Free In Between by Jenny B Jones

the moments I hate the most. I don’t have to deal with the awkward new girl moments like where to sit and who to sit with if I eat lunch in the ladies’ room. Granted, the bathroom doesn’t score any points for aromatherapy, but you can’t beat it for privacy.
    Frances steers me toward a group of students who must be her friends, as they are waving and motioning to her. I’m probably walking into a meeting of the overachiever club.
    My palms are starting to sweat. My dog collar is suddenly too tight. I can’t hold a conversation with these people. If they are Frances’s friends, their lunch-time conversation probably consists of playing Guess My Favorite Element on the Periodic Table, solving quadratic equations between bites of French fries, and debating which president had the strongest foreign policy.
    I cannot hang out with these smart people. I must find an escape route. Oh, no, getting nearer. We’re closing in on them.
    Wait—
    There’s the guy in the skirt. And there’s the girl with the Mohawk two tables over. The skirted one nods his head in greeting. That’s as good as any invitation I’m gonna get.
    Saved!
    “Frances, I see people from class. Gotta go, bye.” And with the world’s fastest brush-off, I leave Frances Vega and practically run to the table where my fellow misfits are seated.
    Mohawk girl salutes me with a fry. “Hey.”
    “Hey,” echoes skirt boy.
    “Hey,” says some dude in a trench coat, his mouth full of nachos.
    “Hey.” This from skirt boy’s overly tattooed girlfriend.
    Alert the English department—these people are in desperate need of a thesaurus.
    “Hi.” I’m probably wowing them with my expanded vocabulary.
    “You the new kid?” Mohawk girl checks out my hair.
    “Yeah, I just moved here from upstate. I’m Katie.”
    Mohawk girl nods. “I’m Angel. This is Vincent. She indicates the skirted friend. Angel introduces the whole table, and Jackson, the guy in the trench, gets me a chair.
    “So what’s your story, Katie?” asks a girl whose name I’ve already forgotten.
    “Oh, you know, typical stuff. My mom’s in prison, I’m currently in foster care, and I’m just passing through.” See, I could be tactful and subtle with other people, but with this group, I know there’s no need. The worse my story is, the more they’ll like me.
    “You have a rap sheet?”
    “A rap sheet?” I think I know what they mean, but I’m hoping I don’t. Do I have to have done time to get my membership card to this table?
    “Yeah, you ever been arrested?”
    “Um, no.” The group doesn’t look too impressed, but no one’s asking for my chair back either.
    “Me neither,” one of them says finally, and three or four more chime in in agreement.
    “You ever get in any trouble though?” Angel asks.
    “Well, yeah. But nothing serious.”
    Okay, this is a weird conversation. Should I change the topic? Maybe ask them about their hobbies, where they live in town, who their favorite teacher is—what they think about foreign policy?
    “You’re gonna find out real quick this town’s boring. Nothing to do here. You have to make up your own fun. You know what I’m saying?” Vincent strokes his bleached goatee.
    “Yeah, I guess.”
    “Tomorrow, you sit with us. We’ll show you the ropes around here. Right, Angel?”
    “Yeah, Vincent. We sit here every day, so we’ll see you here.”
    The bell rings, signaling the end of lunch and the end of one uncomfortable discussion. Angel, Vincent, and their mismatched posse bid me goodbye and head off to their respective classes.
    I’m still sitting at the table, reviewing the last ten minutes, when Frances taps me on the shoulder.
    That girl is everywhere.
    “Did you have a good lunch?”
    “Sure.”
    “Great! Guess what time it is now?”
    Time to pretend like she isn’t getting on my nerves just a wee bit?
    “I don’t know.”
    “Time for PE!”
    Physical education right after lunch? I assumed that was a typo on