Page 32 of Paper Thin Love

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” he hisses.

“Have you ever watched a teen movie?” I ask as we begin to walk towards it.

“I don’t have that luxury, Mila.”

“Well, here’s a lesson then, Dash. Everyone knows a high school cafeteria is a watering hole. Be careful when you eat and drink; other monsters will be lurking to strike.” I plaster on a fake-as-fuck grin along with a bitchy glare. It feels amazing to provoke him.

It feels.

Chapter 12

Mila

The cafeteria is packed—it always is, since it’s open 24/7 and gourmet chefs cook up the food.

Once we step inside, the change in the air ripples and cracks my newfound confidence. A part of me inches back into my shell, just like Dash predicted.

“I, um,” I begin, feeling the pressure of people looking at Dash and me. The noise changes to hushed whispers. The question is, do the top predators consider Dash prey or competition?

“I usually sit at that table over there.” I point to the far table in the back; it’s older and has a slight wobble. Most of the scholarship kids from different areas sit there. It’s in the shadows, forgotten. Safe.

“Fuck. No.” Dash mutters as he runs a hand through his hair.

“What?” I look up to meet his eyes.

“Stop speaking on repeat, Mila. You heard me. We’re pausing for too long. It makes us look weak.” He begins to step, changing how he walks in general. He swings that crutch like a sword. Everyone notices. Some sink into their seats. Deranged students lean forward to get a better look at him.

“Let’s get food, then I’ll assess where we will sit.”

“The other tables are taken,” I mutter as I veer him towards the food line.

“If I sit at that sad excuse of a table, I will look pathetic. You said it yourself; the cafeteria is where hierarchy is established.” His eyes scan the tables.

“Forget about the food. Consider this a battleground because if you try to steal someone’s table, it’s going to be a bloodbath.”

We enter the food line, but I smell nothing but fear and anticipation. I glance down at his crutch.“I’ll get us a tray. We can share it. Just tell me what you want.”

He wants to argue, look strong, and get his tray, but he can’t.

“The food is good,” I begin,“and tested regularly, so don’t think about drugging or spiking the punch.”

“Was that your attempt at a joke?”

“No. For real. Billy Wentworth tried to. He got caught.”

“And?”

“And what?” I reach for a bowl and begin to scoop my daily quinoa salad into it.

“What happened to him?”

My hand hovers over the cranberries I usually add to the salad.“Nothing.”

“Exactly. Silverstone is the Wild West. So,” His gaze pierces a part of my soul that had been lying in slumber for far too long.

Thump! There goes that new pulse in my core.

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