The Arithmetic of Schoolgirls, Part II
Posted on Tue Jun 30th, 2026 @ 10:56pm by Master Chief Petty Officer Vashti Rao
1,615 words; about a 8 minute read
Mission:
Character Backstories
Location: Ootacamund, India, Earth
Timeline: 2374
The cafeteria at Saint Kateri Tekakwitha Academy occupied a long stone chamber whose tall windows overlooked the well-tended but descending green of the botanical gardens. At that hour of noon, the mist had thinned enough for the terraces below to emerge in jagged segments: clipped hedges darkened with rainwater, ancient trees standing as motionless as stone cathedral pillars, and beyond them the outline of the pale silver hills.
The room meant for the cafeteria possessed little beauty in itself. It was too full of noise for that. Cutlery struck trays with martial regularity; metallic chair legs scraped sharply against the floor; somewhere near the central tables a group of second-year girls laughed with an exhausting and annoying shrillness peculiar to those always determined to be heard.
Vashti Rao sat near the end of one of the longer tables where fewer students choose to gather. She had discovered in her short time there, that if one occupied the edges of a room carefully enough, people have a tendency to not notice one at all.
Her standard-issue cafeteria tray held an odd assortment of dishes chosen less from appetite than homesickness and curiosity combined: a small but fragrant serving of lemon rice with curry leaves, peppery rasam steaming in a metal bowl, two pale Andorian dumplings she had taken merely to discover what they tasted like, and a Klingon pastry which looked aggressive--almost like it might bite back. The replicators at Saint Kateri's were technically excellent but spiritually hopeless--utterly. Everything seemed to materialize too symmetrically. Even the sambhar tasted so bland that if it existed in a cookbook, it might taste about the same as said cookbook!
She scarcely touched any of it.
Her attention remained on the small personal data device she left balanced against her cup. The message from her mother had arrived less than an hour earlier and she had already read it three times.
Noodles is recovering well after surgery, kanna. The veterinarian says he must not run for at least ten days, though you know perfectly well he has never listened to instructions in his whole life.
There were photographs attached beneath the text. Noodles lay upon a blanket at home in Udupi with one paw wrapped dramatically in medical bandaging, his mournful brown eyes fixed straight toward the camera. In another image, he appeared asleep with his head resting in Vashti's mother's lap, mouth hanging slightly open with tongue loose--a completely typical and foolish manner Labradors seemed to perfect.
Vashti stared at the photographs longer than she meant to.
Homesickness had a bad habit of showing up cravenly. It also came in absurd details, like the smell of wet fur after rain. The sound of previous-generation food synthesis units rattling in the the kitchen. The flashes of images and sounds came unbidden: her mother humming devotional songs while correcting students' assignments at the dining room table while the crumbs from supper remained beneath the work; early-morning sunlight spilling into the living room at an angle; the soft clacking sound Noodles makes when climbing the hardwood stairs. Here, among the stone walls and eucalyptus fog, such memories seemed almost unreal--as if Udupi belonged to some other version of herself.
"You know," said a voice nearby, smooth as a cream left too long in the hot sun, "if you keep staring at food instead of eating it, eventually the food will take offense."
Vashti looked up.
Catarina Desai stood at the opposite side of the table with three girls hovering loosely behind her like decorative attendants in some ancient painting. Catarina was older by about two years and possessed the sort of beauty that made one peak early in life. Worse than that, she seemed to know its value. Her dark hair fell in immaculate waves over one shoulder; her academy blazer sat perfectly fitted despite the universal tailoring that rendered most girls at Saint Kateri's equally shapeless. Even her boredom seemed purposeful.
The other girls smiled before Catarina did.
Vashti lowered her gaze almost immediately. Experience had taught her the usefulness of becoming uninteresting as quickly as possible.
"I was eating," she said softly.
"Were you?" Catarina replied. "I suppose when you don't have any friends, you might want to commune with your lunch."
A small laugh passed between the other girls.
Vashti reached for her tray with the intention of leaving before the conversation ripened further, but another of the girls--a thin child with narrow eyes and lacquered fingernails--leaned suddenly across the table.
"Oh, wait," she said. "What's that?"
Before Vashti could react, the personal data device disappeared from beside her plate and into the girl's hands.
"Give that back!" Vashti exclaimed, her tone sharper than intended.
The girl ignored her, already scrolling through it.
"Oho. Dog pictures."
"That's her family dog," another observed. "How sweet. He looks exactly how I imagined."
There was more laughter and snickering.
Vashti stood so quickly her chair skidded roughly across the floor behind her and crashed into an unoccupied table.
"Please," she said, and hated herself a little for sounding pleading.
Catarina took the device now, examining one of the photographs with exaggerated seriousness and then cocking her head to one side and making a face.
"Goodness," she murmured. "He truly does resemble you--around the eyes, I'd say."
The girls began to dissolve into snarky giggles once again.
Vashti felt the heat rise so violently into her face, she thought she might combust right there in the cafeteria. It began there first--always. First, her cheeks. Then her ears. Then the throat seemed to swell-up and start to burn from the outside. She had always imagined even her thoughts had turned red enough for the outside world to witness.
"I said give it back."
Catarina glanced toward her almost lazily. "You should really do something with your hair, Rao. It looks like you dry it by electrocuting yourself."
One of the girls--the taller one with the pointy chin--added, "And the braid--honestly. It's like a rope some sailor forgot to untie."
Vashti moved around the table then, abandoning all caution. For one reckless second, she thought she might actually snatch her device back.
Catarina lifted it just beyond her reach, a wickedly satisfied grin sharpening her facial features.
"Careful," she said softly and sweetly. "You'll damage the poor thing."
The cafeteria hadn't gone silent, but it had tilted subtly toward them in a very dreadful way that Vashti was all-too aware of when humiliation unfolds. Some heads turned and several nearby conversations thinned. Somewhere nearby a spoon clattered into a bowl and was not immediately retrieved.
Vashti hated them then with a force so sudden it frightened her--and it wasn't because of the insults. Those she knew already. Girls like Catarina merely kept the insults fresh by changing the window dressing. No, where the hatred came from was being observed while powerless. She felt like an insect pinned beneath glass like the ones in Mister Derath's entomology class.
"Miss Desai."
A wheezy and almost-phlegmy voice arrived from behind them. At the words, every girl straightened at once.
Professor Rahman of the mathematics faculty stood several feet away holding a cup of tea that was balanced precariously on a wide saucer. He wore the expression of a man already exhausted by adolescence before the midday meal had properly concluded.
"You will return Miss Rao's personal data gadget immediately."
Catarina's smile vanished to completely that it may well have never existed.
"Yes, Professor."
She handed it back without argument.
Rahman looked between them briefly. "I should not have to remind senior students that cruelty is not evidence of sophistication."
No one answered. Vashti wanted to imagine Catarina and her friends were still using a lower-level vocabulary.
"Off you go," he said firmly.
The girls departed together in a brittle sort of silence, though Catarina cast one final glance over her shoulder--no longer triumphant, now just merely cold.
Professor Rahman sighed faintly through his nose. "Are you alright, Miss Rao?"
"Yes, sir."
This was the required answer.
He nodded once and moved away, carrying his tea with him like it was some sort of grenade and he was retreating from a minor battlefield.
Only then did Vashti sit. Her hands trembled as she looked down at her device. For a moment, she could only see her own reflection upon the darkened screen: round face, thick braid, bulging and frightened eyes.
She allowed herself a small moment and an inaudible sigh before she activated the screen and reopened the message.
Nothing.
The photographs were gone.
The text from her mother had vanished with them.
Vashti stared blankly at the empty screen as if perhaps concentrating on it might restore them. She scrolled down and checked the archive folders. The message cache. Deleted storage. Nothing remained. All was gone.
Around her, the cafeteria continued on exactly as before. The sounds of trays clattering and utensils clanking plates persisted.
Suddenly, for Vashti, the loneliness of the place fell upon her heavily with a force so strong she could scarcely breathe beneath it. Tears welled in her eyes before dignity could prevent them.
She rose, wiping at her face with the heel of her hand, abandoned most of her untouched lunch where it sat almost cold upon the tray. No one stopped her as she crossed the busy cafeteria. No one even noticed.
Beyond the high windows to the cafeteria, the fog had returned and the distant hills vanished again behind it.
Master Chief Petty Officer Vashti Rao
Chief of the Boat
USS Astrea
(NPC of JB Dorsainvil)
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