Michelle had charitably taken to sitting with Lucy during Lunch Period, where she assumed a station at the outer edges of the Cafeteria, the crowd diffusing in concentric orbits, the middle tables reserved for only the most prestigious castes. As the Wastrel rushed, Spurlock sidestepped, swept the ball into his hand, set himself and threw it. Lucy’s bright tones pursued her. They had as many designations as grades. You don’t know what you ask nor what you say. “No! I want to do without that. ’ ‘Indeed, I’m beginning to think so,’ he said ruefully. ‘Yes, ma’am,’ agreed Gerald with a grin.
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