The air in the cafeteria was heavy, saturated with the industrial humidity of the dishwashers and the inescapable, savory-sweet scent of Salisbury steak. It was a smell that usually signaled the midweek slump, a comfort to some, but today, it sat in my stomach like a stone.
I stood by the faculty supervision post, a position that offered a panoramic view of the chaotic ecosystem of fifth-grade lunch. My job was ostensibly to prevent food fights and monitor volume levels, but in reality, I was a watcher. I watched for the kids who sat alone, the ones who didn’t eat, the ones who carried the weight of the world in their oversized backpacks.
That was when I saw her.
Lily Miller.
She was a wisp of a girl, fragile as spun sugar, with eyes that seemed too large for her pale, heart-shaped face. While the rest of the lunch line was a kinetic blur of shoving elbows and boisterous laughter, Lily was a statue. She stood frozen before the hot food counter, her tray held white-knuckled against her chest.
Mrs. Davison, the cafeteria matron whose kindness was a legend in the district, was holding out a ladle of gravy, her smile faltering.
