Page 19 of Ancient History

Fuck him and his smoldering, matinee idol looks.

Amos: Hutch and I are caf duty partners. [five crying face emojis]

Julian: What?????

Everett: Shut the fucking fuck up.

Chase: How’d that happen?

Amos: Aguilar put us together because he thought it was cool we were classmates. [five more crying face emojis]

Everett: You’d think our gay principal would be able to sniff out gay drama between two ex-lovers.

Chase: Studies have shown that humans can smell disgust. Perhaps Aguilar’s allergies were getting in the way?

Everett: Or maybe he just wants to stir the pot.

Julian: It won’t be so bad. Lunch will fly by. You two can talk about safe topics like the weather.

Amos: Sure. I can ask Hutch if it was cloudy out the day he dumped me.

My third period class was the most engaged. I led an invigorating discussion on fiefdoms and serfdoms and how they related to subcultures in America today. The zealot henchmen of aristocracy would be right at home yelling on cable news shows. It was incredible, and scary, how much of history repeated itself.

I wouldn’t let Hutch and I repeat anything. I would be more vigilant.

Third period turned to fourth, and still no pulse on the group chat. I got to stay in my classroom. My problem student Tommy doodled in the back of class, but I let him be. I didn’t have the energy to get him to participate.

One more period closer to lunch.

After fourth period came fifth: lunchtime.

There were two cafeterias at South Rock. The large one for freshmen and sophomores, and the smaller one for juniors and seniors, though mostly juniors since seniors were allowed to eat off campus, and most did. Who’d settle for cafeteria food when you could have delicious CJ’s Pizza?

By the grace of some higher administrative power, I was assigned to the smaller cafeteria. The upperclassmen were more chill. Monitoring a huge room of underclassmen—highly hormonal and barely mature—sounded like torture.

For cafeteria duty, the two teachers assigned each quarter would do a walk around the room every ten minutes like prison guards. When we weren’t patrolling, we were eating together at a small table by one of the doors.

Hutch strolled up to our table, and I got a good look at him. His South Rock-branded polo stretched over his arms and chest, faint wisps of chest hair peeking out.

Dammit. Why couldn’t he have grown a beer gut like other former high school athletes?

Lunch was going to be a first class ticket on Awkward Airlines, wasn’t it?

“Hey.” Hutch hovered over the table, giving me a sweet view of his crotch. I knew what lay behind the denim. Ugh, I missed it.

“Is it cool if I sit down?”

“Yeah. It’s your table, too.”

“Cool.” He sat down, then hopped right back up. “I should probably get some lunch. Do teachers have any special privileges in the food line?”

“Nope.”

“Rats.” He snapped his fingers to emphasize his aw-shucks reaction that made his cheek dimple.

Ugh, I missed that dimple, too.

“Has the food gotten any better?”

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