"No Problem"
Piles of books smack against the cafeteria tables � tables that have been so engraved in that the folds of Ana�s fingers catch along them. Nearby, a boy obsessively rips up his Styrofoam lunch tray, enjoying every agonizing squeak emitted from the tortured matter. Fans whir overhead, trying to keep the hot air moving � a bizarre contrast from the cold collapsible chairs that make Ana feel like she�s sitting on two dull knives.
�This food sucks. Look, the salad dressing is, like congealing or something,� she says with a doleful prod at the limp lettuce and hesitantly taking a bite. The school�s iceberg lettuce is wrinkled against Ana�s tongue, but doesn�t crisp as it should when she bites into it. A few days too old, clearly. The salad dressing, a clear, misbegotten concoction, smooths along her tongue, too spicy and too sweet at the same time.
�That�s why you don�t get low fat.� Bri dumps a package of off-brand ketchup on her hot dog, landing some in her vegetables as well. �Ah, good old school food.�
Ana sets down her plastic spork, eyeing Bri�s squishy green beans � the smell of which wafts through the cafeteria from dozens of plates. �But low fat salad dressing is usually good,� she complains.
�Right � anyways. The fries are decent this year. Need more salt, though,� Bri decides.
�Ugh, fries are disgusting. I�ve never understood the appeal of fried potatoes.� Ana picks a few shredded carrot pieces out of the fray and slowly nibbles on them, enjoying every moment of their dehydrated nourishment.
�Dunno. Blame it on some French guy. The French are kooky like that, you know? I mean, who would have thought of dipping Wonder bread in eggy stuff and putting it on a griddle, and then eating it with maple syrup?� A drop of watery ketchup falls from Bri�s hot dog.
�They clearly had too much spare time,� Ana laughs, ignoring the sharp stab of pleasure in her stomach as the carrots start to digest.
�Yeah, no kidding. Hey, go try the hot dogs, they aren�t that bad.�
�Eh, I�m not that hungry any more. Besides, I like to know what it is I�m eating. Not really into the whole mystery meat scene.�
Bri answers with a shrug, �It�s food. Food is good.�
�Yeah �� Ana trails off uncomfortably, then shoves her chair away from the table. �I�m gonna go throw away my tray now. Want anything while I�m up?�
�Yeah, could you go get me a Snickers bar?� Some change slides across the table, led by Bri�s calloused hand.
Ana picks up the change, shifting it around in her palm. The trash can is almost full, and she sets her tray on top of the mass.
The vending machines � pantheon for high school students everywhere. They�re set in a shrine just off the cafeteria, with offerings of M&Ms and Skittles wrappers lying about on the floor. Ana studies the selection of packaged foods carefully, and inserts 75 cents for Bri�s Snickers. It falls to the bottom of the machine with a lifeless thud.
Her stomach clenches uncomfortably. She still has some money left over from buying her salad and water. Should she get something? No, too many calories. But she loves Sun Chips. Or she could get some sugar free gum. But that still has calories, and besides, it�s a carcinogen.
She sees herself reflected in the glass, the luminous fluorescent lighting behind her. She can almost see the calories of the carrots and lettuce materializing on her face, making it droop. Her shirt is a balloon being blown up, slowing filling out its bagginess, pressing against it till she can see her belly button, her breasts pushing against the fabric. Her hair looks like straw, bloated with fat.
No, no cheating today.
She bends down to get the Snickers bar, and with a last, wistful look at the machine, heads back to her table.
�Here you go, Bri,� Ana says, dropping it into the hood of her friend�s sweatshirt.
�Thanks.�
�No problem.�