With many reservations and heavy, reluctant steps, I follow Kasey to the cafeteria. I think up excuses the whole way there, but since I don’t spit any of them out, I walk through the open doors and into the mouth of hell.
The cafeteria buzzes with energy and conversation. All the people I spend all day not interacting with gathered together in one place. Fantastic. I also don’t have my lunch, which means I’ll have to buy. Ordinarily I wouldn’t even have enough cash on me to buy lunch, but I still have the twenty that Carter left me Thursday, so I guess I can use that.
Kasey chatters as we walk over and take our places in line. Even though she is literally invisible to most social sectors, Kasey is unafraid of the lunch room. I admire that about her. I get the feeling if she had been my best friend instead of Grace during the “Zoey the ho” situation, Kasey would have ignored the stares, slut coughs, and open hostility from the football players. I bet she would have sat there with me, completely unmoved by the nonsense all around, and I bet she never would have let me flee the lunch room in the first place.
This is a lot of betting I’m doing on someone I barely know, but she just has a very strong presence, and I really dig it. I love Grace, but I feel like Kasey might be more on my level in regards to certain things. While I do love Grace, we really don’t have that much in common.
I feel a kinship with Kasey already, and this is only my second interaction with her.
By the time I follow her to an empty section of table and sit down with her, I’m already feeling a little more comfortable. The odd look from the jocks has certainly come my way, mainly from Erika, who is glaring at me through narrowed eyes like she personally owns the cafeteria, and she’s contemplating coming over to kick me out.
“Ignore her, she’s a bitch,” Kasey tells me, plucking a French fry off her food tray.
Glancing away from Erika and down at my own, I smile faintly. “Believe me, I know.”
“So, anyway, the reason I wanted to talk to you is I wanted to see if you’d be interested in writing for the school paper. I cyber stalked you a little bit and discovered you work at a bookstore. Can I assume you like to read?”
“I do,” I verify, unbothered by her admission of stalking. I probably would have stalked her to find out what her deal was, but I was too wrapped up in Carter.
“Okay, so, we’ve decided to add a book review column to the paper, but all of our writers have assignments. We don’t have anyone who was interested in making this their regular beat, and I thought, you’re smart, you read, you work at a bookstore—who better to do the column? Plus, if you’re on the fence, it will look good to colleges,” she adds, to entice me. “I know you have work and youth group and church, but you don’t have any extracurriculars at school. You spend as little time here as you possibly can, and to be perfectly honest, I think being able to add book reviewer for the school paper to your resume would make you look more well-rounded.”
Baffled by the amount of thought she has put into my college resume, I blink at her, searching for a response.
Reaching into the small purse she carries with her, she draws out a white envelope and passes it across the table. “And before you say anything, if you answer yes, you get this.”
I pull the envelope closer and pick it up. Opening it, I find a $100 bill and two $50 bills inside. “What’s this for?”
“Your stipend,” she answers, sounding all proud of herself. “You can use that money to buy the books you want to review. We prefer new releases, but the section is yours to do whatever you want with. If you want to do a spotlight on older releases, that’s fine, too. It’s completely up to you. Just clear the book with the editor, write your review, and that’s it. It’s an easy gig, it’ll look good to the colleges you’re applying to, and you get $200 to spend on books.”
“This is mine?” I question, skeptically. “I can spend all of it on books? I don’t have to pay it back or anything?”
“Nope. You don’t even have to show receipts. You take that money and don’t even mention it again.”
“Don’t mention it?”
“Well, the movie reviewer doesn’t get a stipend, so they’d probably be a little salty. I wouldn’t mention it.”
“Then why do I get one?” I ask.
“Don’t look the gift horse in the mouth,” she advises me. “So, are you in?”