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Charlie came from Virginia. He used “y’all” and looked at the world like it’d kill him; Condi wasn’t sure if the latter was a Southern trait. Until he mumbled a thanks at someone who’d blessed him for his sneeze, Condi suspected he was mute.
The two shared some classes. Physics, computer science, history.
But Condi knew others in those classes, so the two didn’t interact. Charlie sat alone and doodled birds. Pages upon pages of birds resting on sorcerers’ shoulders—
“Do you, uh, play D&D?”
Charlie turned around, startled.
In his expression laid Marley’s, Condi thought. Maybe that was why he initiated conversation at all – to mend the fear he’d caused in someone else. “Sorry. I saw the characters and thought they were– Nevermind.”
Charlie blinked, and Marley’s fear left him. “I used to play.”
That changed things. Macro and Yakko stood in the corner. Condi waved them off. The three lived close; Condi had the walk home to explain not accompanying them to class. “Do you have lunch now?”
“...Yeah.”
“You want to eat with me? Some of my friends have this lunch.”
Charlie nodded.
The walk to the courtyard was quiet, save for Condi’s observations. New paintings filled the art wing, kids were playing soccer in the fields. Anything that’d fill the silence. Charlie, merciful, feigned interest.
“I met Grizzly first. Looks tough, sounds sweet. You’ll like him. All of them, actually.”
At last, they reached the courtyard. Friend groups already dotted the area. Some boys called out to Condi, and Charlie knew where he’d be sitting.
“Yo! I brought my friend Charlie from compsci. He’s cool. He came from…”
“Virginia.” Charlie braced himself for jabs at his southernness, or his glasses, or maybe his old shirt. None came.
Instead, one of the boys – maybe the one named Grizzly, based on Condi’s earlier descriptions – sprung out of his seat. “Yo! Another Southern boy!”
“Hey, I was born in the south, too!” A black-haired boy pointed his fork at possibly-Grizzly.
“Doesn’t count. Florida’s shit.” Probably-Grizzly lunged forward to steal the fork; the Floridian dodged swiftly. “Agh! I’m Grizzly. That little shit’s Bizly!”
Charlie nodded. Only one was left nameless, a short, laughing guy with the best fashion sense of the bunch. “Bizly moved here when he was two. He is not Floridian.”
Condi glanced at Charlie apologetically. “That one’s Milo.”
Milo hummed affirmation and blew curls of hair off his face. “I don’t usually have this lunch on Wednesdays. My class got canceled.”
Again, Charlie nodded. His sandwich, the one with turkey and mustard he'd had for years before and probably years following, was growing old. At least he had people to eat it with. He let them talk at him and with each other.
He learned a lot: Condi, Grizzly, and Bizly played D&D on weekends. They’d finished a yearlong campaign the Saturday before. Milo still refused to play. Too much dedication, he claimed. Grizzly hated school; Condi didn’t mind it. There were others – Macro and Yakko from compsci, some guy named Wheatie. They shared Charlie’s lunch period on other days.
Charlie learned that, on Fridays, still no one’s lunch coincided with his. He’d still be alone.
But it was Wednesday. Thursday separated him from the loneliness. Two days to dwell on Friday, or two days to ignore it. Charlie was good at avoidance.
“Next week isn’t even winter,” Condi complained. It was the most emotion he’d shown this lunch period; Charlie decided to pay attention.
“It’s gonna be cold, dawg.” Grizzly popped gum in his mouth and flicked the wrapper at Condi. “The lakes will freeze over and you’ll still wanna be out here.”
“I don’t see a lake here.” Condi flicked the wrapper back. Beside him, Bizly and Milo quarreled.
The four seemed close, a bubble unbreakable or not worth breaking. And, lake or not, Charlie suspected they’d be out of the courtyard by next week; he doubted they’d tell him their new location.
Maybe Charlie was meant to be alone.
“Grizzly, tell this man that crunchy peanut butter is an abomination.”
“I know it’s bad, but pickles are worse–”
“Bro, nothing is worse than the crunchiness of ‘natural’ peanut butter.”
“The crunchy kind is better,” Charlie said under his breath. Still loud enough to be heard, apparently, as four faces swiveled to face him. “It’s– you’re gonna all die from your Jif or your Skippy’s–”
“I’ll die happy!” Bizly accused, visibly surprised at Charlie speaking. “America is built on Skippy’s.”
“And America will die on it.”
Milo started laughing, then Bizly, then the rest of them. The joy rang in Charlie’s ears and followed him out the courtyard.
Maybe this wouldn’t last long. But Charlie hoped it would.
—