Free Trauma Queen by Barbara Dee Page B

wispy hair behind her ears and starts disassembling her tower. Layla rests her chin on her knuckles. She’s wearing silver thumb-rings, and I see her ears have, like, six studs per lobe.
    â€œYou fixed your top,” she announces.
    I don’t answer.
    â€œIt was better before. When you couldn’t see the picture, it was kind of mysterious.”
    â€œI thought you said it was ironic.”
    â€œIronic, mysterious. Whatever. So how’s your lunch?” She narrows her smudgy eyes at my sandwich.
    I shrug. “It’s okay.”
    â€œThat’s it? That’s, like, your complete review of our four-star cuisine? ”
    â€œIt’s turkey. There’s not much to say about it.”
    â€œYeah, there is. Sure there is. Be poetic. It tastes like old socks. It tastes like belly button lint. It tastes like warmed-over sewage with a subtle splash of Windex—”
    â€œLayla,” Quinn says softly. “Leave her alone, okay?”
    â€œHey, I’m just trying to make conversation. Why does she always have to be so snarky?”
    Me? This girl is like the Supreme Goddess of Snark, and she’s calling me snarky?
    â€œIt’s just a school sandwich,” I say in a jokey way. “What do you want me to say: This sandwich reminds me of Paris, the long walks we took in the rain, that little café near the park . . . ?”
    Layla guffaws. “Yeah,” she says. “That’s exactly what you should say.”
    For some strange reason now I feel proud of myself, like it’s a huge big deal I made her laugh. I nibble on my flabby bread crust and watch Quinn stir the food inside the containers, then carefully unfold a napkin. It’s fascinating, like a Japanese tea ceremony, which I know about because Dad photographed one once.
    Quinn notices I’m staring at her. “I’m vegan,” she explains, like she’s apologizing. “That means—”
    â€œShe eats veegs,” Layla interrupts. She sticks her fingers into one of the containers. “Yum, yum. Zitty.”
    â€œZiti,” Quinn corrects her. “With tamari sauce. Use a fork, Layla, okay?”
    â€œI hate forks.” She pops a drippy ziti into her mouth. “In fact, I’ve decided that from now on I’m anti-utensil.”
    â€œReally?” I say. “Why?”
    â€œWhy not? They didn’t use them in the Middle Ages.”
    That’s so illogical I have to smile. “Who’s talking about the Middle Ages?”
    â€œI am,” Layla says. “The Middle Ages rock .” She grabs one of Quinn’s carrot sticks and points it at my chest. “Want to join my Jousting Club?”
    â€œExcuse me?”
    â€œI’m starting one this spring. It’ll be much, much funner than all that regular after-school crap.” She smirks. “So? Are you signing up?”
    â€œNot if you joust with greasy fingers.”
    â€œHey, I never said I was anti-napkin.”
    All of a sudden someone barks, “Yo, Bananas, move over.” And takes over the empty space next to me before I can say, Don’t call me Bananas or There isn’t any room, Brody . Ethan sits down too, across from Brody, who shoves his tray in the middle of the table, like he owns it.
    Then he gobbles a giant bite of cheeseburger and grins so you can see smears of ketchup on his teeth.
    â€œOkay, that’s it,” Layla announces. “I have just now officially become a vegan.”
    â€œActually, I don’t think they had vegans in the Middle Ages,” I say.
    Everyone looks at me.
    â€œHey, Bananas speaks,” Brody says. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Awesome.”
    â€œOf course she speaks , you salivating carnivore,” Layla says. “She’s a poet.”
    â€œYeah? Cool. Then let’s hear a poem.”
    â€œBrody,” Ethan says. “Shut up.”
    â€œWhy? I like poems.”
    â€œNo,