First day back at school and that man stealing bitch is sitting at our lunch table. Bud has to half carry me to the outer rim of the cafeteria to keep me from making a scene. 

I'm overreacting. I'm being childish, bitter, and hostile. 

But Bud doesn't make me feel bad about any of it.

"It means you're human. And you care," he says. "Lay it on me. I can take it."

And I do lay it on. Thick. 

The first few lunches we spend marooned together are just unabashed crying sessions, led by me. Bud starts sitting next to me rather than across the table after the first day, because it's easier for me to blow my nose on his shirt that way.

But on day five, I discover I'm out of tears.

"Hi," Bud says, taking a seat across from me. "You seem better today."

"I think I blew out my tear ducts," I say. "But I'll take 'better' if that's how I seem."

"Can I quiz you now?" He grins eagerly.

"On what?" I ask, fighting the tugging sensation at the corners of my mouth.

"On you." He sets his napkin in his lap and takes out his lunch, a rice dish with veggies and peanut sauce. It looks really good.

"What do you want to know?" I ask, reaching for a peanut and popping it in my mouth.

"Everything," he says. He slides his bowl toward the center of the table and offers me his fork. I wave it away, even though I'm tempted. I'll use my fingers like a cave person if I need another bite.

"I'm boring," I say. "I've never done anything exciting, and I have no plans for my future. Does that cover it?"

"Hardly. Do you like dogs?"

"I love dogs."

"Cats?"

"Meh. Most of the one's I've met are assholes."

He laughs. "What's your favorite color?"

"Blue."

"Do you get along with your parents?"

"I do."

"What about your brother?"

"Love-hate," I say. "I love him more when he's not around."

"Where would you travel if you could go anywhere in the world?"

"Fiji."

"Would you come back?"

This one stops me. The idea of being somewhere else indefinitely sounds good right now.

"Maybe," I say. "Depends on what's waiting for me at home."

I suddenly realize I have Bud's fork in my hand and have eaten a third of his lunch while answering his questions. "Jesus, I'm sorry," I say, handing the fork back.

"It's okay," he says. "You haven't eaten lunch all week. I was worried you were going to disappear on me."

I reach in for one more morsel and decide to turn the tables on him.

"What's your real name?" I ask.

"Bud."

"Just Bud?" I say, finally opening my own lunch bag and pulling out my lame peanut butter and jelly sandwich. "It's not short for something? Or a nickname?"

"Nope."

I search his face for a smirk, but I don't see one. "On your birth certificate, it says 'Bud'?"

"Bud Montgomery Beaumont."

"Montgomery? That's a big middle name for such a teeny first one."

"It was my grandfather's name," he says, stabbing his fork unnecessarily hard into a broccoli floret. He comes up empty and stabs a second time with more success.

"Is Bud a family name, too?"

"No," he says, setting his floret laden fork back down. "Bud is the result of a weird pregnancy dream my mom had where I was born from a rosebud, and I was tiny, and a girl. My mom was convinced she was going to have a beautiful, little baby girl and she was going to name her Rose in honor of the dream. But she had eleven pound me instead. She wanted to appease the dream weavers, so she went with Bud."

"Your mom sounds awesome."

"What about your name?" he asks, twirling the impaled broccoli into the rice like a drill. "Dot must be short for something."

"It is." I'm hesitating because very few people in the world know my full name.

"Short for...?"

"Dorothea."

"Wow." Bud's eyes widen over the discovery. "That's pretty. Does anyone call you that?"

"Nah. I've been Dot since preschool."

"Dorothea is cool, though. It's a name you could grow into someday. Once you get your doctorate or start writing romance novels."

I giggle, and add romance novelist to my list of potential careers. "I'm not a Dorothea."

"I agree. Not yet anyway. And I like Dot for you. It makes a statement." He pauses and I smile to show him I get it. He shakes his head. "Sorry," he says. "Bad joke."

I'm about to argue it's a very good joke, when a massive slab of sadness in the shape of Tom slumps down beside me.

"Hey," he sighs. "Is it cool if I sit with you guys?"

I'm pinched with guilt. I've been so wrapped up in my grief spiral over Joshua, I haven't given any thought to my promise to help Tom with Marcus.

"Definitely," Bud says.

"Thanks," Tom says, leaning his head on my shoulder. "It's hard enough trying to get through the day without Marcus, but I can't survive lunch without you, Dot. I hate what's happening right now. I just hate it."

"It's okay," I say.

"It's not," he says, picking his head up and looking at me. "He's an idiot, Dot. A massive idiot. And I know it seems like you got kicked out of the group, but I promise you, everyone wants you back. Everyone that matters. I'm going to sit with you guys from now on. I like the energy here better." I reach for his hand and give it a squeeze. "And Ali seriously scares the crap out of me." He laughs a little and squeezes back.

"She's not that scary," Bud says, surrendering the rest of his lunch to me.

"What happened to you?" Tom asks, his eyes on Bud for the first time since he sat down.

Bud flusters. Probably wondering what is stuck in his teeth or hanging out of his nose. I give him a once over. He looks perfect to me.

"What do you mean?" I ask Tom.

"He looks different," Tom says, squinting at Bud like he's trying to solve a riddle written in his blushing pattern.

Bud glances down at himself. "Dot is dressing me now. Is that it?"

I smile proudly. Today Bud is wearing a wine-colored, V-neck sweater over a black, collared shirt. The top two buttons are undone. My suggestion.

"Maybe," Tom says. "Did she also buy you color contact lenses?"

Bud laughs nervously. "No. These are my eyes."

"Wow. I didn't know they were blue. They're like ... crazy blue." Tom lifts off his seat and leans across the table to get a closer look. Bud pulls back. "Easy, man. I'm not going to kiss you," Tom says.

"I know." Bud blushes.

"Marcus might if he ever notices. He's got a real thing for blue-eyed boys."

Tom's face falls at his own mention of Marcus.

I link my arm through his and slide closer to him. "Have you heard anything?"

"Nothing," he says. "He's gone, Dot. There's nothing I can do outside of kidnapping him, and I know that's not what he wants me to do."

"What if I do it?" I ask.

He laughs weakly and his eyes start to well up. "I think it's better if I let it end." His voice breaks and he covers his face. "I didn't mean that," he says.

"You can't even call him? Or text?" Bud asks.

"His dad screens his phone," Tom sniffs. "He knows my number. I can't. I don't want to think about what they'll do to him if I try."

Bud's forehead crinkles with worry. "I could text him," he says. "No one knows my number."

"I do," I remind him with a gentle kick under the table. Bud's warm smile finally knocks loose the plan I've been too distraught to formulate.

"Tommy. Can you be at my house at 9:30 on Sunday morning?" I ask.

"I guess," he says. "Why?"

"Just be there," I say. "But not before 9:30. That's when my parents leave for church. Use the hide-a-key outside the walkout door in the back. It's under the gnome with his pants down."

Bud coughs and clears his throat. But the laugh he tried to bury comes out anyway.

"Wait in the basement for me to get there," I say. "Can you do that?"

"Yeah," Tom says, his eyes scanning my face for clarification. But I can't give it away or he'll tell me I'm crazy, and I don't want to hear it. Luckily, the lunch bell rings, and I have an excuse to bail before he charms it out of me. "See you Sunday," I say. I give him a quick kiss on the cheek and signal Bud to follow me.

He gathers his empties and my picked over PB & J and catches up.

"What is happening?" he asks, incapable of hiding his curiosity, and not just about the story behind the bare-assed garden gnome.

"Side mission," I say, pulling him close beside me. "We're going to kidnap Marcus for Tom. DGLS style."

* * * * *