Not even once, as the occasion has never arisen. Since middle school I’ve had a core group of friends from church—the devout kids clique from youth group who sit together at the “awe-scoff lunch table”—and we’ve always looked out for each other. Until today, when I sit alone at a lunch table in the sole company of the nutritious lunch my mother made. The devout kids stare at me over their sinless shoulders, their mouths agape. This is certainly big news in their righteous lives. Unfortunately for me, their abject staring is accompanied by occasional pitiful glances, spurts of solemn discussion, and frequent head shaking. So not only am I consumed with worry over my eternal soul, I also feel like a social pariah. Mom has come through for me, at least. Despite my lack of appetite, I’m plowing my way through a Tupperware container of fried artichoke hearts, a cold meatball sub, and an oversized kosher dill pickle, which I avoid placing against my lips, given the circumstances.
