Tony laughs, as if his continued trashing of Shai’s lunch is nothing more than a joke between friends. Never mind that if Shai’s mother knew of the food being wasted, she would unleash a firestorm of intergenerational trauma–induced rage that would burn Venice High to the ground. Never mind that it’s been mental torture for Shai every single day. Never mind that Shai’s been subsisting on vending machine fare and his belt can’t be cinched any tighter.
