August started to shake his head, when Colin cut him off.
“You hungry?” he asked cheerfully. “I’m starving, let’s get some lunch.”
“. . . gives me the creeps.”
“. . . party this weekend . . .”
“. . . such an asshole.”
“. . . Jack and Charlotte an item?”
August stared down at his half-eaten food.
The cafeteria was loud—much louder than he’d expected—the constant clatter of trays and laughter and shouts as staccato as gunfire, but he tried not to think about that and instead focused on the green apple he was rolling between his hands. Apples were his favorite food, not because of the way they tasted, but because of how they felt. The cool, smooth skin, the solid weight. But he could feel Sam—that was the girl, it turned out—watching him, so he brought the apple to his mouth and bit down, fighting back a grimace.
August could eat, but he didn’t enjoy it. The act wasn’t repulsive. It was just . . . people talked about the decadence of chocolate cake, the sweetness of peaches, the groan-inducing pleasure of a good steak. To them, every food was an experience.
To August, it all tasted the same. And it all tasted like nothing.
“That’s because it’s people food,” Leo would say.
“I’m a person,” he’d say, tensing.
“No.” His brother would shake his head. “You’re not.”
August knew that he meant, You’re more. But it didn’t make him feel like more. It made him feel like an impostor.
Now, the way other people felt about food, that’s how August felt about music. He could savor each note, taste the melody. The thought made his tallies prickle, his fingers ache for the violin. Across the table, Colin was telling a story. August wasn’t listening, but he was watching. As Colin talked, his face went through an acrobatic procession of expressions, one folding into the next.
August took a second bite, chewed, swallowed, and set the apple down.
Sam leaned forward. “Not hungry?”
Before August could show her the half-eaten contents of his bag, Colin cut in.
“I’m always hungry,” he said with his mouth full. “Like, always.”
Sam rolled her eyes. “I’ve noticed.”
The boy, Alex, speared a piece of fruit. “So, Frederick,” he said, emphasizing every syllable in the name. “Colton doesn’t get a lot of new blood. You get thrown out of one of the other academies?”
“I heard she got kicked out,” whispered Colin. He didn’t have to say who.
“That’s not the only reason people change schools,” said Sam, turning to Alex. “Just because you got tossed—”
“It was a voluntary transfer!” said Alex, turning his attention back to August. “Well? Expulsion? Transfer? Bang a teacher?”
“No,” he answered automatically, and then, slower, “I was homeschooled.”
“Ah, no wonder you’re so quiet.”
“Alex,” said Sam, angling a kick under the table, “that’s rude.”
“What? I could have said ‘weird.’”
Another kick.
“It’s okay,” said August, managing a smile. “I’m just not used to so many people.”
“Where do you live?” asked Colin around a mouthful of pasta.
August took another bite of apple, using it to force down the words rising in his throat. In those stolen seconds, he sorted through his lines, trying find the right truth. “Near the Seam,” he answered.
“Damn,” said Alex, whistling. “In the red?”
“Yeah,” said August slowly, “but it’s North City, so . . .”
“It’s only scary if you don’t have a medal,” added Colin, tapping the embossed pendant around his neck.
Sam was shaking her head. “I don’t know. I’ve heard bad things happen in the red. Even to those with Harker’s protection.”
Alex shot a look across the cafeteria. “Don’t let her hear you say that. She’ll tell her dad.”
Colin shrugged, and started talking about a concert—the boy’s mind seemed to jump around even more than his—but August followed Alex’s gaze. Katherine was sitting alone at a table, but she didn’t look lonely. In fact, there was a small, defiant smile on her lips. As if she wanted to be alone. As if the fact people avoided her was a badge. August didn’t get it.
“You want to come, Freddie?”
He watched as she picked at her food in a slow disinterested way, as she drew a metallic nail around the edge of her pendant, as she got to her feet.
“Freddie?”
The current of the cafeteria shifted with the movement, eyes drifting her way. But she didn’t seem to mind. She kept her head up as she dumped the tray and walked out.
“He’s not even listening.”
August’s attention snapped back. “Sorry, what?”
“Concert, Saturday, you want to come?”
“None of us are going,” Sam cut in, sparing August from having to answer. “Because there’s a curfew, Colin. And it’s practically in the Waste!”
“And we don’t want to die,” added Alex in a gross exaggeration of Sam’s tone. He flailed his arms as he said it.