Loner for Luna

Chapter 3

Prue

As the bell rings, I pop in my wireless earbud and hit play on the last podcast I was halfway through – some gem about how decision fatigue is basically ruining your life without you knowing. Fun stuff.

I’m always listening to something – neuroscience, psychology, human behavior, tech, science, AI, philosophy, spirituality, how to live forever, why you’ll never be happy even if you do, yada yada. Basically, anything that makes me smarter and gives me the illusion I’m not wasting my life scrolling like a zombie. I know – I’m obsessed. But knowledge is my addiction and these podcasts are cra.ck. Enlightened cra.ck.

Of course, I’ve already listened to multiple podcasts on why wireless earbuds are frying my brain with radiation, cooking my neural tissue like microwave lasagna. And yeah, it freaked me out for a hot minute. That’s why I only wear them in public and switch to wired ones at home. Tangled wires? Too messy for my social image. In that way, I’m not slowly becoming an irradiated lab rat. And even better? At home I usually just blast my speakers – safest, most old-school move ever.

Anyway, I shove my way through the hallway crowd like a soldier on a mission, reach my locker, and dump the dead weight of books. Time for lunch. Finally.

I make my way toward the cafeteria with a single goal: grab something tasty but not soul-killing. Something healthy, brain-fueling. Because, yes, I’ve also listened to podcasts about how what you eat determines your intelligence, your mood, your ability to function in the face of modern stress, and apparently, your fate. That’s right – destiny is on your plate. Forget horoscopes. Check your lunch tray.

Tray full of smart food? Check. I scan the tables. I’ve been eyeing a few girls lately – observing from a distance, like a socially awkward anthropologist. But maybe today I feel bold enough to initiate human contact. I spot the pair, square my shoulders, and march toward them like I belong in their sitcom.

“Hey, girls! Mind if I join you?”

Two pairs of eyes shoot up, blinking like I just materialized out of thin air.

“Okay,” says the one with short purple hair and baggy clothes that basically scream, I'm edgy and possibly a lesbian – or it could just be a teen rebellion phase. We’re all confused at this age. I drop into the seat across from them.

“You’re the new girl,” says the one with long black hair, pale skin, and that delicate, pretty, girl-next-door vibe. Are they a couple? Hmm. Intriguing.

“Prue.” I offer my hand like we’re two bros about to close a business deal. This shortened version of my name? I can live with it—it’s almost cute. But for the truly special few, I let them call me Rue. That one I actually love—it suits my sharp edges perfectly. Not that many get the chance though; I never stick around long enough. So, really, only my dad calls me that.

I’ve picked up plenty of nicknames along the way – Rocky, Storm, Spike, or just straight-up Rebel. Depends on the place, the mood, or how much trouble I stirred up. Let's see if I get any here.

“Christina.” She shakes it with a warm smile. Cute. Sweet. Probably not as innocent as she looks.

“Your name was something else before, right?” says the purple-haired girl. We’ve had classes together, but I still don’t know her name.

“Don’t even bring it up,” I cut in fast. “Only reason I haven’t changed it is because my late mom gave it to me.”

I let that sit in the air with a meaningful look. She blinks.

“Oh. I see,” she says, a little awkward now. Sympathy incoming in 3... 2...

“Kate,” she finally adds, holding out her hand. I give it a half-assed shake, just catching her fingers. No need to overdo it. We’re girls, not testosterone-charged guys fighting for power.

“Cool! I wish my mom thought ‘Kate’ was a good name,” I say with a smirk.

“Sorry, not sorry.” She grins back. “Honestly, there are too many Kates in this school for me to approve that one more joins the roster.”

I laugh. I already like them. My people-radar has hit spot-on. Again. It rarely fails me.

“So how do you like it here so far?” Christina chirps.

“Eh. Typical American high school. Nothing revolutionary.” I shrug.

“Right? Same clowns, different lockers,” Kate mutters, making a dramatic eye roll.

“It’s not that bad,” Christina insists, a little too cheerfully. Aha, so we’ve got a pessimist and an optimist. Mental note taken. I love categorizing people – putting the world into neat little boxes. Yes, yes, I know it’s the brain’s default bias, running on autopilot and all that, but it makes life so much more entertaining. At least inside my head.

“Only because you’re constantly daydreaming about this or that boy,” Kate shoots back, making me glance at Christina. Her cheeks pinken while I nonchalantly chew my smart-person lunch.

She sneaks a glance over her shoulder. I follow it. A group of guys.

“Shh! Not so loud,” she hisses at Kate.

“Please,” Kate scoffs. “Nate wouldn’t notice a meteor crashing into the cafeteria, let alone that you’re making goo-goo eyes at him. The guy’s brain is the size of a walnut, and his interests peak at football and balls – any kind.”

Christina blushes harder.

“I swear, her crushes are wild,” Kate says to me, shaking her head like she’s narrating a bad rom-com. “It’s like living in a teen drama where you know the plot twist, but it still hits you like – no way.”

I laugh. “So where’s your popcorn?”

“Always in my backpack,” Kate deadpans. “Next to the tissues. For when this one has a dramatic heartbreak over Mr. Brain Cell and the football squad.”

“Oh, hush! Like you’ve never been in love.”

“I have,” Kate says, raising a brow like she’s about to win an argument in court. “But it was with someone mature. Sophisticated. Intelligent being.”

I raise a brow. I feel like watching an owl school a puppy on wisdom. Yeah, that’s the vibe.

“Notice I said intelligent, not just smart,” Kate continues, now fully in TED Talk mode. “Smart is book grades but intelligent is awareness, overall knowledge, contextual understanding. And most importantly – emotional intelligence. Big difference. As that, my dear, is so much more important than being clever.”

She’s not just unimpressed – she’s building a whole case against him like it’s a courtroom drama. Christina groans.

“So what if I like muscles?”

“Muscles are great – if they’re not attached to a brain that’s been sacked one too many times on the football field.”

Oh, she’s clearly allergic to Christina’s taste in guys – if passionate disapproval were a sport, she’d be winning gold for that speech. And I have to agree with her as I nod. She’s got a point.

“What about you?” Christina turns to me. “Do you like anyone here?”

I glance over the crowd again and shrug. “Not really. Some of them are cute. Some probably even have decent personalities. But no one interesting enough to bother with. I’ll wait till college.”

She visibly deflates.

“See?” Kate says, jabbing her with an elbow. “Barely here for two weeks and she’s already more perceptive than you’ve been since kindergarten.”

“Oh, come on! What if my heart just knows my soulmate is here?”

Kate groans. “You’ve read too many romance novels. Your brain’s full of fantasy plotlines. Real life doesn’t bend to fiction.”

“Unfortunately, she’s right,” I chime in. “Unless... you grab life by the throat and twist it into something so unexpected even Life does a double take.”

They both blink at me while I chuckle.

Yeah. I’m messed up. But at least I’m interesting.