text: Rust?
  
  Yes, rust. As in, impaired by neglect. Not to be confused with the video game version. Although, come to think of it, since that Rust has only one aim, to survive at all costs, it might also fit our bill, which in fairness might seem a bit melodramatic, but we are teenagers, we're entitled.
  
  And confinement will do this to you.
  
  Yes, confinement.
  
  We, as in me, Sidonie "Sid" Rubin, geek lesbionic brainiac, along with my best bud forever, star quarterback, future Supreme Court Justice, Jimmy aka "Five Fingers" Flynn and his new girlfriend, the aforementioned Imani Cruz, who you might remember, before she started dating Jimmy was my other best friend from the day we met (yes, still not quite fully adjusted)— we are nearly, but not quite, right where you left us.
  
  I say not quite, because if we were actually right where you left us, we would be indulging our latte cravings at our favorite haunt, the attitudinally challenged Perk This— an environment that somehow makes Imani's inability to grasp even the most basic math kind of charming.
  
  But sadly we are not there, and there is no charm here.
  
  Here, as in stuck, trapped, slowly suffocating, choking in the soul-sucking, cinderblock, spirit-bannered school lunch hall, suffering from complications caused by serious latte withdrawal, and lack of any other senior-year-of-high-school urban creature comfort. A harsh reality we are forced to endure because our parents, both singularly and collectively, have yet to express anything other than disbelief and anger since our "ill-conceived" (their word, not mine) late-night LARPing-to-find-a-killer expedition. Apparently neither the intent, nor the ultimate success behind our actions, warrants redemption.
  
  Okay. Fair enough. Forget redemption. How about sympathy, or empathy? Compassion maybe. Or even pity? I'm not proud; I will take pity.
  
  Nothing. Nada. Zero. Zilch. I have to say, I'm kind of disappointed in them.
  
  And for the record, we did not embrace our fate quietly. Au contraire, mes amis.
  
  Our first attempt to outthink our restrictions and avoid the complete humiliation of being a senior spotted in the lunchroom involved subverting said restrictions by highjacking the sofas in the back of Mr. Clifton's Adventures in Morality, Legality, and Life classroom as our private cafe. But shockingly, and even worse sadly, the heretofore, ultra-cool, motorcycle-riding Mr. Clifton was not interested in being perceived as supporting our foray into sleuthing and other suddenly "anarchistic activities."
  
  Yeah, that's the one I didn't see coming.
  
  I don't know; maybe it was the gunfire.
  
  Which puts us here, kicked back to the low-ceilinged lunch hall of backless hard benches and horrendous fluorescent lighting, when for a brief moment there was a shimmer of light, and it looked as though, yet again, we had discovered another loophole allowing us to circumvent the worst of it all.
  
  Because if we think our public shaming isn't bad enough, forcing us to actually eat the school lunches is even worse (although I will confess to a weird fascination with, bordering on fondness for, those English Muffin Pizza-with-American-Cheese things). And it is worse-ness compounded, if you consider the world's greatest food is mere steps away from the main entrance, close enough to inhale, and yet we cannot leave school grounds to go get it.
  
  But I did say we found a loophole— or at least we thought we did.
  
  Ari, the ever-flirtatious, larger-than-life Arianna Wilson, actually can go outside, because her Mom is apparently way more chill, or at least way less interested, than the rest of ours.
  
  And while once upon a time, Vikram might have escaped sharing our fate, being as he is the only son with five sisters in a fairly traditional family (translation: he tends to get away with murder), now his parents' joy that their son and Jimmy, the star quarterback, have somehow become friends seems to have ironically both raised and lowered his familial position.
  
  As in, sadly for him, his fate is now irrevocably tied to ours.
  
  A new reality he discovered at the LARP after-party, which was held in the hospital emergency room, where although I stressed I was fine, I was taken by ambulance to be "checked out."
  
  That meeting, which sealed all our fates, did not disappoint. It was intense, equal parts bloody, merciless, and occasionally funny ...if you happen to be a fan of gallows humor. It went down in the hospital corridor, right outside the glass window of my room, with the five of us trapped inside, huddling, hunkering and striving to be invisible, while the parental voices and gestures were like a tsunami, rising up and consuming the hallway.
  
  According to Imani, this cacophony is exactly what it's like to sit in on a UN meeting gone wrong.
  
  Led by my suddenly very French Maman, in full beautiful monster aka bête belle mode, with Dad trying to keep his anger in check just enough so that there will be some semblance of rational containment, the voices started off low and determined. We could distinctly hear Jimmy's Southern Japanese-American Mom's drawl grow broader as she vetted her ten ways to kill us now, while his Irish-Bostonian Dad was so angry that when he began ratcheting up the group vocal level, we honestly couldn't quite understand a word he was saying.
  
  Vik's Mom, in the meantime, was gesticulating so wildly, her sunburnt-orange sari was like a tapestry "taken by the wind," while his Dad just kept up this kind of "no no no" headshake and tongue-clucking thing.
  
  Then finally, as though they were a few minutes fashionably late to the party, enter Imani's Mom, beautiful, tall, very elegant and her Dad, impossibly taller and incredibly dashing. They came striding down the hallway looking exactly like they were TV casting for the Kenyan ambassador couple. And since Dr./Ms. Asha Cruz was in an unbelievably elegant, tapered dress, and Dr./Mr. Antonio Cruz was in an equally elegant tuxedo, modern enough that despite my impaired condition, I had a pang of wishing it was mine, it seemed a safe guess they came directly from some dignitary function.
  
  And they were fierce. Picture a very suave, Afro-Latino James Bond and his incredibly bold, sexy date being called away from defending the crown because they are needed to, I don't know, referee a beer brawl. Yeah. They were most definitely not a happy twosome. Ow.
  
  Although I have to say, Imani's Mom wears anger really well.
  
  Yeah. Okay. In full confession mode here, I have been crushing on Imani's Mom since the day I met her. Which would be right when I turned twelve and was, let's just say, coming into my own. Mentally. Physically. Hormonally.
  
  And Asha kind of looks like the model, Iman (which is why I swear they named Imani, Imani, although Imani totally denies it), and when she walks, it's like she's actually catwalking, or something. For a solid year every time I would go over to Imani's house and her Mom would be around, I would go home and play a little David Bowie "it's like putting out the fire with gasoline"— on a loop. So when people need to ask, "what was my first clue ..."
  
  "God, she is so hot."
  
  And the room turned to look at me.
  
  Which is unfortunately how I realized I was apparently using my outside voice.
  
  Oops.
  
  Now if this was any form of a usual circumstance I would absolutely be mortified, but one, I was slightly injured and on drugs, and two, my crush on Imani's Mom is such old news as to be a yawn-fest, and three, almost as if she somehow heard me, Asha turned around and stared into the room, delivering us a message so loud and clear, any theoretical ribald remarks were instantly silenced as we all shrank down in an effort to somehow hide from our sealed fate.
  
  Because if we thought their arrival might offer a potential diplomatic solution, we could all now rest uncomfortably assured we were wrong. Dr. Asha Cruz's scathing, taut, unblinking look guaranteed us they were not here as angels of mercy coming to our rescue. Nope. There would be no diplomatic aid, nor any kind of international bailout.
  
  Which brought me back to our loophole.
  
  We thought that, granted, while we would still be forced to sit and eat in the cafeteria, we could maintain our senior superiority, and perhaps even enhance it, or at least maybe flaunt it— just the tiniest bit— by allowing the masses to drool as we chowed down on food, gathered by Ari-the-reigning-queen-of-the-unfettered-by-parents, from the magnificent plethora of food trucks parked a mere one avenue away. Which is pretty darn close, because in New York City, avenue blocks are fairly short (it's the street blocks that are long). So it seemed a clever answer to our dire situation and honestly pretty easy-peasy.
  
  But I ask you, is anything ever really easy-peasy?
  
  By day three, Ari is whining that the bags are too heavy, the orders are too big, and she is losing way too much Vikram-the-boyfriend time. I will point out that Vikram's lunch is also in this run. But Ari gets a little irritable— okay, a lot irritable— and her bitchwhinemoan level increases until it becomes sharply deafening and thus we are once again forced to adjust.
  
  So now she gets our lunch on Fridays, but the rest of the time, we are forced to suck it up and tray it with the underclass masses.
  
  I do take some pride in never making eye contact with my younger brother, Jean (of the French pronunciation, "zhan," which no one uses because where would be the fun in that, "Yoo Hoo, Eu-gene!") Shallow, I know. And yes, he did come through when we needed him, but I still will not be seen lunching with him. Nope. Not going to happen. Cheap thrill. Small victory. Big Sigh.
  
  And so ladies and gentlemen, and everyone else on the gender-fluid spectrum, we are now three weeks in, with no freedom in sight. Yep. Three weeks down, the rest of our senior year to go.
  
  Today, Jimmy is off hanging out (or hiding out) somewhere, while you have come to find me sitting with Imani (of the stunning looks, massive language skills, and fantastic acting chops), knowing we are embarked on a nearly futile mission: getting Imani to understand the infamous mathematical word problem. An issue you may be quite familiar with. As in, you kind of either get them— or you don't. Sadly, Imani falls into the "don't" category.
  
  So I sit here, alternating between drumming my pencil and miserably watching the jumbo second hand of the cafeteria clock tick, and indulging my masochistic self, dying over and over, in Hiro!!'s brilliant, evil, warped Trap Adventure 2, waiting discontentedly for Imani to have a miraculous breakthrough, or something else, anything else, to come into my life and make this moment somehow less wallowing. The ubiquitous "be careful what you wish for."
  
  Right on cue, as if he heard my silent plea, enter stage left one Vikram Patel, toting one cheap beige cafeteria tray, scanning the room for our location.
  
  And boom, we are spotted; let the beeline begin.
  
  Watching Vikram hop, skip and zigzag his way closer, I am weirdly mesmerized by his approach. He is oddly, awkwardly bounding, attempting to battle through the maze of kids, circumventing all those pushed and strewn chairs, going left to get right. But as he is pausing here and there, he looks up and it's almost as if he is sniffing the air, finding us, and then grinning again.
  
  And although I'm not sure I know why, as I watch him navigate this maze, I get "the hackles" and instantly know he is way too happy for my own good. And then, not only do I surprise myself by hearing my own suspicious, random I think I liked you better when I thought you were a loser, but simultaneously, almost as though it is an echo, except it isn't, from somewhere deep in the recesses of my mind, I also hear my mother's voice, replete with her withering sense of droll, "Je dis qu'il y a anguille sous roche," which actually translates to, "I sense there is an eel under a rock." Or, to put it my way ...
  
  ...I smell a rat.