I feel lost.  "Where's Duncan?"

"Did he, or did he not specifically say 'see you at lunch?'"  Grumble.  Mumble.  Long, bony fingers hit the table in front of us at different times.  His pinky, his ring, his middle, his index.  Pinky, ring, middle, index.  Pinky, ring, middle, index.  

I watched the little ripple go through his sleeve every time a finger would hit the blue surface of the lunch table.  His tendons went up and down, up and -

Fido's hand, smashed down over Jason's.  Unidentifiable onomatopoeias.  "Actually, he said 'I'll see you guys at lunch'."  Five grimy fingers reached over my chest and stole half of Jason's fries off of his tray.  Potato, meet the hole of eternal blackness we call Fido's mouth.  "There's a difference."

"Maybe Ads should leave.  Cause Duncan said 'guys'."  Mike ripped about a quarter of his bologna and cheese sandwich off, and chewed it in the side of his mouth.  

Lol.  "Suck my dick."  My stomach, churning.  Disgust.  Herds of bolognas didn't exist, like cows and chickens did.  And, even so...Chew.  Swallow.  Chug.  Bite-rip.  Chew.  Chew.  The muscles in his temples pulsed, as his jaw opened and closed.  Can you eat any uglier?

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

Fido: "So, you accept, Mike?"

Reply:  "Nobody likes you."

Fido: "And people like you?"

Mike: "Fine."

Fido: "Fine."

Mike:  "Fine."

Fido: "Fine."

Mike:  "Let's stop saying 'fine' now."

Fido:  "Fine."

GTFO.  Where's Duncan?  "..."

Pantophobia is a constant detriment to this high schooler's social life, and when I see these psychotic-looking kids who're constantly making out, and never have to breathe, a kind of dread grows in the pit of my stomach.  Mid-make-out, a guy at the table released the other guy's liplock for air, and accidentally locked eyes with me.  Head down, sink.

Burn, baby, burn.

Homosexual inferno.
What a coincidence.

Fido raised an eyebrow at me, "Do you think he knows that he's killing his sperm when he talks?"
Sink, sink, hands in lap.  Because I'm definitely paying attention to everything you're saying.  "..."  Stomach growled, obnoxiously.  Hand, pressed to abdomen, to say 'shut up'.

Jason looked at me, glanced at my stomach, and opened his mouth—

Shut up, Jason.  Seriously, shut up.  Don't ever try to comment on that ever again; you know better.  Next time, just keep your mouth shut.  "Mike, go buy me a frigging cookie!"  Cover.  Nice cover.  Cookies make me want to puke, aided by both mind and body.  But your mind is part of your body.  Who knew?  

The definition of 'frigging' is 'to masturbate'. 'Mike, go buy me a masturbating cookie'?  

No.

Jason shut his mouth, and went back to contemplating philosophy, and life verses death, and the impact of his religion on the scientific development of our modern society.

See Mike stand.  Mike fucks up.

Where's Duncan?  "..."

My hand pushed my bangs down onto my forehead.  Expectancy didn't register in my head, and I wasn't anticipating the relief it gave me.  I had seen Duncan do that once.  It calmed my nerves, mostly for that reason.

Fido: "Great.  Now I'm stuck with the mimes."  
Jason wouldn't stoop as low as to hit him, so he flashed him the finger and went back to pondering the nature-verses-nurture science theory.  If he ever knew the things that I thought about him, he would probably kill me.