Lunchtime at a U.S. high school is less of a meal and more of a miniature exhibition of social hierarchy.
When the shrill bell rang for the end of class, students rushed toward the cafeteria like a floodgate opening.
Alice stood in the serving line, holding her tray.
The stainless steel troughs in front of her were filled with a few classic examples of U.S. school lunches.
A glob of suspiciously colored macaroni paste, a few chicken nuggets fried to the texture of cardboard, and overcooked broccoli.
"Do you want chocolate milk or strawberry milk?"
The stout lady wearing a hairnet, even with a hand shaking as if she had Parkinson's, didn't forget to scoop an extra spoonful of macaroni for Alice, probably because she saw this new transfer student was just too thin.
"Chocolate, please."
Alice turned around with her tray, facing the cafeteria hall that was as noisy as a wet market.
The round tables by the window, which had the best lighting and the most space, belonged firmly to the top of the food chain: the football players and the cheerleaders.
They laughed and talked loudly without restraint, throwing breadcrumbs at each other as if the whole World revolved around them.
The middle area belonged to the ordinary masses, with various cliques clearly separated.
Skater boys, goth weirdos, or nerds obsessed with some kind of card game.
And the corner near the trash cans and the cleaning supply closet was reserved for the untouchables, commonly known as nerds.
In this country that worships athletic competition and personal charisma, intelligence is sometimes not a capital worth showing off, but rather the original sin that invites bullying.
Alice didn't hesitate for a moment; she walked straight through the area where people cast probing glances at her, and headed toward that most inconspicuous corner.
Someone was sitting there.
Peter Parker was huddled alone in his chair, gnawing on a dry, homemade sandwich while writing and drawing in a thick notebook.
His tray was pushed to the side, the food inside barely touched.
"Is this seat taken?"
A crisp voice interrupted Peter's train of thought.
He jerked his head up, a breadcrumb still stuck to the corner of his mouth, and when he saw Alice standing opposite him with her tray, he froze instantly, like a groundhog struck by lightning.
"Uh, no, no, nobody!"
Peter scrambled to gather up the pile of draft paper spread across the table, even nearly knocking over his milk.
"Please sit, Alice."
Alice pulled out the chair and sat down; this action immediately caused a small commotion nearby.
That beautiful daughter of a con artist actually took the initiative to sit opposite the insignificant Parker?
In the high school social circle, this was practically suicidal behavior.
At the top-tier table not far away, Flash Thompson stopped playing with the football in his hand, squinted and glanced over here, then sneered a few words to his companion, probably saying some trash about birds of a feather flocking together.
Alice completely ignored those gazes.
She poked the rock-hard chicken nugget with her fork and then looked at Peter.
"What are you calculating? It doesn't look like this week's math homework."
"Oh, this?" Peter pushed up his glasses, feeling a bit embarrassed, and lowered his voice as if sharing a huge secret. "I'm researching a new type of high-strength adhesive formula. I'm thinking, if I can simulate the protein structure of spider silk, I could create a material that is lightweight but has ten times the tensile strength of steel cables."
His eyes glittered with a fanatical light for science.
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