“You’re not even suspended?” she squeals. “That’s awesome! It was the tears, wasn’t it? See, I hesitated to spray you at first, but it turned out to be a genius move—” I stop her with a glare that would wilt lettuce. My eyes stopped watering hours ago, but the pain and humiliation of being a human snot-cannon will last forever. “Yeah, it was weird . . . the principal seemed almost sorry for me. We had a long talk about how I can’t let my delusions take over my life. Then he rearranged my schedule so that I have Reality Management last period.” Darla needs that class more than I do, but whatever. Catherine was deemed innocent, which is what really matters. I scan the cafeteria for some sign of her, but I guess she’s lying low. I wish I knew what she was thinking. Are we cool now? Or not? All’s well in the rest of cafeteria land: the Burnouts are gagging on NyQuil and ecstatically inhaling Sharpie fumes; the Thugs are freestyling; the Mary Janes are lavishing love on their Nintendogs.
