“Hey, Lucy,” says the boy ahead of her in line, who I recognize from history. He has his arm wrapped all the way around a pretty girl’s waist, looking like a possessive toddler with a teddy bear. “Are we ever going to have a class where you don’t go off on some feminist rant?” The girl beside him giggles. “I don’t know, Connor,” Lucy says, examining a bottle of salad dressing. “Are we ever going to have an assembly where you don’t try to fingerbang your girlfriend in the back of the auditorium?”
