Ed and I are capitalizing on the stack of stolen hall passes we bought off three-time senior Tiger Janson for $1.25 and half a bottle of the really strong glue we use to piece bird houses together in woodshop due to the recession and glue being cheaper than the combined costs of nails and the resulting thumb splinters for the nurse's station.

We're supposed to be in health class, photo-identifying STDs and taste-testing flavored condoms courtesy of the Trojan spokesperson scheduled to speak with us and the rest of Mrs. Dufonte's third period. Instead, we've been engaged in what Mrs. Dufonte would refer to as "lollygagging"—plundering coffee and ping pong games from the faculty break room, indulging in off-campus strolls, tickling the hall monitor's frayed God complex…

"What's up with you?" says Ed, hand-held dangling by his side.

"What do you mean?" I say, trying to sound casual. I'm pounding back my second can of Liquid Crack, a sleep deterrent and performance booster military eggheads chemically engineered for Dad's special ops team. He keeps a crate in the basement that I've been siphoning for years.

Ed angles the camera at his face and polishes the lens with the hem of his salmon colored t-shirt, "You're weird, I get that, but what's up with the Tourette's in Mr. B's class?"

He's referring to second period. I lost consciousness halfway through a discussion concerning last night's assigned reading, x amount of chapters from Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice, chapters I had intentions of reading before, well, before I realized I was never any good at self-management. I ended up succumbing to the lure of greasy take-out and a chance of engaging in a contrived argument with Rosie, one that made her cheeks flush and my heart consequently twitch a little…

"He, uh…," I shove down the groan threatening to bubble out and shrug, "startled me. You know I'm prone to nonsensical word vomit when startled."

"O-kay," he squints into the lens, gives it a final counterclockwise shine before pressing the plastic cap into place, "What about Tuesday?"

"What about Tuesday?" The bell rings and the bottle green doors flanking us explode in synchrony. We're lambasted by hungry band and drama department geeks as we push past the theater and adjacent music hall.

"You fell asleep in P.E."

"In my defense I've always found that class, for lack of a better word, boring?"

"Let me elaborate, you fell asleep in P.E. during a drill, mid-drill. The ball was in the air, Carter-"

"Case in point."

"And what about yesterday when you almost swan dived into your meatloaf?"

"Is it my fault that I've developed an appreciation for humble cafeteria cuisine?"

"Uh uh, Carter, no sale."

"Fine!" I maneuver around a throng of trendy environmentally-conscience kids who've convened to compare hemp sandals. They reek of clove cigarettes. "I guess I haven't been sleeping well."

"For how long?" he says.

"Since—two, three weeks ago?"

"That's a reasonably substantial amount of time," he hmms, "Enough to adversely affect your already borderline motor and cognitive functions."

"God," I feel my eyes flutter back, "why are you so obsessed with my well-being? If I was intended to die by means of sleep deprivation then so be it!"

"I hate to say it, Carter, but maybe, just maybe you're slowly, steadily going bat shit. Has that thought ever crossed your fuzzy little mind?"

"Never," I shake my head, "Masons don't go insane, they just don't. You know that crazy Uncle Larry everyone has hiding in their genealogical tree? Not mine. I don't even have a slightly neurotic Uncle Larry."

"You come from impressive stock."

"You bet," I yawn.

Ed laughs and says something about selective breeding as we round the corner into the cafeteria. Indistinct noise, something like cheap push-cart goulash, immediately throttles our conversation. Ed and I cut in front of his sallow A/V club friend and, armed with sporks, growling stomachs and trays that smell of disinfectant, travel down the chrome food line.

The bearded lunch lady grunts each time she empties her steaming ladle.

"Take one of those for me, will you?" says Ed as we near the register, thumb hitched at the vertical display of fruit-studded gelatin cups.

I grab a red one as Ed pays.

Claiming a seat in the lunch room can be a perilous task, but the high school Gods shine upon us and we manage to find room in-between shuffling social rungs. Ed snags the puck-like gelatin from my tray before it even skims the tabletop. He pries the plastic lid off and is swallowing down devastating spoonfuls in Guinness time.

I push a finger over my lips and jerk my head back to where a couple students are gossiping about Mrs. Dufonte's third period class and, more specifically, Lacey Walter's allergic reaction to the Trojan condom samples. According to the Perez in-the-makings, the source of Lacey's allergic reaction has yet to be determined, but is suspected to be the lemon-berry punch flavoring or the latex condom itself, possibly both.

"Why am I suddenly overcome with an overwhelming feeling of regret?" says Ed.

I roll my eyes and peel my milk carton open. I've decided that chocolate milk is the day's single most palatable menu item and consequently, the only thing worthy of living within the confines of my finicky stomach.

"I don't know if this film thing is going to work out," he says, scraping the plastic cup clean. "My parents are giving me crap about choosing a quote-unquote sensible career."

"And what's that?"

"According to my parents? Dental hygiene. Dad doesn't think I'm cut out to brave, let alone pass the medical board exam."

"Don't do it, Ed. Have you seen your parents?" Stepford all the way.

"Yeah," he chokes down another blob of gelatin, wipes a chunk off his mouth with the edge of his thumb, "Screw them."

"You don't mean it."

"Nah," he sighs, corking his eyes shut, "but I wish I did. I really wish I did."

Ed shreds ketchup packets with his teeth, "Isn't that your cousin?"

"What?"

"Rosie?" he nods, "Over there talking to Chelsea and the beefheads?"

"How would I know that?" I hear myself scoff, feel my arms snake across my chest so tight air can't seep in or out, "I don't keep tabs on her. I mean, just because my dad says I have to be cordial doesn't mean I will be. I mean, what am I? Like, pre-pubescent?"

"You seriously need to bleed already."

My middle finger is at full mast, "Eat—"

"Hello, Carter. Ed," says Rosie, stuffing up whatever I was about to say, "May I join you for lunch?"

Ed folds forward, mouth crammed with ketchup and green beans, and pats the vacant stretch of table beside me. He beams up at her and then there's a warm rustle that makes my guts tingle and Rosie's perched on the stool. She smoothes a napkin over her lap and sits pretty, back straighter than rebar.

I pick up a baby carrot and bite the end off, chewing violently while Ed and Rosie exchange anecdotes. Everything about her makes me so… so inexplicably… hot. Hot in the sense of fist-tightening anger and seething frustration, definitely not the bewitched, bothered and bewildered brand of hot, definitely—double definitely—not. I mean, she's pretty… like every princess should be. I mean, according to "the magical world of Disney," the admittedly narrow encyclopedia I've referred to all my life for insight into the elusive creature otherwise known as the princess-

"Carter," she says, pinning my eyes with hers-making me all too aware of the fact that Rosie isn't some fairytale princess and that I am freaking staring. "I would like to speak with you when we return to your dwelling," her voice lowers, "Regarding a private matter."

I sweep my elbows off the table and straighten my slouch, "Um," averting my eyes anywhere, knocking them around everywhere because maybe pulling spastic seizure faces will make me feel a little less ridiculous for freaking perving on her? Smooth move, Carter!

"Carter?"

What was she saying? "Um…" What was I saying? "Um…" Say something! "O-okay?"

She nods and a modest smile graces her lips... her perfe- Pull it together, Mason!

Ed's eyes radiate suspicion as he squints down at me, but I pretend not to notice. Partly because we don't have another class together until sixth period and I was planning on skipping anyway, see, Ed and I have mime for sixth period and I forgot to bring my beret, but mostly because mime sucks. Ever since the budget cuts, Lake Monroe has been quietly replacing its art department offerings with cost and curriculum friendly alternatives such as interpretive dance, shadow puppetry and yeah, mime.

The only reason my mime instructor (the unctuous Dr. Wetherbee) hasn't formally denounced my truancy is because he takes generous nips of vodka with his morning, mid-morning, afternoon and mid-afternoon cups of coffee. I suspect Dr. Wetherbee would have a hard time distinguishing a poorly trained student from Marcel Marceau's apparition at any given time. Ed attends mime religiously. He says it helps him relax; I say he likes wearing face paint and funny hats.

I decide to duck out of lunch early and forfeit my tray to Ed. He feeds like a bulimic scavenger, and it's the only reason why he isn't probing my departure. Instead, he pardons my lame excuse and gives me a two-finger wave that shouldn't really pass for an acknowledgment at all.

Rosie lifts her head up and says, "Goodbye, Carter."

Pretending my knees don't shake when she says my name is grueling. I barrel towards the exit, head tucked to my chest and bottom lip wedged between my teeth.