Aiden's next class after gym was literature, which felt a little strange. The small classroom was plastered with posters of book covers—classics, bestsellers, and forgotten novels alike. The air smelled faintly of old, bonded pages—the kind of musty scent that clings to libraries and quiet bookstores.
Mr. Mason signed Aiden's sheet and handed over the book list for the year. Aiden had already read almost all of them—Kenneth Oppel, Walter Dean Myers, Shakespeare, and plenty of works from the Renaissance era. Nothing here would surprise him. This class is going to be a snooze.
After that was American History. Re-learning about the Alamo wasn't as dull as expected, mostly because Mr. Warner seemed to treat it like his personal weekend reenactment project. Aiden smirked, thinking, Bet he dresses up in that old uniform on Saturdays. The man's passion was kind of amusing, even if it made history feel like theater.
Home Economics was next—an easy A+ in Aiden's book. He'd been cooking for himself since he was nine, and though the teacher seemed to be on some kind of health kick, Aiden figured he'd still come out on top. This'll be a joke.
His last class before lunch was French. Miss Hoff was... uninspiring. Aiden's old neighbor, Mrs. Palpanini, could've taught circles around her. Mrs. Palpanini, the chain-smoking French-Italian immigrant, had taught him more in the hallway chats and dinners at their old building than any textbook ever could. "Seeking opportunity for a better lifestyle," she'd say in her raspy voice, quoting her father. He still remembered her, even though she'd died last year of a heart attack.
Lunch was a different story. As soon as Aiden entered the cafeteria, he felt the weight of every stare, every whispered comment. Great. The gym showdowns's made me the center of attention. Eyes tracked his every step like he was some kind of exhibit. Like I asked for this.
He pushed through the crowd, ignoring the sideways glances and the thinly veiled hostility. Then Angela waved him over. Relieved to have a familiar face, he made his way toward her table.
Sitting there were a few girls and boys. Jessica, with her wild, dangerously curly brown hair and sharp blue eyes, seemed to have already decided he was interesting—maybe a project. She talked nonstop, barely letting Angela get a word in, and Aiden immediately found her chatter annoying. Great, another one who won't shut up.
To Angela's right sat Lauren, the pale cornsilk blonde with cool green eyes and a flawless face. She barely spared Aiden a glance, clearly sizing him up like he wasn't worth her time. Typical. The pretty ones always act like they're better than everyone.
Across the table, the boys he'd beaten in gym—Ben, Tyler, Connor, and two others—gazed at him with pure loathing. No surprise there. Good. Let them hate. I don't need their approval.
Jessica kept firing questions about Chicago and his past, her curiosity too intense. Aiden wanted to shut it down, but instead, he made up stories—quick, bland fabrications that would satisfy for now. He hated feeling like an open book, every detail of his life up for scrutiny. They don't need to know everything.
As the minutes dragged on and the questions kept coming, Aiden's hunger gnawed at him harder. He hadn't touched his food yet. Finally, he found his opening and escaped, relieved to break free. At least I can eat now without an interrogation.