Da na na, na na na. Neeeeooooo.
The lunchbox – green – is on the desk. Just a bit off-centre. They’re focused on the lunchbox and most pairs of arms are crossed over chests. White shirt, white shirt, blue shirt, red shirt, grey shirt, black shirt, in a ring around the desk in the back corner. Chatter from the rest of the classroom bounces off their backs and fades as they stare.
Rob: running his palm tight down the side of his head, shhhckk, “Well, you’ve gotta open it.”
All eyes on Yves, who swallows hard. Kou unfolds his arms and one hand goes to the windowsill in preparation. Yves tries to think of something to say, but they are all watching him gravely. His shoulders droop and he nods.
He steps forward. They shuffle to cover the gap he leaves in their circle. He reaches out slowly to touch, just touch, the lid, and they all wince.
Eshwar: “Three weeks?”
Yves: barely above a whisper, “More than that.”
Terrence: “Geez.”
Yves: “Maybe we should just throw it –”
But they’re all caught up in sick fascination, and Yves shuts himself up.
Serial Outlet 