Not because he never did.
Because I had never been around him when he felt safe enough.
I stepped away from the stairs.
The driver opened the SUV door when I reached the curb.
“Your mother’s assistant has called twice,” he said.
I got into the back seat and shut the door.
Normally, I would have put on headphones.
Instead, I stared at my cafeteria receipt still crumpled in my fist.
Pepperoni slice.
Chocolate milk.
Cookie.
I smoothed it over my knee.
“Can we go back to school?” I asked.
The driver glanced at me in the mirror.
“It’s almost closed.”
“I know.”
He had worked for my family long enough to recognize when questions were pointless.
He turned the car around.
The front office secretary was stacking forms when I walked in.
“I forgot something,” I said.
She looked at the clock.
“What?”
I did not know yet.
So I walked toward the cafeteria.
The lights were half off.
Chairs had been turned upside down on most tables.
A custodian pushed a mop near the vending machines.
The cafeteria register was covered.
Behind it, the folded printout I had noticed earlier still stuck out from beneath a clipboard.
I should not have touched it.
I knew that.
But Lucas’s name was visible.
MILLER, LUCAS.
Under it were dates.
Present, no meal purchase.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Eight times that month.
The lunch monitor from earlier stepped out of the kitchen.
“What are you doing?”
I dropped the paper.
She recognized me immediately.
Her face hardened.
“I was just looking.”
“You’ve done enough looking at Lucas for one day.”
I deserved that.
I swallowed.
“Why doesn’t he get lunch?”
Her expression changed slightly.
“That isn’t your business.”
“He was here.
He didn’t buy anything.”
She picked up the printout and folded it over.
“Some students bring lunch.”
“He brought bread.”
