It's my lunch period, and I'm yet again seeking refuge in the library. I've barricaded myself away from the world at a table in the farthest corner, and I'm currently drawing one of my comics while trying to ignore the growling in my stomach. In the five days that I've been here, I haven't had a single normal meal. I didn't come to the new-student orientation, so I didn't get the tour of the grounds, and thus, I have no idea where the cafeteria is. So far I've been surviving on toaster pastries, potato chips, and "artificially-flavored cherry cola drinks" from the vending machines. A.K.A., complete shit. My diet doesn't appear to be agreeing with me. But there isn't much I can do about it right now, seeing as I'd look like an ass if I asked for a map from the front office and everyone hates me, so I can't ask for directions.
My pathetic train of thought is interrupted by a burst of noise from the front of the library. I look up over the wall I've made with my backpack and some books, and see Jack Kelly and a small portion of his entourage strolling through like they freaking own the place. Great. This is just what I need, more of Pompous McFucktard and his merry band of idiots. I slump down in my chair, hoping they haven't seen me.
No such luck today. Jack comes straight back to me, grinning like the arrogant ass that he is. "Hey, you," he says, all cheerful and nice. Like Jack Kelly can be friendly. "Fellas, this is my silent, bespectacled roommate." I sit up, my face burning, and nod curtly to the group of people in front of me.
"Hello, silent, bespectacled roommate of Jack's," a cute, no, make that very cute, blond boy says. "May I call you Specs, for short?" He smiles. Oh. I think I need to go change my pants.
"Um..." I clear my throat, trying to look around at the other boys in the cluster, but I can't take my eyes off this guy's face. "My name... My name's Daniel Weinberg."
The blond boy chuckles. "Specs it is, then." Everybody laughs. I want to laugh, too, because he's seriously adorable and very friendly, but Jack Kelly is laughing, and I refuse to follow him. "It's cool. My name's Johannes Visser, but everybody just calls me Dutchy."
"I can see why," I say, without even thinking. Apparently, this is hilarious. The group of boys is sent into uproarious laughter, and Jack slaps a hand on my shoulder. I flinch and push my glasses back up the bridge of my nose.
"C'mon, Specs," Jack says, picking up my backpack for me. "It's lunch time. It ain't good for your reputation to be seen sitting all alone in the damned library. Let's go get something to eat."
I walk with them, clutching my sketchbook to my chest while Dutchy carries my backpack for me. He and Jack talk to me on the way to the cafeteria (though I make sure to pay close attention to the route, so I know how to get there when I wake up from this very strange dream) and I realize that maybe this group isn't quite as bad as I thought.
"Everybody, this is Specs," Jack says, pointing me to an open spot on a bench in the courtyard. "Specs, this is everybody."
"Hey," I say, sitting down. "It's, um, it's actually Daniel. Daniel Weinberg."
Everybody smiles and greets me, except for Spot. Spot looks like he wants to rip out my jugular vein and eat it on the hamburger he's having for lunch. I try not to pay too much attention to this, though. In my five short days at the Academy, I've learned that this is just the way Spot is.
People start telling me their names, which are ridiculous things like Kid Blink (he wears an eye patch! Who the hell wears an eye patch, aside from pirates?) and Pie Eater (who apparently likes to eat pie?) and I know I'm never going to remember them all. So I just smile and nod, greeting them all in turn, until Dutchy plops down next to me.
"So, Specs," he says, with his mouth full of tuna-salad sandwich, "what craft is it that brings you to J.P.'s?"
"Um, art," I reply, blushing a little. I take a bite of my hamburger in hopes that chewing on a large wad of meat will help me look like less of an idiot. Evidently, I cannot think on my feet.
"What kind of art?" Racetrack asks in a nasal falsetto. He then proceeds to quote the school's promotional brochure. "At the Joseph Pulitzer Academy for Artistically Talented Youth, all forms of art are accepted and celebrated. One must only find his most prominent talent to be welcomed into our community." Everyone laughs, including me this time.
I swallow and grin. "Visual art." Taking a swig of my soda, I shrug. "I like to draw. Mostlycomics and stuff."
"Awesome," Jack says between gigantic bites of his sandwich, with the other boys nodding in agreement.
"I'd like to see some of your stuff sometime, if you don't mind," Dutchy says, and I just smile. God, he is so flirting with me.
The conversation continues, with me as the topic, until the bell rings. "What's your next class?" Dutchy asks me,two-pointing his lunch bag into the trash.
"Um..." I have to stop and think for a moment, because along with not knowing where the cafeteria is (though that problem is solved), I have no idea where half my classes are and missed the majority of them. "English."
"With who?"
"Dent, Dempsey, something with a D. I don't remember."
"Denton," he says with that sweet little grin. So. Cute. "Me too. Come on, we'll walk together."
I don't think I've ever heard sweeter words in my life.