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school cafeteria and
wait patiently for it to boil over.
    In a lot of ways, the Alfred Nobel cafeteria was like an indoor soccer field.
    The ceiling was high, the walls cement. And no matter what color you painted them, or how many posters you hung, they would still be cold, hard, cement. Sound vibrates off the walls and ceiling, much like at an indoor soccer field.Even if no one was talking (which never happened), the clatter of forks, plates stacking and clanking, and the cash register dinging fill the large room with sound. It was so noisy that sometimes you need to talk very loudly to be heard.
    There weren’t referees, but there were lunch monitors (sort of the same thing). The monitors kept order and prevented food fights, drawing on the tables, and running around. They sent troublemakers to Mr. Avery’s office. (Darbie and Mr. Avery have spent a lot of time together over the years.)
    Picking a good lunch table on the first day of school was critical, because whatever table I picked could be our table for the rest of the year. Hannah conferred with me. “You’re getting the table against the wall, right?”
    â€œRight.” I rushed there to save seats while Hannah and Darbie got in line to buy their lunches. I never buy cafeteria food. I always pack my own lunch.
    I spread out a red-and-white gingham dish towel like a place mat, took out my ABCD sandwich, a bottle of water, and a homemade brownie. (I used walnuts, pecans, and hazelnuts. My dad says they’re
the best brownies this side of the Mason-Dixon line
.) Lastly, I took out the apple that came from Mrs. Silvers. Hesitantly, I bit into it. It was superjuicy, snow white inside, and incredibly sweet. It may have been the best I’d ever eaten.
    Hannah arrived at our table with her tray containing a banana, yogurt, and soft pretzel with a packet of yellow mustard.I looked at her tray and held up the mustard. “You don’t have to give up taste to be healthy,” I said.
    â€œWhat do you mean?” Hannah asked.
    I went to the condiment table, took a little paper cup, and squeezed some extrahot brown mustard and honey into it. I stirred and tasted with my pinkie finger.
Perfecto.
    â€œTry this.”
    She broke off a little piece of pretzel, dipped, and tasted. “Oh, this is so good. Thanks.”
    I shrugged. “Anytime.”
    â€œLook over there.” Hannah indicated a table of seventh-grade boys. “Frankie got so tan this summer. He’s even cuter than last year.” She reached into the pocket of her jeans and took out a glittery grape lip gloss and rolled it across her lips. The glitter and shine looked good. Maybe I should consider lip gloss this year.
    â€œFrankie Rusamano, cute?” Darbie asked. She tilted her head and looked at the boys’ table. “All I think about when I look at Frankie and Tony is how they cried and cried on the first day of kindergarten. Remember? They wouldn’t let go of Mrs. R. and get on the bus? She had to drive them to school and they both had a meltdown when she finally peeled them off her and left.”
    Frankie and Tony Rusamano lived in my neighborhood, but a few streets farther away than Hannah and Darbie. Our moms all knew one another.
    I studied Frankie Rusamano and his fraternal twin, Tony. Even though they were twins, Frankie and Tony were as different as Hannah and Darbie. Frankie was the leader of the seventh-grade boys. Everyone wanted to be his friend. “I don’t know, Darb. Maybe it’s time to forget about the crying and look at the Rusamano boys differently,” I said.
    â€œBoys? With an
s
? I was only talking about one boy—Frankie. Do you think Tony’s cute?” Hannah asked.
    That wasn’t an easy question to answer. Tony was hard to figure out. Frankie’s looks and personality were obvious. “I can’t really tell. His hair covers a lot of his face, and his clothes are so baggy, I’m not sure