Chapter 2 - The Canteen Strategy

The double doors to the canteen swung open, and the usual midday roar of voices hit me like a solid wall. Selima did not let go of my arm, she steered me through the crowd with a mission-driven focus.

“Look, he’s over there,” she hissed, nodding toward the center of the room.

“I see him, Selima. It’s hard to miss the sun when it’s shining,” I replied, my voice trembling as I watched Uriel sitting at a central table.

He was surrounded by the ‘elites’, the athletes and the socialites whose parents owned half the city. “He’s alone at the end of the bench,” Selima observed, her eyes narrowing as she calculated our path. “Michael is just a few feet away. This is perfect. We’re going in.”

“I can’t do this,” I whispered, trying to anchor my sneakers to the linoleum floor. “Look at Chloe and her group. If I walk over there, they’ll laugh me out of the building. Did you see the way she looked at my hair yesterday? Like I was something she found on the bottom of her shoe.”

“Who cares about Chloe?” Selima snapped, grabbing two slick plastic trays and thrusting one into my hands with enough force to make the plastic rattle. “She’s just background noise in the movie of your life, Mehanda. We’re getting food, and we’re sitting right behind them. Move your legs!”

“Selima, wait, my heart is actually going to stop,” I pleaded.

“No waiting. Pick up that milk carton. Move your feet, or I’ll tell everyone you still sleep with a nightlight,” she commanded with a wicked grin.

I shuffled forward like a zombie, sliding my tray along the metal rails.

I picked up a sandwich I knew I wouldn't be able to swallow. As we walked toward the seating area, my legs felt like they were made of lead. We slumped into a spot exactly where Selima had planned.

Sitting so close to him felt like playing with fire. I could see the back of his neck and the way his blond hair curled slightly at the nape. Suddenly, Michael leaned over and poked Uriel’s shoulder.

“Hey, man, are you going to finish that orange or just keep dissecting it like a science project?” Michael asked with a loud, booming laugh that echoed off the canteen walls.

“I’m enjoying the process, Mike,” Uriel replied. His tone was low and rich, sending a fresh wave of shivers down my spine.

“The process? It’s fruit, not a philosophy major,” Michael joked. “You’ve been staring at that peel for five straight minutes. You okay? Or did the math test finally fry your brain?”

“Everything has a rhythm if you pay attention,” Uriel murmured, his tone cryptic, as though guarding a secret only he could hear.

 Selima kicked me under the table, her eyes wide with a frantic ‘do something’ expression.

“Talk to me,” she hissed under her breath. “Say something loud. Now, Mehanda! Say anything!”

“I... I haven't finished the research for the history project yet,” I stammered, my voice cracking in the most embarrassing way possible. I hated how small I sounded.

“Oh? What part?” Selima asked, unnaturally loud, clearly trying to catch Uriel's attention. “The French Revolution? Or the part where people actually stand up for what they want? You know, the part about courage?”

“The part about... the guillotine,” I muttered, wishing one would drop on me right now.

At that exact moment, Uriel turned his head. He didn't look at the elite girls, and he didn't look at Michael. His sky-blue eyes slid across the room and landed directly on me. I froze, a piece of crust halfway to my mouth.

“Is there a problem over there?” he asked quietly. It was the first time he had truly directed his attention to me. My nerves spiked so hard I thought my skin might crack. He wasn’t being mean—his voice held genuine curiosity, his head tilting slightly to the side.

“No! No problem,” I squeaked, feeling my face turn the color of a ripe tomato.

“But you look like you’ve seen a ghost,” he remarked, a tiny, almost invisible tilt appearing at the corner of his mouth. “Is the French Revolution really that scary?”

“I’m just... I’m just busy with the research,” I managed to say, my heart hammering so hard I was sure the students at the next table could hear it. “It’s a lot to take in.”

“History is a lot of weight to carry during lunch,” Uriel said, his eyes never leaving mine. “Maybe you should take a break before your head explodes.”

“She’s a perfectionist,” Selima interjected, leaning into his line of sight. “She won’t stop until every detail is perfect. Right, Mehanda?”

“Right,” I breathed, finally lowering my sandwich.

Uriel leaned back, gathered his things, and stood up. He nodded to Michael. “I’ll see you at the courts, Mike. I need some air.”

“Yeah, don’t be late! I’m not losing to you again,” Michael shouted.

As Uriel stepped away from the table, he began to walk past us. The space was narrow, and as he passed, his shoulder brushed against mine. It was a light, fleeting contact, but it felt like a lightning strike.

“Sorry,” he murmured near my ear, his breath warm against my skin for a split second.

“It’s okay,” I breathed out, unable to move.

The moment the doors swung shut behind him, Selima leaned across the table, her eyes wide and frantic.

“Did you hear that? He talked to you! He joked with you! ‘History is a lot of weight’—Mehanda, that was practically a poem! He was flirting!”

“He probably thinks I’m a freak, Selima,” I moaned, finally hiding my burning face in my hands. “I squeaked at him. I actually squeaked like a mouse.”

“You didn’t squeak, you responded,” Selima insisted, grabbing her tray and standing up. “And he touched you. That wasn’t an accident, girl. The canteen is crowded, but he could have walked the other way. He chose to pass right by you.”

“I’m going to die of embarrassment before three o'clock,” I muttered, but as I stood up, I couldn't stop touching the spot on my shoulder where he had brushed against me. “What do we do now?”

“We stick to the plan,” Selima said firmly. “He mentioned the courts. That means he and Michael are playing ball after school. We’re going to be there. We’re going to be the most supportive fans they’ve ever had.”

“I don't even know the rules of basketball,” I pointed out.

“The rule is: Uriel puts the ball in the hoop, and you look pretty while watching him,” Selima laughed, pulling me toward the exit. “It’s not rocket science, Mehanda. It’s chemistry.”

“I’m failing chemistry, too,” I sighed, but for the first time in two years, a tiny spark of hope was actually glowing in my chest.

“You aren’t failing this,” Selima assured me. “Look at your hands. They’re shaking. That’s the adrenaline. Use it. By next week, you’re going to be his Valentine, or I’m not the best matchmaker in this school.”

“I just hope I can find the words to say something better than ‘guillotine’ next time,” I muttered.

“Don’t worry,” Selima winked. “I’ll help you with the script.”