Free Keep Holding On by Susane Colasanti Page B

girl is Darby. I’ve never really talked to her outside of class. She seems like a loner. So she totally catches me off guard by smiling right at me.
    “Hey, Noelle,” she says. “Congrats on the coeditor gig.”
    “Thanks.”
    “How are you liking it?”
    “It’s good.” I’m not about to admit that I’m only here to get out of lunch. Actually, it’s not as bad as I expected. Some parts are even fun, like getting my own desk and correcting people’s typos. The best part is that it feels really comfortable in here. Like a safe zone.
    “Cool,” Darby says. “Just let me know if you need anything. I can be found glued to this very station.”
    I notice Darby’s wearing the same shirt I got at the mall a few months ago. Which throws me off all over again. I’m not used to seeing anyone wear the same clothes I do.
    “Did you get your shirt at Delia’s?” I ask.
    “On sale for nine ninety-nine, just the way I like them.”
    “Me, too.”
    “Righteous. I hate when I’m stalking something, waiting for it to go on sale but then I panic that they’ll sell out, so I buy it anyway and it goes on sale like the next day.”
    “I know!”
    Darby shakes her head. “Tragic,” she confirms.
    It’s so weird how connecting with someone in a different setting can bring out this whole other side of them. Like how certain places inspire us to act in ways we normally wouldn’t. If Darby wasn’t on lit mag, we’d probably never talk like this.
    A pile of submissions to be edited is waiting for me on my desk. Everyone has to hand in a hard copy of their work, then submit a final version by email after they get their edits. There’s a Post-it note stuck on top of the pile:

    I get out a purple pen to edit the first short story. When I’m a teacher, I won’t be using red pens to grade papers. Red pens will forever be associated with criticism and bad grades in my mind. I don’t want this person to get their short story back with harsh red pen marks all over it. Purple is much friendlier.
    I’m on the third page when Simon arrives.
    “Lunch!” he announces. He’s carrying a tray piled high with good things to eat. Grilled cheese sandwiches, fruit, bottles of water and iced tea, chips, brownies, and cookies. “I got way too much as usual.”
    “Sweet!” Darby says. “Thanks, Simon.”
    Simon puts the tray down on the big table in the middle of the office. Darby goes over and takes an apple and a cookie.
    Sophomore girl is still oblivious that anyone else is in the room.
    “Help yourself,” Simon insists. “I usually bring a tray in for whoever wants. So you don’t have to worry about missing lunch or anything.”
    “That’s awesome,” I say. “Thank you.” As usual, I’m starving. The grilled cheese smells so good. And the peanut butter cookies look amazing. It takes a massive amount of restraint to not attack the tray and inhale everything on it.
    “I’m a fan of grilled cheese,” Simon informs me.
    “Same here. But I thought you weren’t allowed to take trays out.”
    “They let me anyway. The older lunch lady likes my ties. And I always bring the trays back after school.”
    We work. I have a grilled cheese sandwich. I have some grapes. Then I have two cookies. I’m paranoid that everyone will think I’m taking too much. But no one’s noticing. They’re busy with their own work.
    Everyone else leaves a few minutes early. When the bell rings, it’s just me, the office, and the lunch leftovers. I shove two bags of chips in my bag. It would be a waste to leave them behind.

    Simon’s lunch tray was a sharp contrast to our kitchen. The only time we have enough to eat is when mother gets food stamps. But after a week or so, it’s back to starvation city.
    The first time mother got food stamps, she dragged me to the grocery store with her. It was a little while after we moved into the apartment, so I was twelve or thirteen. I didn’t know why she was taking me. She always went shopping