, I spent my time with him helping out on the boat. It’s hard work and long hours, but it’s the only time I get to see him and I don’t mind a little hard work. For once, hauling nets and lobster out of the sea has paid off. I have a layer of muscle that only comes from exercise and a diet that mainly consisted of things caught on a line from the sea.

The hair on the back of my neck prickles and the horrible sensation of being watched hits me. It’s irrational, I’m in a roomful of people, no one is looking at me specifically, more than likely it’s just kids scanning the surroundings, but I can’t help feeling watched.

Surreptitiously, I take a moment and glance around the room, but it’s packed and if someone is looking at me, they’re not being obvious about it.