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The cafeteria buzzes with the clatter of plastic trays and half-shouted conversations. Nelson slouches against the chipped orange table, cracking his knuckles absently while Bart flicks crumbs off a bent Jack of Diamonds. The peanut butter glistens under the fluorescent lights. Milhouse pries open his lunchbox with the enthusiasm of a kid who’s won the lottery—until he sees the contents.
"Alright, baloney and cheese!" he announces, though his voice falters. It’s the same lunch he’s had for three weeks straight.
Bart doesn’t look up. "Pack of sugar and peanut butter smeared on a playing card." He licks the sticky edge experimentally.
Nelson snorts, kicking the table leg hard enough to make Milhouse’s milk carton wobble. "Haw-haw! Your mom’s a jailbird!"
Bart rolls his eyes, unimpressed. "So’s yours."
Nelson pauses, then grins—sharp, sudden. "Oh yeah." He grabs the card from Bart’s fingers, flips it between his own grease-stained ones. "Let’s play."
Outside, rain streaks the windows, blurring the view of the empty soccer field where Raditch patrols during lunch, clipboard in hand. Nelson’s grin tightens. That guy’s had it out for him since fourth grade—probably because Nelson once “accidentally” knocked over his coffee onto a stack of ungraded essays.
Bart knows that look. He nudges Nelson’s boot under the table. "Still mad about the F on the book report?"
Nelson shrugs, but his jaw clenches. "Dude gave Martin an A for the same crap."
Bart leans in, lowering his voice. "Bet we could prove it."
The bell rings. Nelson pockets the card, already plotting.