April 15, 2012

          “You have chubby cheeks,” These are the first words you’ve told me.

          I have no clue as to how you noticed me. I thought I did a good job at sulking in the rooftop after Tiffany and her cronies grabbed my wallet and stole my lunch money. You climbed to the rooftop and ruined my plan of starving to death (well, until the lunch break ends, that is). Thanks a lot, stranger.

          “Here, you’re lucky my mom’s a klutz and ended up doubling my food,” You begin unpacking the contents of the mysterious brown plastic bag in your hand. Up close, your eyes are a startling hazel color. I didn’t know anyone with those eyes.

          I nod, say thank you, and take what you offered.

          Without asking, I know why you’d be on the rooftop: you bring lunch to school. All the kids don’t. Our school is fully equipped with a humungous cafeteria selling the most delicious food on this planet, or at least I think so. Again, I don’t have a classmate or batch mate or anything-mate that carries lunch to school. We all could afford to do otherwise. I understand. You’re something special, like raindrops while the sun is out.

          “This bibimbap is heavenly,” I murmured to show my appreciation.

          “I know right! That’s like, the only thing my mom knows how to cook. She’s great at it,” You proceed to tell me everything from your