The Theory of Everything by Kari Luna Read Free Book Online Page B

was no reason for me to stay. I headed for the door, which is when I heard it.
    Clang.
    Metal on metal.
    The pizza lady banged her spatula on the metal tray not once, but twice. Three times. Ten times—in a rhythm I knew all too well. Soon all the lunch ladies joined in with spoons and spatulas, beating on cookie sheets and countertops. When a woman popped out of the trash can strumming a saucepan as a guitar, I knew I was in trouble.
    â€œWell, I don’t like pepperoni—cheese, cheese, we’re out of cheese pizza,”
she sang.
“’Cause that’s not what I want to eat—cheese, cheese, we’re out of cheese pizza,”
she continued as the hairnet band kept the beat.
    â€œI just wanna have my pick, eat some lunch, just a little bit, cheese, cheese, cheese, cheese, we’re outta cheese pizza . . .”
    I tried to control myself, but it was hard to stand still while the lunch ladies covered “Rock ’n’ Roll High School” by the Ramones. So I didn’t. None of us did.
    Math nerds hopped on tables and played air guitar, sending their iPhones flying; cheerleaders swung their collective ponytails in circles, littering the linoleum with scrunchies; drama kids mimed the lyrics, showing shock and awe with the “out of cheese pizza” line. When the football players formed a circle and ran around slamming into each other like punks, I danced just outside of them. It felt good to be a part of something, even if it was only a mosh pit.
    â€œBum, bummer, outta cheese pizza.”
    â€œToo bad, we’re not gonna eat ya.”
    â€œGuess I gotta have a burri-taa . . .”
    The guitar wailed. The drums pounded. And as the chorus built, I knew I had nothing to lose.
    â€œCheese, cheese, cheese, cheese, we’re outta cheese pizza,”
the woman sang as I ran up onstage in front of my fellow moshers, gave the rock-and-roll symbol and dove, headfirst, into the welcoming arms of my new friends.
    Time slowed, skipped and jumped as my body flew through space, arms outstretched like a superhero. The sound of the Ramones faded, and the deafening clatter of the cafeteria appeared instead—dishes clanging, girls squealing and one voice, in particular. It belonged to Heather.
    â€œHoly crap, you broke my arm!” I heard her say as I slid down the brown laminate table until I was stopped by a bowl of cottage cheese and peaches.
Her
cottage cheese and peaches.
    â€œGet off of her!” Stacey said, rushing in and pushing me to the side. “Heather, are you okay?”
    She was, but I wasn’t. Somehow, I’d managed to land directly in the middle of the table, ruining my skirt (dipped in French dressing), my shirt (flung in tomato sauce) and, of course, my face (covered in cottage cheese). Luckily, no cheerleaders were harmed in the making of this episode.
    â€œMaybe it’s just sprained,” Heather said, cradling her arm.
    â€œNobody worry about me, I’m fine,” I said, hopping off the table. I had a massive stomachache and my skirt was turned around backward, so on top of everything else, I had a tree on my butt.
    â€œWere you trying to commit suicide?” Stacey looked at me, big eyes blinking.
    â€œSocial suicide, maybe,” Heather said.
    At least her mind was intact.
    I smoothed down my hair, which felt like it had gone through a wind tunnel, wiped my face with a napkin and looked around the cafeteria. It was obvious I was the only one who had witnessed my stage dive. The rest of them only saw the new girl, crazy as they came, doing a belly flop into the cheerleaders’ table.
    â€œMs. Sophia? Would you come with me?”
    Ms. Shipley, the school nurse, extended her hand. I didn’t take it, but I followed her out of there, away from the scene of another episode and, after a quick checkup, on to the scene of another one: the principal’s office. It was like San Francisco all over