Spinach and Social Suicide

The spinach sat on my cafeteria tray like a radioactive green artifact. Three days into my freshman year, and I'd already committed high school social suicide.

"What is THAT?" Marcus asked, pointing at my salad with the same expression he'd use if I'd dropped my pants in the lunch line.

"It's called a vegetable, Marcus. You should try one sometime," I said, attempting to sound confident while my stomach did nervous cartwheels.

He laughed, that sharp bark of a laugh that made everyone at our table pay attention. "Bro's gone vegan on us. Next thing you know, he'll be drinking kale smoothies and hugging trees."

I'd started taking vitamin B12 supplements that morning. My mom had insisted, something about deficiencies and vegans needing extra support. Now I was sitting at the cool table, eating grass pills and leaves while Marcus—our de facto leader—roasted me alive.

The thing about Marcus was, he could make you feel like the biggest loser on the planet with three words. He'd been doing it since seventh grade, and we'd all just accepted it as the price of admission to his friend group.

"My sister's been vegetarian for like, two years," Maya said from across the table, looking sympathetic. "It's actually not that big of a deal."

Marcus shot her a look. "Nobody asked you, Maya."

The table went silent. That was Marcus's specialty—making everyone feel small enough that he could feel big.

I looked at my spinach salad. Suddenly, it wasn't just a salad anymore. It was a line drawn in the cafeteria floor. I could keep eating it, or I could toss it and go get chicken nuggets like a normal person and maybe salvage my social standing.

"You know what?" I said, my voice barely shaking. "I like spinach. It's actually pretty good with the right dressing."

Marcus stared at me like I'd grown a second head. For a moment, nobody said anything. Then Maya smiled—a genuine smile, not one of those fake ones she gave Marcus.

"Pass me some," she said.

I slid her the bowl. Marcus made a disgusted noise, but for the first time since seventh grade, nobody laughed.

That night, I texted Maya: "Thanks for not letting me die of social awkwardness today."

She wrote back: "Anytime. Also, Marcus is full of bull. Always has been."

I smiled at my phone. Maybe high school wouldn't be so bad after all. Maybe it would take some guts—and some spinach—but I was done pretending to be someone I wasn't.

Some friendships survive high school. Others don't. The ones that matter are the ones where you can eat spinach in the cafeteria and nobody makes you feel weird about it.