covering my tray. “My buddy! My man! How’s your lunch?”
I glare at him. “Go away, Nowak.”
“Tobes! That isn’t how you treat your study buddy! Come on.” He sits down across from me. “Dude, you haven’t touched your mashed potatoes. Is it that you don’t like the taste? Does the gritty texture bug you? Here, I’ll make it better.” A can of soda appears in his hand—or maybe he had it this whole time. “Look, me and the boys do this. I’m gonna help you out, man. Buddies help out buddies, right?” With a hissing crack of the tab, he tilts the can and proceeds to pour the dark, sticky contents of his soda over my mashed potatoes. I don’t even have time to protest. I just sit there and stare while my potatoes become a murky soup. “Hey, can I borrow this?” he asks a girl nearby, then snatches a few packets of mustard, mayo, and ketchup from her anyway, tears them open, and starts squirting them into his mixture. “You’re gonna love this, Tobes, my man. I call it the Nowak special.”
Benji is (unsuccessfully) trying to stifle his squeaky guffaws. Julio is wrinkling up his nose in a mixture of disgust and laughter as he watches on with sick interest. Hoyt, utterly satisfied with himself and perfectly at home, then jabs his own dirty finger into the pile of muddied potatoes, stirring it around. This lone action causes Benji to lose it, doubling over in laughter.
When Hoyt’s done, he meets my eyes. “Looks tasty, huh?”
The girls next to us have all stopped to watch, half of them laughing, half of them grossed out and gawking in shock. I feel the eyes of people behind us, too. My face is slowly flushing crimson as I stare at my ruined lunch, teeth clenched, eyes burning.
Hoyt grabs my plastic fork straight out of my hand, scoops up a huge clump of dripping, dark, red-and-yellow-swirled goop from my tray, then cheerily says, “Open up, buttercup!”
I glare back at him, furious.
“Oh, you want me to help feed it to you? This is so cute. Like you want me to be your boyfriend,” he decides, inspiring another round of idiotic guffawing from Benji and Julio. “Okay. I’ll do it.”
The next instant, he reaches over the table and takes hold of the back of my head, securing me in place as he steers the forkful of dripping muck toward my mouth like an airplane. “Open wide, Toby-Tobes!” I try to pull away, pressing my lips and eyes closed, but the strength in Hoyt’s one hand and arm is so strong, I can’t even manage to turn my face. Laughter rings in my ears. The goop presses against my sealed mouth now, smearing across my lips.
“HEY!”
Everything stops. The noise of the cafeteria drains away at the sound of that one curt firecracker of a word.
I open my eyes. Vann has risen from his seat two tables away, standing there with his dark eyes on us, fingers clenched into fists.
Hoyt still has a grip on my head, but the forkful has lowered back down to the tray. “Hey yourself!” Hoyt calls back, inspiring a tiny chortle from Benji—but dead silence from everyone else. The uncertainty in the eyes of everyone in the cafeteria is real; they’re all terrified of Donovan Pane, the new senior at Spruce High.
“Leave that guy alone,” Vann orders Hoyt, “unless you want to taste blood in that mouth of yours.”
Hoyt snorts at him. “Nothing’s happening here! I’m his buddy. I’m just helping him out and … broadening his taste bud horizons.” That gets another short-lived cackle from the laugh-happy Benji.
Vann’s face is a marble statue of chiseled resolve when he stares down Hoyt. He’s intimidating, even from two whole tables away. “Last warning. Leave him alone.”
Hoyt, finding this hilarious, makes an alternative suggestion. “Or, Mister Prince of Darkness, how about you leave us alone, and let me and my pal Toby enjoy our tasty lunch together?”
What happens next is very fast. Vann grabs a cup of yogurt in his palm. He rips the lid straight off like pulling the pin from a grenade, arches his arm back, and launches the cup straight at Hoyt’s perfect head of hair.
Hoyt ducks just in time to dodge it.
And the yogurt crashes into my face instead.
I fly back from the table at once, freed from Hoyt’s grip, as a cacophony of shouting, gasps, and commotion explodes all around us. And behind a messy curtain of yogurt over my