Lunchtime in high school can be compared to a territorial warzone, in which boundaries are established based on who's willing to sit with who. Luckily, I had brought my lunch that first day, so I was able to go straight to a seat. I found a few vacant seats and situated myself in the middle of them.
Of course, no warzone would be complete without a battle. As soon as I took a bite of my lettuce, tomato, and chicken gyro, globs of what the school called "food" began to fly.
In junior high, I had learned that the best place to shield yourself in a sudden food fight is underneath the table. From this vantage point, I saw a boy I had caught staring at me earlier. He was half-heartedly participating in the mess, throwing an occasional handful of mashed potatoes or cauliflower. When he did throw something, though, it went pretty far and fast. I focused my senses in his direction, my hair pointing forward. Hmm, a german.
Army-style, I slithered my way over to the table he had chosen. Tucking my legs under the table, I tugged on the leg of his ripped jeans. "So, you're a german?" I half-yelled over the chaos of the lunchroom.
He ducked down a bit closer to me and whispered, "How did you know that?"
I flexed my hair in demonstration. "I'm a gorgon. I can pick up on that sort of thing."
"Well, don't go around telling everyone. You're new here, right?"
"Yeah, I'm a freshman." Stupid! Why did I tell him that? I just knew that all of his opinions of me would be colored by my grade level. Not that I was trying to flirt or anything...
"A freshman?" Here it comes.