two

           “And then she was all like, ‘Well, Lisa, you obviously know what you’re talking about, so how about you teach the class!’ So I did.”

           “You taught your history class?” I scoff, my eyes roaming over the watering hole of adolescents required to be here until the age of sixteen when they can legally drop out. I would never stop attending the public institution where teens come to obtain knowledge, but I know of some who had. Education is a pretty epic thing, so it just seems stupid to me for one to reject it.

           “Heck, yeah, I did!” Alisa laughs, paying for her lunch quickly before she joins me. “Like, I live in America, and I’m not an idiot. So I BSed a lesson on, like, the Revolutionary War or whatever.”

           “And what are you supposed to be learning about?” I sigh.

           “The Revolutionary War! Duh. I talked about the dudes with the tea and that taxing thing,” she says as we begin to walk. It’s Alisa’s turn to survey the cafeteria, in an attempt to spot where exactly our other friends have chosen to sit today.

           “You mean the Boston Tea Party?” My eyes zero in on a table, and I begin to walk towards it. Alisa joins me.

           “Yeah, that,” she shrugs. “But seriously, how could it have been a party? They were drinking freaking tea!”

           I know she’s just kidding, but there’s a small part of me that’s filled with doubt. Alisa’s a pretty eccentric type of girl. Most of the time anything that comes out of her mouth is a complete joke, but occasionally pure stupidity slips in there. “Very valid point,” I smile.

           “So, I forgot to ask you, how’d it go with that basketball hottie?” Alisa pries with a suggestive wink.

           “Fine,” I reply, soreness suddenly spurting through my legs as a reminder.

           Yesterday, I had my second practice session (I guess you could call it that, right?) with Ezra. Instead of shooting or dribbling or doing anything that even involved making contact with a basketball, we ran. Again. But instead of nicely paced running like the first time we had met, this time it was solely sprinting. He told me that if I could beat him on any of the drills, then we would be done for the afternoon. Obviously, I hadn’t outrun him, as unfortunate as it was. So I sprinted, and he sprinted, and then my entire body felt like jelly afterwards, and I’m not entirely sure how I even managed to walk to the student parking lot. It was a pretty intense, and now I’m feeling the repercussions of it—those being the difficulty that I now find in doing something as trivial as taking a freaking step. It hurts. My whole body hurts. But it’ll be worth it.

           “Did he take off his shirt?” she questions, abruptly stopping before we can reach where our other friends are seated.

           “Ew, no! And stop being such a perv!” I cringe.

           “Well, stop being such a prude!” she fires back with that maniacal laugh of hers that probably scares anyone within a five-mile radius of us. I crack a small smile at my friend’s absurdity, and silently wonder why we’re not joining our dear friends who have yet to banish us for being, well, us.

           “Lisa, uh, why aren’t we going over to there?” I ask hesitantly, pointing over to a waving girl who for some reason chooses to associate herself with us. Personally, I would probably run as far away as possible after meeting someone like me, but hey, this is America, and it’s a free country. If people want to befriend girls as crazy as Alisa and Sal Berkley, then they can. Revolutionists in the 1700s did not throw tea off of a British boat to be oppressed by another nation, let alone anyone (they actually did it because of the whole taxation without representation thing, but whatever). America. Home of the brave, land of the free, place of the fast food and ability to be friends with anyone. No matter how weird.

           Alisa doesn’t answer me, but instead grabs my arm and begins to pull me over to another section of the cafeteria. I twist my head and stare longingly at my friends, but that doesn’t stop my being hauled by one determined nutcase. She keeps dragging me past all the nice and happy people, until we finally halt towards the outskirts of the room. As per high school social hierarchy, we tend to sit near the edges of the middle, because while we may be strange, I’m still Sal Berkley at the end of the day, which holds a substantial amount of weight around here. Now, though, we’re standing by the very brim, at a table filled with introverts and, like, legit “weird” kids.

           I’m not sure why we’re here, and judging by Alisa’s mischievous smirk, there’s nothing I can do to coerce her into telling me. So I just sigh, and accept that we’re going to be eating lunch with a bunch of losers who we never talk to. But then Alisa decides to walk over to the very end of the table with me in tow, and I realize why we’re here. All the outsiders at the table don’t matter—except for one.

           He’s eating a sandwich with his earphones turned up, and his eyes are closed. If one were to just catch a glimpse of his exterior, they would probably place him closer to all the people who have somehow conned their ways into high school popularity. He’s an attractive guy—I’m not one to deny it—and he doesn’t really seem to belong over here in the annex of the cafeteria with all the other social rejects. But then again, he doesn’t really seem to belong anywhere.

           The boy is an enigma of contradictions, and often seems to be immersed in his own world, rather than that inhabited by others. He appears to not fear what others think of him, though remains quiet, regardless. Basketball is his sport, but he doesn’t play for a team. He isn’t definable by a single stereotype, no matter how much he may border a few of them. Once upon a time, he was Jason Berkley’s friend. Now, though, he barely communicates with anyone. He’s an interesting boy, and something about him intrigues me.

           “Ezra!” Alisa cries loudly, causing quite a few unwanted heads to snap in our direction. The individual to whom she was calling, however, just looks up slowly from his sandwich, studying my friend and me for a moment, before nodding casually in our direction. Alisa takes that as a sign of encouragement, so then brings me all the way over to where he’s sitting. The people near him scoot out of the way, making room for us. Alisa plops down next to the boy, and I hesitantly settle down across from them both. My friend wears an exuberant expression with wild eyes, while Ezra just stares at me impassively, continuing on with his lunch. Reluctantly, he plucks the buds from his ears.

           “Sal Berkley,” he greets, trying hard to wipe all emotion from his tone, “and Sal’s friend.”

           “Alisa,” Alisa corrects sharply.

           Ezra doesn’t initially say anything, but rather just nods his head in acceptance without an ounce of rebuttal. Then, his mouth opens, and his head quirks to the side along with his eyebrows. “Why are you two here?” he asks exactly what I’m thinking myself. Not that I don’t not like Ezra, but, well, I already spent a good portion of my previous afternoon with the guy. He has witnessed me sweat and gasp for air, and I’m pretty sure that we’ve exhausted our bonding time for the week. We do Tuesday afternoons in the gym. Not Wednesday lunches in the cafeteria.

           “Yeah, Lisa, why are we here?” I shoot my friend a pointed look, blaming her for all the plausible awkwardness that I fear will shortly ensue.

           “To hang with Ezra, obviously!” she exclaims with an enthusiastic clap of her hands. She sends me a “duh” glance, and then just rolls her eyes.

           I sigh, and open my lunch that I somehow managed to pack in the dregs of morning. With grogginess overtaking my body, I for some reason elected to take two slices of cold pizza wrapped in tinfoil and a baggy of blueberries. It’s not the worst lunch, but I’ve definitely eaten better. Alisa decided to buy food today, so is in the process of noshing on a bowl of soup (how she hasn’t spilled it yet is beyond me). Judging by her chattiness level right now, though, I’m willing to bet that not all of that poor soup of hers will get the pleasure of seeing the inside of her stomach.

           “So, Ezra,” Alisa begins, holding up her unused spoon, “how’s life?”

           Because he isn’t facing her, he can’t give her a blank stare jam-packed with insouciance, so reserves that for me. I smirk a bit at how much he doesn’t want us here, and then join in with Alisa, though not out of pure curiosity, but more a mocking of her prying: “Yeah, Ezra, how’s life?”

           He bites the edge of his bottom lip, and then sucks in a breath. I can’t help but laugh. “Fine, thanks,” he finally replies, returning back to his sandwich.

           “Uh huh,” Alisa mutters. “That’s chill. So, Ezra—actually, do you have any nicknames? Ezra is kind of a mouthful, ya’know?”

           “What are you talking about, Lisa?” I snort, placing a blueberry into my mouth.

           “Ez-er-ahh,” she over-enunciates his name. “That’s definitely a good, like, three syllables!”

           I shake my head fervently, taking a bite of my pizza. “Hate to break it to you, babe, but it’s more like two syllables—if that.”

           My friend ignores me, and then reiterates her question once again to the disinterested boy: “So, do you have any nicknames?”

           “No,” he says slowly, “my name’s Ezra.”

           “Ezra…” she muses, putting on that contemplative face of hers that always has me worried whenever it graces the world with its impish presence. “E-Dawg. Ezzy. Zee. E. Ezzers. Ezzy Ra. Eazy. Ez… I don’t know, and maybe, like, Ezz…Ezzhead! Yes! Ezzhead. I like it. What’s your preference, home skillet?”

           Ezra thinks long and not so hard about the verdict he is about to make, and just states, “My name is Ezra,” ultimately rejecting all of Alisa’s creativity she has just verbally spewed.

           “Oh, c’mon, man!” she whines. “Ezzhead is gold! Gold, I tell you!”

           “Your friend is kind of weird,” Ezra tells me in the utmost seriousness.

           I smile, and just shake my head, saying, “You don’t even know the half of it, Ezzhead.”

           His eyes widen at what I choose to call him, and Alisa pumps her fist in the air triumphantly. “I knew it was gold!” she cackles. “Oh, and don’t look too glum, Ezzhead. You’re not the only one with an epic nickname of that caliber!”

           “He’s not?” I ask as Ezra asks, “I’m not?”

           “Nope,” Alisa smirks widely, “Sal has one too! Wanna hear it?”

           “No!” I ardently exclaim as Ezra ardently exclaims, “Yes!”

           Knowing that she has captured both of our attentions, Alisa then opts for stretching out the moment as long as she can. “Well, with Sal’s name, there aren’t too many options. I mean, like, what can you actually do with three letters?” The question is rhetorical, so neither of us answers. “There’s the ever classic Sally, but that’s pretty boring, isn’t it?” Ezra mutely nods his head in agreement, and I just stuff myself with pizza in an attempt to avoid the inevitable embarrassment that will soon come. “We’ve got S-Dawg, Sallers, S, Al, Salad, Salamander, Salard, Saltard, Sa-Sa, Sal-Pal, Salmon, Sal The Gal, and my personal favorite, Salmonella.”

           “Salmonella?” Ezra repeats. Alisa nods her head with a large grin of malevolence stretching across her face.

           “Platinum, isn’t it?” she laughs proudly.

           “Sounds more like bronze to me,” I mutter.

           Ezra is smiling and it looks as though he’s about to act as an active contributor to the conversation, but then someone else steps in and cuts him off. It isn’t Alisa. It isn’t me. And it isn’t one of the homebodies with whom we’re currently sharing a lunch table. “Sal. Hey,” a new voice says as smoothly as they can. I glance behind me, and a perplexed smile finds its way to my lips as I stare at a boy who belongs in this section of the cafeteria even less than Alisa and I put together.

           “Uh, Kyle,” I return, “hi.”

           He amiably beams at Alisa, she blushes, and then he sits himself down next to me so that our shoulders are brushing. Ezra eyes Kyle warily, and Kyle doesn’t even choose to acknowledge Ezra, even though he’s made the effort to venture all the way over to Ezra’s territory. I insert more pizza into my mouth, and relish the taste of the crust as I ponder why exactly Kyle is here. It’s strange enough that Alisa and I have invaded this area today, but Kyle joining is a wholly other peculiarity in and of itself.  

           “We’ve met before, haven’t we?” Kyle addresses Alisa.

           “Yep,” chirps Alisa, ravenously examining Kyle’s exposed skin. If it weren’t for social parameters, then the girl probably would’ve jumped him right here and now. She sticks out a hand, and they shake as she says, “I’m Alisa, but you can call me any time.”

           “I like her,” Kyle says to me with a loopy grin, then introducing himself: “Oh, and I’m Kyle. But you probably already knew that.”

           “You got that right, buddy,” Alisa laughs. “So, Kyle, what brings you over to Ezra’s neck of the woods?”

           Kyle’s jaw clenches at the mention of our dear Ezzhead, but Alisa doesn’t notice or chooses to not notice. I notice, though. And so does Ezra. Neither one of us mention it, though. “Umm…Sal’s blueberries,” Kyle sputters out. I twist my head to the side, wondering if I’ve heard him correctly. Alisa does a mini spit take of her soup. And Ezra just keeps at his sandwich like the pokerfaced trooper that he is.

           “My blueberries?” I can’t help but snort.

           “Her blueberries?” my friend also joins in on the snorting.

           “Uh, yeah,” Kyle scratches the back of his neck nervously, “Jason, umm, said that they were really good, and, uh, yeah…”

           “Sal’s blueberries?” Ezra mutters, his reaction a bit delayed in comparison to Alisa and mine.

           “Do you, uh, want some of my blueberries?” I question, holding up the bag of half-eaten dots of mush. Honestly, they aren’t that great as blueberries go. I have had some pretty stellar blueberries over my sixteen and half years of existence, and these don’t quite fall into that particular category. They’re okay at best, really.

           Kyle runs a hand through his hair, and then sighs loudly, shaking his head. “No, Sal, I don’t want any of your blueberries,” he says in an almost contrite tone.

           “Oh,” I mumble, placing the flimsy plastic container back onto the table, “then, uh, what to you want?”

           “To talk to you,” he blurts out in a single breath. “Well, for starters, at least.”

           “That’s so cute!” gushes Alisa. Her eyes are glued to the two of us like we’re visiting life forms from another planet, and she’s a scientist trying to absorb everything she can about us before we return to our home planet. All the while, she attempts to casually sip at her soup, though spills it one too many times.

           “So, you don’t want my blueberries?”

           “No,” he clarifies.

           “Okay. Got it. Cool.”

           “What are you two going to talk about?” Alisa probes eagerly.

           “How about the weather?” Ezra suggests dryly.

           Not sensing his sarcasm, Alisa runs with it, considering the comment to be one of the most brilliant things to ever emerge from the mouth of a teenager: “Yes! The weather! You two could talk about rain, or snow, or sleet, or hurricanes, or tornadoes, or volcanoes, or it doesn’t even have to precipitation at all! You could talk about the sun or the moon or the heat or the stars or…or…just, like, the weather!”

           I’m tempted to correct a few of her mistakes regarding what classifies as being weather and what most certainly does not, but I refrain from doing so, because Alisa is in a good mood, and I don’t want to take that away from her.

           “It’s, uh, pretty windy out,” offers Kyle.

           At that, Ezra’s head collapses into his hands, and before his face is concealed, I swear that I see a light smile etch its way across. I smile, too.

           “Yeah, it is,” I agree, for it was, indeed, pretty windy out.

           “Screw it,” Kyle shakes his head, standing up from the bench that’s attached to the table, “Sal, I didn’t actually come over here to talk to you. Sorry.”

           “Oh.”

           “And I didn’t come over because of your blueberries, either.”

           “Uh huh.”

           “I came over to ask if you wanted to go out with me,” he says, and I can’t help but gape, because this is Kyle and he’s attractive and popular and nice and him. “So, Sal Berkley, do you want to go on a date with me?”

           Because I’m an idiot with terrible initial reactions, the first thing I can manage is, “Does Jason know you’re asking me?”

           Kyle laughs anxiously, and then assures me that, “Yeah, Jay knows.”

           “And he’s cool with it?” I prompt. I’m not thinking about Jason now for his benefit, but rather for Kyle’s. As much as I love my big bro, he can be a total overprotective dickweed when he wants to be. A few years back, one his friends had a crush on me, and asked Jay if he would be chill with if he (the kid) asked me out. Jay flipped, and crushed his friend. I don’t know who it was because Jason only told me the basic gist of the story, but I do know that ever since, Jay’s friends have specifically stayed away from me. Until now. With Kyle.

           “Yeah, he’s cool with it,” Kyle tells me. “So, yes or no?”

           “Uh, yes, I guess,” I find myself saying, not really thinking too clearly about the decision at hand. It’s Kyle. A simple date couldn’t possibly hurt anyone. Unless of course Jason isn’t actually aware about Kyle’s asking me, in which case Kyle could very probably get hurt. And not just emotionally.

           “Cool,” he grins, looking down at me. “I’ll text you.”

           “Uh, sounds good,” I say in a daze of semi-confusion.

           Kyle sends me one last wink for good measure, and then saunters off, happy as a freaking clam. I on the other hand, have a bit of trouble processing what has just transpired. So I turn to Alisa, hoping that she can aid in my comprehension.

           “Sal…OMG! YOU JUST GOT ASKED TO GO ON A DATE WITH KYLE AND YOU’RE GOING ON A DATE WITH KYLE, AND SHOULD I START PLANNING THE BACHELORETTE PARTY NOW OR SHOULD I WAIT UNTIL THE SECOND DATE?” she practically shrieks in a high-pitched voice.

           “Put a hold on the male strippers and plastic tiaras,” I advise, watching as Ezra stands from the table and gathers up his belongings.

           “See ya later, Salmonella,” Ezra says.

           “Bye, Ezzhead,” I say.

           And Ezra walks away from his table on the outskirts of the cafeteria, and I just listen as Alisa continues to rant on and on about my future date with Kyle.