Run, Lola, Run.

“Lola! Stop it already; you’re being a drama queen!” Those rather eloquent, though unneeded words came from my best friend, whom had gotten frustrated by my onslaught of ranting of my 3 weeks as of Monday ex-boyfriend.

“Fiiine, sorry.” I say with mock sarcasm. I know I’m grating, and I know I was being repetitive, but he, Oliver, was sitting with her, Cathleen, at their table, which happened to be right beside ours, so I got a pretty amazing view of their grinning lips and their shining eyes. Oh yes.

“They totally are dating.” I mumble to myself and then proceed to dodge the flying applesauce.

“Shut up!” He whispers at me, entirely too annoyed with the broken record that is me.

“Sorry, sorry.” I grin back at him.

“Are not.” He says and pokes me, picking up his tray he dumps the contents into the garbage and throws the tray on the cart beside the garage, rather weird place for it, but it works.

“So, math homework.” He starts with a grin once he’s seating, saddle horse facing me.

“Shizz!” I cry, completely forgetting the doubts that my ex- boyfriend was already moving on front of my face.

“Forget, aye?” He says all knowingly and annoying.

“Whatcho think, genius?” I retort back and lean my forehead into his shoulder.

“Poor baby.” He mock cries and pats my back rather violently.

Scowling I grab my tray and throw the rest of the uneaten food into the trash and make a rather uncommonly bolt towards my locker with a leisurely Matt behind me.

“You know, if you walk that fast, your legs’ll fall off.”

“Will not, Matthew, shut up.”

“Will too! Didn’t you ever wonder what happened to that one dude without his legs?”

“No! Which dude?” I ask, just for the pleasure of him rambling and for the equal pleasure I get for the pleasure of not having to answer him as he goes on (and on) about the no-leg dude.

“And also, he like, managed to shoot three baskets, three!, while not missing, how amazing is that?”

“Its only ‘mazing ‘cause you can’t even shoot one without a kiddy net.” I state, too lazy to fill the words completely.

“Whatever. Like you’re any better.” Matt challenges in good humour.

“Nuh uh, way better. I can at least skim the headbord thinger with the ball, unlike, say, you.”

“Just leave my basketball skills—“

“Or lack thereof.”

“Shut up. Just leave me basketball skills alone. Don’t make me remind you about the volleyball incident.”

“Which one?”

“You know, the one where you were running off for the ba—“

“Right. Shut up. That floor was slippery and that pole came out of nowhere!” I defend.

“Right, what about what happened with that one kid who stole our ba—“

“Yes! That wasn’t my fault.”

“Will you stop interrupting me? Especially when I’m right in the middle of the word, ‘ball’, if someone didn’t know any better they’d think you had a slight obsession with that word.”

“Why? One would think I had an aversion to it, rather.”

“Right. I don’t know what that means.”

Rolling my eyes, I continue past the rows of lockers. I’d say neatly, but they were definitely far from it. Of course, there was the occasional locker sticking open with various belongings (most likely a jacket) hanging out of it. There was also the few lockers with notices about the Senior trip to Disneyland (why were they posted down at the other end of the school? No senior has a locker down here). But other than that, they were, for the most part, a nice neat row of bland yellow, boring red, and dirty orange lockers.

“Why did I get stuck with an orange locker? I hate orange. Its so ugly.” Complains Matt, staring acidly at the inanimate door.

“Why? It’s an optimistic locker, not a pessimistic one.”

Giving me a look of utter confusion, Matt reaches for his lock and starts to turn the dial to the specific code.

“Its happy, its joyful, full of sunshine, enthusiasm! Orange is an awesome colour.” I state with too much vigor for an after-lunch staring at Mr. Stupid.

“How do you know what?”

“Because, Mr. Pessimism, I read it somewhere in a doctor’s magazine. It was enlightening, really. It had all the colours, black, red, blue, orange – of course – yellow, you name it, they had it! I even stole the paper out of the magazine.” I state, opening my locker to show the ever-there gloss paper hanging from the locker vent.

“You are a strange chick, you know that? Who keeps something like that, anyway. You insane, insane person.”

“I’m not insane, I just like to be informed about the daily things that surround me. I like knowing things. You should, above all else, know that.”

“Oh, I do know that. I just didn’t think you’d be so adamant about learning. God, don’t be such an over-bloody-achiever. Its stupid and very unbecoming, and not very attractive, mind you.”

Giving him the patented evil eye, I slam open my locker farther, shove the papers back into its slot in the vents and move on into my locker, digging deeper for the ever present apple that I rely my daily health upon.

“You know, apples don’t keep the doctor away.” Matt informs me, staring at the offending object of food.

“Where’s the sticker? And how would you know that? Have you even had an apple before? Honestly, Matthew.” I ‘aha’ when I find the sticker, peeling it off I look around for a residence for the piece of stickiness and decide on Matthew’s hoody as good a place as any.

“Thanks, for that. You, you are so very, very, mature, you know that?” He says, peeling away the sticker from the black hoody and examing the little strands of hair on the back.

“Of course. And I’m far more mature than you will ever hope to be, my friend. I am the complete essence and epitome of maturity.”

“Right. Yeah. And Madison doesn’t have ADD.”