"Then you should know better."
I had been at Riverview since freshman year. Kelsey knew that. She had seen me in chemistry, passed me in the halls, and once asked me for a pencil during a test.
She remembered me now because I was refusing to make her feel important.
The girl behind her folded her arms. Her name was Tessa, and she was already filming something on her phone. I could not tell whether she was recording us or pretending not to.
Kelsey tapped the table beside my tray.
"Get up."
I took a sip from my red bottle and set it down.
"No."
The word was quiet, but it traveled.
Tessa stopped smiling.
Someone at the next table whispered, "Oh, no."
Kelsey looked at me as if I had spoken in a language she did not recognize.
"No?"
"No."
She leaned over my lunch.
"You really want to do this?"
"I'm eating lunch."
"You're making this difficult."
"I'm sitting at a table."
That made two boys near the windows laugh. It was not a big laugh, but Kelsey heard it. Her face tightened, and the cafeteria seemed to shrink around us.
I knew that expression. My older brother, Jordan, wore it when he thought someone had embarrassed him in front of his friends. He had taught me one thing when we were kids.
"People who want control hate being ignored," he once told me. "They will keep raising the volume until you give them something."
Kelsey raised her volume.
"You're a junior. I'm a senior. This is my table."
"It belongs to the school."
"Are you trying to be funny?"
"No."
"Then move."
I looked at the empty tables again.
"No."
This time, nobody laughed.
Kelsey's fingers curled against the tabletop. Her nails were painted a glossy black, and one of them was chipped near the cuticle. She stared at me for several seconds.