Chapter 3 - Gravy and Broken Plastic
The Oakridge dining hall was built to look like an Ivy League commons.
Stained glass windows cast amber light across long walnut refectory tables.
At 12:15 PM, the room was deafening with the roar of three hundred wealthy teenagers.
Emily sat alone at a corner table near the waste disposal station.
She had a plastic tray carrying a bowl of warm beef stew, mashed potatoes, and a glass of tap water.
Her beat-up, cracked-screen smartphone sat face down next to her notebook.
Brianna entered with a pack of varsity football players flanking her sides.
She spotted Emily immediately.
The quiet girl had outscored Brianna on the regional mock debate exam that morning.
Brianna’s father had texted her ten minutes earlier: Get your head in the game. You're losing ground.
Brianna’s humiliation had festered until it turned into pure poison.
She marched across the parquet floor, her designer heels clicking violently against the stone.
The dining hall began to quiet down, row by row, like dominos falling.
Everyone smelled blood.
Brianna stopped directly behind Emily’s chair.
“You think you’re smart, don’t you?” Brianna’s voice rang loud and theatrical.
Emily didn’t look up from her open notebook.
“I just do the work, Brianna.”
“You cheated,” Brianna declared, loud enough for two supervising teachers to hear clearly.
Neither teacher moved; both turned their faces toward the dessert counter.
“Look at me when I’m talking to you, charity case!” Brianna barked.
Before Emily could turn, Brianna reached down and buried her fingers into Emily’s hair.
With a cruel, sudden snap of her wrist, she yanked Emily backward.
Then, swinging her weight forward, Brianna shoved Emily’s entire face into the warm stew and gravy.
The porcelain bowl shattered against the tray.
Hot broth splattered across Emily’s eyelashes, her nose, and the pages of her notebook.
A collective gasp echoed across the vast hall, quickly replaced by nervous, cruel laughter.
Brianna stood over her, laughing openly, clapping her hands together.
“There’s your lunch, Ross! Eat it off the tray where you belong!”
Emily didn’t scream.
She didn’t cry.
She slowly pushed her palms against the grease-stained laminate, lifting her head.
Gravy dripped from her chin onto the faded green jacket.
Her hand reached into her pocket, pulled out the cracked phone, and pressed speed dial 1.
May you like
She put the receiver to her trembling lips and whispered:
“Mom… she did it again.”
