Emeral yawned and brushed the hair out of her eyes with a heavy hand. She stepped into the cafeteria during breakfast.
	It was the same as any other cafeteria: smells of cinnamon rolls, chocolate milk, and every now and then a whiff from the unnecessarily large custodial garbage can. Its four walls were covered in nothing less than the color of green boogers. Now and again an extra coat was layered over the old, each one more vibrant and unappealing than the last. Long, mud-water colored plastic tables stretched for what seemed like to the very horizon of dawn, and upon them was an equally endless pattern of blue food trays.
	It was impossible to hold a conversation with anyone, as one could only hear their own eardrums burst from the noise of the whispering kids alone. As the decibels rose, the desire to run straight to the nearest chalkboard and rake one's fingers across the surface screaming nursery rhymes in Latin became more and more appealing.
	The floor was in a sorry state. The school was re-tiling it; they had been for two years. Emeral didn't know why it took so long but really the lack of tile was appropriate for the ambiance the place had.
	The cafeteria at breakfast. One of the rare times of day when all grade levels congealed into one crowd. Sure, there were general tables in which certain grades were supposed to sit. That was the rule, anyway; but, kids were born to break rules, and the staff didn't even really bother enforcing them.
	It was a bit of an art though, of how the grades mingled, and it depended on the gender. Younger boys had to sort of prove themselves in some ritualistic way to sit with the older boys. If an older boy sat with the younger boys, he was either a loser, an outcast, or there wasn't any room at any other table and he wasn't aggressive enough to make room for himself.
	For girls it was a bit different. The older girls pretty much had free-reign, and sitting with the younger girls made these little cliques that Emeral herself was once a part of. Or they would simply sit with their friends. If they weren't accepted at either of those parties, there was a spot for them with the boys, who would rather burst into flames than let a girl sit next to them—even if sitting next to them would do that anyway, based on the way they acted.
	The last time Emeral ate breakfast at seven in the morning was in third grade, when her mom was still in training. Really, her reason to be at school this early was probably for moot. She could have had a nice breakfast at home. But, she wanted to take a chance.
	Was Ket here?
	She would see him later. Rather, see the back of his head. But that wasn't soon enough. She hoped to find him in a quiet corner, away from all the mess and noise. She checked, looking over the twitching ears. Ironically she looked at the backs of heads—How silly, she thought, that she could recognized his stripe-pattern over his actual face. It must be a natural tiger-thing.
	She wanted to recognize his face.
	But alas, a quick sweep proved fruitless. The other kids were beginning to notice her. Sure, lots of people got up and walked around to their different circles, but no one walked around too much; those that did got notice. She quickly aimed down the rift between two tables, headed for the maw of the kitchen-line. Maybe she would be less conspicuous if she carried a meal.
	The food was nothing to get excited about, and left the stomach more empty and sore than it was when starving. One learned very quickly to avoid the cinnamon rolls and stick with the cereal, since those weren't just yesterday-two-weeks-ago's reheats. The school didn't even have brand-name cereal either. They settled for knock-offs that were sometimes in another language.
	Fake cheerios, if it could be called that, were Emeral's favorite. Red-carton milk and cereal in-hand, she gave her three-letter two-number code to the cash-lady. Now disguised, she paced about a bit more. But, time was running out. With no luck and four passes later, it was four minutes to the bell. If she didn't eat now, it was a whole four hours until lunch.
	Without any regard to what it might stir, she plopped down between two groups of boys, and assumed a state of non-existence. Thankfully, they accepted or ignored her presence; to her right, there was silence, and to her left, there was a card game of some kind happening. She tore into the cereal and poured in the milk. No need for a spoon, just drink the stuff down. It was best that way anyway; didn't have to actually taste it.
	She lifted her chin up and took a big gulp, then set it down as milk dribbled from her jaw. She wiped it with her wrist, and the corner of her eye caught a head with a stripe-pattern she could swear she recognized. She zeroed in, and waited a full five seconds before she decided she was just tricking herself.
	If it was Ket, he was sorely out of place. He was sitting at the next table over, facing away from her, in the middle of a conversing group. He was talking and gesturing, laughing with others, and taking the offer of a dreaded cinnamon roll that one of the kids nearby didn't want to eat.
	Kid must have an iron stomach, she thought, gulping another soggy clump down.
	As she waited for the bell, she tried to figure out just what made her want to talk to him. Perhaps it was just the mystery of it all. How does someone appear, help, and then disappear at first chance? Had she done something wrong; was he in a hurry; did he like her; was he scared of—
	Emeral gurgled warm throat-milk back into the bowl as someone bumped her while she gulped. She wiped her mouth with the dampened wrist, and then glared in the direction of the person, but they were long-gone. Then she blinked several times, the penultimate question hanging in her mind: does he like me?
	The bell rang, and suddenly half of the cafeteria rose up. Emeral walked with the sluggish line toward the trash can to throw her half-eaten meal away. In just a few moments she would be in the classroom and sitting at her desk. The other kids would file in, laughing or rubbing their eyes. One of them would thread through the doorway, transparent as a ghost. No one would really notice.
	No one except her.