Lunchtime arrives with the clatter of trays and the roar of a hundred conversations. The cafeteria is a large room with long wooden tables with worn surfaces, flickering fluorescent lights, and the smell of institutional food — something involving ground meat and steam. Students line up at the serving counter, jostling and laughing, backpacks piled on chairs to save seats.
I find a spot near the window where I can see most of the room. It's a strategic position — I can watch the flow of students, note who sits with whom, observe the social hierarchy in action. The girls from wealthier families cluster by the windows, posture perfect, laughter practiced. The sporty types huddle near the serving line, tracksuit jackets over their uniforms. The quiet ones — bookish or shy — tuck into the back corner, heads down over their trays.
Hope waves from the line. I don't see Hester.
