A week has gone by and no one is talking about Gravy.

I enter the cafeteria and scan the tables. The thots are chilling at the fuckboy table where Gravy normally sits. Surely they'd be confused, concerned, asking themselves where the fuck Gravy is. But they're laughing. Becca is even sitting on Lenny's lap. Or is it Kenny?

I wonder if Gravy's parents even realize he's gone. I start to wonder how rich kids can do whatever they want, stay out as late as they want, and go wherever they want, but us kids from the townhouses and high rises aren't even allowed to go out passed dark. I guess money can buy you anything, even freedom from caring parents.

At the concession counter I buy a square slice of pizza and a can of cream soda from the old Indian man behind the register. I sit at the loner table with two other nobodies, none of us talking to each other. Pizza-grease fingerprints streak onto the cracked glass of my iPhone and I wipe it off with a brown napkin.

I tap on Gravy's page, and "Fuck Lebron!" is still his last post.

And Simon Jackson now has 859 friends.