The scrape of a tray touching down, and Bree and Sage sit across from me at the flotsam table. I pinpointed it easily on my first day: sparsely populated, large gaps between occupants, obviously the place where people wash up when the social current doesn’t pull them in any direction. Sage brings the hot-lunch tray, but Bree has nothing, sitting sideways on the stool with one knee bouncing in the aisle, keeping a watch on the room at large. Kincaid-watching.

“Look at you, bringing your own.” Sage takes a bite of mystery meat potpie, points at my paper bag with her spork. “Bet you’ve got a little box of raisins in there.”

“Right next to my Power Rangers thermos.” A bang as Trace reaches the far end of our table, palming a girl’s pudding cup with a “Hi,” not bothering to make small talk; everybody knows this table takes the path of least resistance. “You guys have this lunch period?” I ask.

“Occasionally.” Bree looks at me. “Have you been sitting here alone every day?”

“Didn’t know I had a choice.” Why haven’t I seen you? is the real question, and I’m not surprised when Bree doesn’t acknowledge the subtext, instead going back to staking out the double doors. I didn’t notice which door they came in, from which part of the school. Dropped in via the gym class ropes, maybe.

Trace lands in the empty space beside me, the table vibrating with force. “S’up.”

“I’m curious. Do you know how disgusting you are?” Bree swings around to tuck both legs under the table, pulling a can of diet soda and half a plastic-wrapped BLT from the à la carte counter out of her fleece pockets. “Because I can break it down into small words for you.”

Trace gazes back. He looks marginally less crazy than he did in the streetlight glow last night, but apparently, he spent the morning drawing on the backs of his hands with a Sharpie. A smiley face with a scribble of hair and a soul patch stares at me from his knuckles. “Look who’s trying to ruin pudding day now. Little Miss Buzzkill. Is it my fault they hand that stuff out in shot glasses?”

“Pretty sure you’re not supposed to ingest it by the pound, either.”

Trace grins. “Hey, I’m a growing boy.” He reaches across the table, gathering Sage’s free hand into his. Fake out—his other hand goes for her pudding. Sage slaps it away faster than a cobra strike, making him suck air and shake out his fingers in pain.

“Do I have ‘dumbass’ tattooed on my forehead?” Sage bangs her pudding cup down on the edge of the table, away from him, flips her hair over her shoulder. “Please.”

He leans forward on his elbows. “Why are we over here? It’s lonely. This place is for sad people.”

Sage nods to me. “Clarabelle exiled herself.”