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wide. So that made them—”
    “Yeah, whatever,” Torchie said, glaring at Cheater. “Anyhow, I guess they figured round tables would make us behave better or something.”
    “Fascinating.” I turned my attention to choking down the food. It’s hard to believe that anyone could ruin macaroni and cheese, but the school cooks had managed to do just that. And the potatoes were awful. “These mashed potatoes really suck,” I said.
    “That’s because they’re turnips,” Cheater explained. “A popular food source in Germany before the introduction of the potato.”
    I decided not to ask what the stringy green stuff was. Until now, I’d thought Mom was a pretty bad cook. Her idea of tomato sauce was ketchup with a dash of parmesan cheese. As I ate, I realized she could have been far worse. And at least back home we’d have takeout chicken once a week from Cluck Shack, and lots of pizza. I guess I wouldn’t be getting anything like that for a while.
    Between bites, I checked out my companions. Besides Torchie and Cheater, there was one other kid at our table. He looked pretty tough. Big shoulders, dark hair, eyebrows that seemed to want to grow together to form one furry strip across his forehead, and the beginnings of a stubbly beard threatening to burst through his skin. A year or two from now, I’d bet he’d be shaving twice a day. They called him Lucky. I almost laughed when I heard that. I didn’t see how anyone who deserved that nickname could be stuck in a place like Edgeview. Unlucky was more like it. Or maybe Unfriendly . He didn’t seem all that happy to meet me.
    Not that I cared.
    By the time I’d choked down half the macaroni, I had the whole place figured out. Except for one person.

BREAK TIME
    I ’d watched him on and off during the meal, and I didn’t have a clue why he was by himself. Well, as my dad always said, if you don’t know the answer, ask a question. Of course, whenever I asked him a question, he usually told me to shut up and stop being such a wise ass.
    But dad wasn’t here, so I figured it was safe to ask a question.
    “Who’s the loner?” I asked Torchie, looking over toward the kid eating all by himself at a table near the opposite wall. There was nothing I could see about his clothes or appearance that would explain his isolation.
    “Him? That’s Trash.”
    “Nice name,” I said.
    “It’s not like that. It’s just that he trashes stuff. You know, breaks things.”
    “Yeah,” Cheater said. “I heard that at his last school, he smashed up a whole classroom—desks, chairs, windows. The kid’s wacko.”
    I looked back at Trash. It was hard to imagine why someone would break stuff for fun.
    “Hey,” Lucky said to Cheater, “you shouldn’t say wacko . It’s not nice.”
    “Yeah, you’re right,” Cheater said. “My mistake. He’s not wacko—he’s bonkers. Or maybe he’s loony. How about deranged ? I like that one.”
    “How’d you like to be called that?” Lucky asked.
    “I think I’d prefer insane , if you’re going for technical terms,” Cheater said. “But flipped out has a nice ring to it. And let’s not forget all those wonderful phrases that can be used to indicate a mind that is somewhat less than perfect: one card short of a full deck, one sandwich short of a picnic, off your rocker, out in left field—the list goes on and on. Hey, do you know where the word bedlam comes from? It was a crazy house in England.”
    “Listen,” Lucky told him, his voice dropping so low I had to lean forward to catch the rest of it. “If enough people call you crazy, maybe you begin to believe it, even if you aren’t.”
    All three of them started arguing about putting labels on people and about stuff like self-esteem. Everyone was talking at once. They sounded like a bunch of miniature psychiatrists. I guess they’d gotten a lot of that in class here. Personally, I thought they were all a bit crazy. Or wacko. Or bonkers. But I kept my mouth shut. I