The cafeteria roared with the white noise of teenage existence.
Conversations overlapped. Trays clattered. Someone laughed too loud at a joke that probably wasn't funny. The usual chaos of Hartwell's lunch period, where futures were decided over overpriced salads and social hierarchies were maintained through strategic seating arrangements.
I had seventeen minutes of peace.
That was my calculation. Thirty-eight minutes for lunch period. Eight minutes to eat the sandwich Iris made me. Three minutes for cleanup because I wasn't an animal. Ten minutes to walk to the library where I could claim a corner desk before the study rush. That left seventeen minutes, give or take, to outline my Gatsby essay response for Ms. Vance's class.
