Scripted by Maya Rock Page B

tore up all the pictures of them and mailed him the scraps.”
    â€œWhoa.” It might be a while before she stops caring. I’m glad Witson never pulled that kind of stunt. It sounds kind of psycho. Caren Trosser falls off her stool in her attempt to eavesdrop, and a few boys snort with laughter. I huddle closer to Selwyn, recalling how Media1 had wanted that line about Callen for the aquarium reenactment and how the cameras had been interested when I told her about our near collision. I can’t talk
to
him, but I have a hunch it’ll help my ratings if I keep talking
about
him. “Selwyn, how long do you think before she gets over him?”
    â€œTwo weeks. Are you excited? Isn’t this your
chance
?”
    â€œMaybe?” I cast a quick glance behind us to make sure he’s not listening. “But Lia would hate it. She doesn’t even want us talking as friends, so I think—I need to forget about him. Besides, Callen doesn’t—he’s not interested.”
    â€œYou always say that, but you’ve never tried.” Selwyn loops her latest coil around and up, then steps back and cocks her head from side to side, assessing it. “Maybe write him a note.”
    â€œNo way.” I lower my voice. “Lia’s going to hate him forever because he dumped her. I can’t do anything.”
    â€œIf you say so. Hey,” she says, reshaping the bowl, “how do you feel about tattoos?”
    I abandon my coiling. “Selwyn, you almost fainted when you got your ears pierced. Do you think you can handle a tattoo needle?”
    â€œIt’ll be worth it,” she sniffs. “I was thinking of music notes with wings. Or a cello wrapped in rainbows. That would show the orchestra I’m more committed than Thora.”
    â€œI don’t know, Selwyn. Rainbows?” She has on a flirty ruffled yellow summer dress underneath the smock, and now that she’s mentioned tattoos, all the exposed skin around her neckline seems vulnerable.
    She fidgets with her beads fiercely again, just as she did in the hall on Friday, and avoids meeting my eyes. “Well, I haven’t made up my mind.”
    â€¢Â â€¢Â â€¢
    â€œStarving,” Lia sighs as we get on the lunch line. “We’re out of food at home,” she whispers. “I had
sugar cubes
for breakfast. I am
not
a horse. It’s because Mom needs, like, half a bottle of wine to tackle grocery shopping. She loses her list most of the time.”
    I don’t understand why Lia’s mother can’t get herself together—her life seems so easy. It’s almost like she creates problems because she doesn’t have any real ones. I give Lia a hug. “So lame.”
    She nods and pulls a banana from an overflowing fruit basket.
    â€œA banana, just what I needed.” She smiles at the nearest camera.
    â€œYum,” I say, summoning up some fake enthusiasm for propro. While I fill my glass up with Cherry Kofasip, she casts a critical eye at the cafeteria. “I think this place is too nice to just be a cafeteria. Look at those big, beautiful windows, the high ceilings, the polished floors. We should have a dance here one day. What do you think?”
    I sip my drink. “Maybe? Decorations—sparkling cutlery?”
    She laughs. “Right, and then everyone can dance on top of the tables and the tracs will start a food fight.” We head toward our table in the center of the cafeteria. For Lia, our walk away from the lunch line is more of a strut. Her long red braid swings like a whip across her back and she holds her head high. “Did you see Callen this morning at art? You know what—never mind, I don’t want to know.”
    I’m a step behind her. Today she’s wearing equestrian-style boots that go over her jeans and nearly reach her knees, along with a sleeveless white linen top. Freshmen and sophomores steal glances at us as we pass,