I could kick myself. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m just babbling.” I glance at my phone to check the time. Fifteen more minutes before this period ends. Fifteen long minutes. What am I going to do until then?

“Do you . . . do you want to sit?” Sam gestures behind her.

“Oh! Um, sure. Thanks.” I’m pretty sure I’m going to be lousy company right now, but I don’t know how to say no without risking hurting her feelings.

I follow her around the shelf. Her messenger bag and unopened sack lunch sit near the wall at the end of the row. Outside, the sun has broken through the clouds, illuminating the bright-red leaves of the maple tree on the school’s front lawn.

As we settle in, my phone dings with a message. It’s Hunter. Where are you? I got you tater tots — the line was long. And Cammie is doing gross things to them that she says you’d approve of. Ranch dressing mixed with hot sauce. He sends a horrified-looking emoji.

There’s no way I’m going back to the caf in the shape I’m in, but his message reminds me that Sam hasn’t touched her lunch. “I’m sorry — I interrupted your lunch,” I say.

“No, that’s okay,” Sam says quickly. She looks at her lunch bag, then back at me, then back to her lunch bag. Four paper clips are holding the folded top in place.

“Please, go ahead,” I say. “Don’t mind me.”

She pulls the paper clips off her lunch bag and fiddles with them, linking them together in a chain before setting them aside. She heaves a loud sigh, then opens the sack. “Um,” she says. It’s like she’s talking to the bag, because she sure isn’t looking at me. “Do you want to share my lunch? I’m happy to share it with you, but it’s . . . weird.”

My stomach growls with embarrassing volume at the thought of food, answering on my behalf. “Weird how? Is it, like, a liverwurst and jelly sandwich?”

“No. It’s just . . .” She sighs again and opens the bag. A lingering dash of periwinkle paint colors the very edge of her thumbnail. She removes four items in Ziploc bags and then flattens the paper bag, laying the food out on top.

There are four squares of sandwich with the crust cut off. A stack of some kind of orange-dusted Pringles. Some baby carrots cut into skinny little sticks, as if they’re not small enough to begin with. And a snack-size bag of what look to be M&M’s, but they’re all orange.

“That’s not so weird,” I say. “Standard lunch: sandwich, chips, vegetable, and dessert.”

“Kind of,” she says, opening the sandwich bag. She offers me a square. “It’s American cheese. Is that okay?”

I accept it, nodding. “Are you sure you’ll have enough?”