Even though I can feel people looking at me, eating lunch at a table is way better than hiding backstage, and with Piper chatting about BS therapy and all the people and teachers I should avoid at Crossroads, the lunch period is almost over before I know it.

As Piper talks, a boy walks toward us. It isn’t until he gives me a thumbs-up that I recognize him as the kid with no boundaries and zero ability to pick up on my serious “leave me alone” vibes yesterday.

Suddenly hyperaware of my body, I rearrange my arms twice, finally leaning against Piper’s wheelchair handle, trying to act casual. My face heats up, and for once I’m grateful my scarred face doesn’t blush anymore.

“The girl with the space-age hand!” he yells to me above the din of the cafeteria. “We didn’t scare you off, then?”

He squats between Piper and me. I tug my bandana closer across my absent ear, which I am suddenly supremely aware of as well.

“Almost,” I say.

“She speaks!” he says.

Piper looks at us, her eyebrows cocked upward as she chews.

“You know each other?”

“We have earth science together,” he says. “But we haven’t been formally introduced.”

Piper digs in her sack lunch, doing the honors without looking at us.

“Asad, Ava. Ava, Asad.”

The boy grips my hand so tight that I wince. He stands and, with a flourish of his wrist, bows. In the middle of the cafeteria. His black hair flops in front of him as he smiles at me, dimples raging.

“Asad Ebrahim, at your service.”

Piper rolls her eyes.

“Ignore him. He thinks the world’s a stage.”

“And we mere players,” Asad says, beaming.

I try to swallow my own smile, but I know I’m failing at that about as hard as I am at looking casual. I recheck that my bandana is covering my earhole.

“Shakespeare in the lunchroom?” I say. “Bold.”

Piper guffaws.

“Right? He’s like a very old, very cheesy man trapped in a barely pubescent body. It’s the worst of both worlds, really.”

“I will not apologize for my knowledge of the classics.” Asad smirks down at Piper. “Excuse me if I think there are more interesting things than The Real Housewives of Atlanta.”

“I do not watch that,” Piper says, throwing her balled-up paper bag at Asad. “I watch The Real Housewives of New Jersey. Besides, I’ve seen some Bollywood, so your taste is definitely suspect.”

Asad throws the bag right back at her.

“If you’re going to be racist, at least be accurately racist. My family is from Pakistan, not India.”

“Same diff,” Piper says.

“Actually, not. But I will forgive your ignorance, as there has not yet been a Real Housewives of Lahore.” Asad bows at the waist toward Piper. “I accept your humble apology.”

Piper shakes her head.

“Drama kids.”