Amara: Battlefield

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.

The End

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