Now, most schools have another person at the end of the tray track, who you pay unless you get free lunch. And when that person waves you through with a little phhhp sound, like the air escaping out of a hole in a balloon, everybody knows you get free lunch. But when I got to the end of the track, nobody was there.

“That’s our table.” Bertie pointed with her chin. And even though she stayed behind me the whole time, she steered me to the right place.

She reminded me of this cute dog my mom and I saw at the fair last summer. It held back and kind of nosed at the air, but it still got all these baby ducks over the little bridge and into the kiddie pool without ever touching them.

“Slide down to the end,” Bertie said, “on account of the fact that you’re the line leader. Then I’m next. Then Bodhi. Then Carlos. Then Charlene. Then David A. Then David C. Then Destiny. Then George. And so on and so on.”

This seemed like a good spot. There was only Bertie on one side of me and nobody else on the other side of me. Across the table were two girls sitting so close together, it looked like they shared the same hair. I didn’t think I had to worry about not talking to them. If you don’t talk to the other kids too much, pretty soon they’ll stop talking to you.

“Mia and Nia,” Bertie said. “They love it when we line up in alphabetical order by first name. They’re, like, best, best friends. I don’t really have a best, best friend. I’m just equal friends with everybody, you know what I mean? But tomorrow we’ll line up a different way, like favorite color in the spectrum or birthday.”

I looked around the cafeteria. I figured this school must have a rule about not getting up once you sit down. Some places, kids are always getting up—they want an extra packet of ketchup, or they forgot to get a milk. You never know if getting up is really allowed, or if the teachers just get tired of telling everybody to sit down.

“I’m always line leader when we line up by birthday,” Bertie said. “January second. Unless you’re January first. So when’s your birthday?”

Bertie stopped talking long enough to take a bite of spaghetti. She opened her milk while she chewed. She looked at me from behind her big glasses, and her eyes were so open, it felt like I couldn’t not tell her.

“August—” I said.

“Let me guess!” she said. “August fourth!”

“Uh, no,” I said.

Bertie squeezed one eye shut like she was thinking about it real hard as she peeled her clementine.