“Hey.” I grabbed a handful of mini muffins, slapped some cream cheese onto my plate, and went in search of a chair as far away as possible.

Eating was the perfect activity. It gave me something to do, and it made me feel good.

On the couch opposite me, Skinny Jeans was twirling a quarter between his fingers. I tried to focus on the mountain of food on the plate in my lap, but something kept pulling my eyes to his face.

“Problem?” he said.

“Uh, me?”

“Yeah, you.” And that’s when I realized what it was. His eyebrow. The left one. Half of it was missing. “Do you, like, need something? Because you’re creeping me out.”

“No, no. Sorry.” I forced my eyes to my half-eaten bagel.

I couldn’t look at anyone. I wasn’t supposed to talk to anyone. Fine. I’d eat.

Before I knew it, I’d cleaned the entire plate. I’d basically inhaled it, and the second it was gone, I missed the activity: put food in mouth, chew, swallow, repeat. And in between, there was that little burst of happy from my taste buds.

So I went for seconds.

And thirds.

Four mini waffles, two bagels, an egg sandwich, half a mango, and one cheese Danish later, Randy was back, clapping her hands. “Okay, people. Now, rules, rules, rules.” She handed each of us a piece of a paper. “When the show is over, or is over for you, you must return these to me. You may not copy these rules or share them with anyone else. If these rules end up in the public or on the internet, you will be immediately cut from the show and the show’s lawyers will come after your family for everything they own. Got it? Just kidding about the lawyers. Totally serious about kicking you off though.”

Just then, something came to life in the pit of my stomach, something angry and loud, a creature made of all the food I’d just packed into me. I leaned back to give it space to stretch out but all that did was allow it to reach up into my chest and squeeze my heart.

Randy returned to the center of the room and made another violent check on her clipboard. “Now, we will go through the rules.” She sounded like those safety videos on airplanes. “Rule Number One: no touching Chef JJ. Not once, not ever.”

Got it. No touching Chef JJ. Check. Check. Double-check.

Somebody laughed.

“Don’t laugh.” Randy clicked her pen in and out. “The rules are not funny.”

The younger boy burst out laughing, then slapped his hands over his mouth.

“I’m… It’s just, why would we touch her?” It was Keya, that girl who sounded like Hermione.

Randy glared. “I’m saying, don’t shake her hand or high-five her. Chef JJ doesn’t do that. Got it?”

“Got it,” Keya said, but you could tell she still thought it was funny.

Just then, I felt a cramp like the monster was standing on a major organ, and I stretched out even farther, so far now that my butt was barely on the seat.