Afternoon Under the Arches

The fast food restaurant smells stale, like always. The odor of grease and salt is almost overwhelming when you first walk in. The entrance most people take is placed awkwardly next to the drive-through. Most customers dodge cars as they walk in, unperturbed. They are high school students, or harried mothers. And me. I stand out with a notebook in one hand. Others are holding skateboards, brightly-colored backpacks, or (nearly everyone) a smartphone.

It's nearly five in the afternoon and school let out almost two hours ago, but these students are still coming in. I wonder to myself if they are part of after-school programs or if they simply don't want to go home.

I approach the counter, behind which stands bored-looking cashier in a baggy uniform. He snaps to attention when I come closer. A warm smile spreads across his face as he asks how me how I am doing with genuine interest. I respond positively and give my order.

After I confirm my order number, I sit down near the door where I can see everyone in the room. Two tables in front of me is a group of African American high school students, packed together tightly into the booth. They are talking loudly and laughing, insulting each other playfully. One girl with a bright smile waves at me when she notices my glance, then turns to her friends and starts talking about something that a friend of hers did at school today.

Sitting across from them is a group of Hispanic students, also goofing around, occasionally slipping into Spanish. A handful of the students from the two tables seem to know each other, and they shout at each other every once in a while when their conversations intersect.

In front of the table of Hispanic students is a table with only three boys at it. They are glancing furtively around the restaurant, daring one another to talk to girls. One of the boys, wearing a bright blue hoodie, finally works up the courage to approach what appears to be a girl in her late teens or early twenties doing homework. He exchanges some quick words with her. She looks up, raises an eyebrow, and says something hard to catch. He sits up quickly, waving his hands in surrender, and returns to his table to the hoots and hollers of his friends.

A few minutes after this fresh drama has died down, one of the African American students, wearing a loose white basketball jersey, stands up. He's heard something someone at the other table has said, something I couldn't catch from this distance. Both groups get a little quiet as Jersey approaches the table of Hispanic students.

"What did you just say?" he asks, his tone in between joking and threatening.

There is a moment of real tension before he laughs, playfully pushes the offender, a boy with hair cut extremely short and a black backpack on, and returns to his table. Everyone breathes again, laughing hard, including the boy with the backpack.

I also breathe again. I'd forgotten how tense things can occasionally get here under the Arches. It's a high school hot-spot, and that can often mean hotheaded exchanges--or near misses, like the one I just witnessed.