TITLE: SUPERHEROES DON'T EAT VEGGIE BURGERS
It's not like I'm looking for trouble.
I've just scored two seats in the back corner of the cafeteria--as far away from the food-fight starters and wedgie-givers as I can get--when I look up and see a kid with arm pit hair and a bad case of acne standing over me.
“You call that a sandwich?” he says. A thick finger reaches down and punctures the plastic bag in front of me, grinding into what was about to be my lunch. Ketchup oozes everywhere.
He leans against me, his chin digging into my collar bone. “What's wrong, pretty boy? You got something to say?”
What I want to say is that he should consider investing in a toothbrush, but don't. Instead, I stare at the nutrition facts on the back of my milk carton and pretend to be fascinated by how many grams of protein are in a half-pint of chocolate milk.
A raspy voice from across the table answers him for me.
“It's a veggie burger,you idiot.”
I look up and cringe. Franki Saylor may be my best friend, but if word gets around Gatehouse Middle that a girl had to stick up for me on the first day of school, I might as well write my own death warrant.
The kid stands up and shoves me sideways.
“You talking to me, girl?” he grunts, leaning across the table.
Franki pushes her nose up against his, so close their freckles mix together.