You can’t exactly call the cafeteria here a cafeteria in the usual sense of the word. It’s—how can I say this—it’s a mansion, for crying out loud. Well, the building it’s in used to be a mansion. It belonged to Henry Townsend, the millionaire who owned all the land that the school is on. It stands on a little rise, imposing itself on the land around it, the way those millionaires loved to build. When the light is right, it almost seems to glow. I was initially a bit stunned to contemplate that this was where I’d be eating every day, but I was beginning to get used to the idea. I pulled open one of the leaded glass doors and walked in.

When you eat in a cafeteria each day, lunch hour is always a replay of that moment that is so crystallized in high school: Where should I sit? Where are the cool kids? It’s peculiar to have it again as an adult, but there you are. I stood, irresolute, looking around, when I spotted Helen Johnston. There’s someone like Helen at every high school in America—or there should be. Someone who’s seen it all and been fazed by none of it. I didn’t know her well, but I sensed it right away. You can always tell those types. They have a perpetual air of faint amusement. They always have the best gossip and often make the best friends. When I left my school in Cleveland, I fancied myself the teacher who was like that. Now I was starting over, and I needed someone to show me the ropes. I walked up to Helen’s table and asked if I could join her. She looked up with a quick smile that had a gentle air of appraisal about it and waved her hand to indicate I should sit. While she was probably only about eight to ten years older than me, I felt quite adolescent as I sat down next to her. “Welcome, welcome. Come have a seat and enjoy this fabulous repast. Meat loaf today. My favorite.” It was difficult to tell if she was serious about the food or not. “How’d your morning go? Jana? Is that right?”

“Almost. It’s pronounced JAY-na. And yes, the morning was good. I’ve got a good group for freshman English, I think. I read them ‘A Good Man Is Hard to Find,’ and they really responded.”

“You read to them?”

I suddenly felt sheepish in the face of her direct gaze. “Yes. I’ve done it before. It often works quite well.”

Helen turned to a serious attack on her meat loaf. “Think you’re going to like it here?” she said after a few moments’ silence.

“Yes. Yes, I do.”