Putnam Valley High School

Lunch Hour

Logainne's POV

Ninth grade. Freshman year, I guess, although why not take advantage of it while we still have grade numbers? College has a freshman year. I don't want to go around saying "I'm a freshman" and have people think I'm starting college. (As if they'd ever think that. I'm not exactly the most developed in either direction.) But I'm kind of the type to empathize with the underdog. So as long as "freshman" is the most normalized, I wear the ninth grade label loud and proud.

"You wear everything loud and proud," William Barfée tells me with an eyeroll as I'm explaining my feelings about this.

"That's not the insult you think it is! For your information, I expect to have had a major impact on this school before I leave. Heck, before I enter tenth grade!" I make a point of saying the last two words.

"Y'know, the fact that you still refuse to swear reminds me that you're just a little kid." He snorts. (FYI, I don't refuse to swear. I just feel awkward saying things like f*** and often h*ll.) "Look, I'm glad you're going here now, but it's really unnecessary to go all SJW on your second day. ...You're not starting a GSA, are you?"

I gasp. "We don't have one?!"

Chip Tolentino literally pops out of nowhere to join in. I mean, we're out in the field for our lunch break, and it's a warm September day, and the field is pretty crowded, but still. I wasn't expecting it. "I guess a gay-straight alliance left out too many people," he says. "Like... oh, me. Literally me."

"That's not what we call GSA's anymore, though!" I tell him indignantly. "It's a gender/sexuality alliance."

"Of course it is," Barfée mutters.

"Anyway, you all can show me the ropes now that I'm here," I go on. "Like, I heard homecoming is soon. Is that for everyone or just eleventh- and twelfth-graders?"

"You mean juniors and—" Chip begins, but Barfée cuts him off.

"No, don't start this again," he says. "She just wants to sound different." Then he turns back to me. "No, it's for everyone. Prom isn't, though."

"I know that. And is there gonna be a football game at the event? We have a football team, right? Chip, are you on it?" I ask.

"You know nothing about my life. What makes you think I play football? Am I just some tough old macho-man to you?" He's clearly taking it as a compliment.

"You've literally called yourself an alpha male," Barfée shoots back. "You're probably this misogynist incel discord mod."

"What the fuck? I'm not that! I just don't date."

"I wonder why."

I don't hear the rest of the conversation due to the fact that I've successfully slunk away and am now trying to find a new familiar face to bombard with questions.

To be totally honest, I really don't have many friends. About four years ago, I happened to find a few people I kept in touch with at the Putnam County spelling bee. (To be fair, likely none of them were neurotypical.) And now that we all go to Putnam Valley High—almost all of us—they're the closest thing I've got. And I'm so glad I have them.

To elaborate a bit on the almost, Marcy Park is a competitor I had quite a few friendly moments with, about two years older than me, but already a freshman—the college kind. She's been squished under a shit—crap-ton of pressure her entire life, and we've sort of bonded over that. (Except she's got the added pressure of always succeeding, while I've got the added pressure of always failing.) But being four grades apart, we were never able to overlap academically, which sucks.