Page 117 of Pick Me Up On Tuesdays

Ethan gawked at me. “Not me, you idiot! The other team!”

I barely had time to register my mistake before something cold and wet smacked me square in the face. Wiping at my cheek, I stared in horror at the dollop of mayonnaise clinging to my cheeks.

Oh, it was ON.

From that point on, strategy was abandoned in favor of pure, unfiltered mayhem. I threw food at anyone who wasn’t on our side. Joy, obviously, went feral and shot at everyone—including me—then, used a tray as a shield while Mia filmed the whole debacle, laughing between dodging incoming attacks.

Shun, somehow, remained untouched in the center of it all—dodging airborne nuggets and splattered sauce with the reflexes of a seasoned cheerleader—calmly sipping her soda like it was just another episode of drama she wasn’t starring in.

The Boulder High's team was relentless. Their food-fighting skills were nothing short of professional. One student catapulted an entire bowl of soup across the room, landing it directly on Max’s head. Another sent a wave of ketchup-covered fries flying, painting my uniform in unfortunate shades of red and yellow.

Meanwhile, Ethan was having the time of his life. He’d climbed onto a table, dodging flying projectiles with supernatural ease. “Is that all you’ve got?” he taunted, narrowly avoiding a particularly aggressive meatball.

It was over in minutes. Our team was drenched, our clothes ruined, our dignity in tatters. Boulder High stood victorious, smirking as they surveyed the battlefield.

I ran a hand down my face, flicking off a stray piece of lettuce. “We lost,” I admitted, breathless.

Ethan, despite being covered in spaghetti sauce, grinned. “Worth it.”

At the doorway stood Mr. Dax—arms crossed, tie stained with spaghetti, mashed potatoes clinging to his shirt like badges of shame. His eyes weren’t just disappointed; they carried the weight of a man who entered a food fight for vengeance and walked out covered in defeat—and gravy.

Joy nudged me. “You think we’re getting detention?”

I looked at Mr. Dax, marinara splattered across one eyebrow like war paint.

“Absolutely,” I said. “We lost the battle... and his dignity.”

Chapter 34: The Motel at the Edge of Nowhere

The bus rumbled down the darkened highway, its passengers lulled into a tired stupor after the absolute disaster of the food fight. My head pressed against the window, eyes half-lidded as streetlights flickered past. The day had already been exhausting enough. I ran a hand through my hair and scowled when something crumbled between my fingers. Dried bread? Great. The food fight had officially followed me into the night.

We’re stopping for the night,” Mr. Dax announced over the engine’s low hum, making no effort to hide the defeat in his voice—or the sting of a personal vendetta gone cold. “Grab your stuff, don’t wander off, and for the love of all that’s decent, no more incidents.

The bus groaned to a stop. I stretched my legs and stepped out, only to see Ethan standing stiffly by the entrance, his brows drawn together.

“You good?” I asked, suspicious of his sudden stillness.

Ethan blinked, his eyes scanning the area before he shook his head. “Yeah, it’s just—” His gaze darted around. “I recognize this place.”

I traced his gaze to the road—a cold stretch that never seemed to end—and a town that looked too alive for such a dead place.

He didn't add anything to it. He just watched the area for a second too long and sighed.

A quiet, weary kind of sigh—the kind that carried years, not seconds.

His eyes lingered like they were trying to remember something the rest of him had already forgotten. Maybe a smell, a voice, a version of himself that used to stand there.

Then, without a word, he turned away. Like whatever answer he was hoping for had chosen silence instead.

Today's motel slumped on the side of the road like it had given up on life years ago. The neon sign buzzed and flickered, casting sickly red light on the cracked pavement. “VACANCY” stuttered between full illumination and a half-dead version that read “VAN Y.” The glass door leading to the lobby was smeared with something I didn’t want to think about.

“This is the best we can afford,” Ethan finally muttered, masking whatever had unsettled him under his usual lazy grin. “Perfect for a bunch of high schoolers surviving on fumes.”

I rolled my eyes and trailed after the group inside, the chatter around me fading into white noise.

The lobby smelled faintly of old carpet and air freshener that had resigned from its job ages ago. A bored-looking receptionist handed out a bunch of mismatched keys like they were candy.

My room and Ethan’s landed in my palm.

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