Punks Don't Wear Prada

Friday.

School.

Lunch.

"And then what?" Maxi was encouragingly asking an excited Ben.

"And then.... We're famous!" He grinned widely, then took a massive bite out of his pizza.

We all laughed at his blunt happiness.
None of us felt like telling him they don't give record deals to Rock Bands, mainly because all the songs were already recorded by real artists.

Jared had been sitting beside Alex at our picnic table but he scooted to the other side next to me, giving me little room to cut pizza with my right hand.

"Jared, I can't move my arm!" I giggled, shoving him so he slid off the bench.

"So? Just pick the pizza up," he quickly returned to the bench and slid even closer.
Ben shot me a "see?I-told-you-so!" look but I just rolled my eyes.

"Fine," I said, and lifted my pizza off the tray, only to have it slip out of my hands and onto the ground.

"See! That's why I cut it." I said.
I moved onto my milk box.

"No, it's fine," Jared bent down to pick up the slice and wiped it on a paper napkin.

"See?" He held it up for me to examin.

Alex held back a smile and Ben smirked.

"It still looks dirty, doctor," I teased, and he grinned.

"You're funny." He threw the pizza into the nearest trash bin, missing by feet.

I laughed and kissed his cheek, making him blush.

"Guys! We need to practice on our strategy!" Ben clapped his hands and pounded his fist on the table so hard that Mitchie's milk box tipped over, spilling white milk all over my pants.

"Great. Just great." I let my head rest on the table, only to feel the coldl milk soak into my hair.

"Why do you hate me!" I shook my fist at the sky.
Everyone laughed and, once again, we all seperated our different ways.