As you walk through the halls, wondering if Jennie Finch or Amanda Beard, or any of the other girls from “Hot Girl” clique might be walking behind you; you almost forget how to walk. Not really forgot, but for a mere moment you wonder if you walk so differently that they might notice, and you might be that guy that waddles like a duck or has too much shake in his hips. You hardly notice Jason Williams (NBA point guard) waxing poetic by his locker. You recognize it is Tupac. You might even like that song. As you walk by Terrell Owens' locker with a huge mirror, you see Amanda and Jennie behind you. Good news: They aren’t watching you walk. They are talking to the new guy. You hear his name, Michael Phelps. He has a huge gold necklace. He wears a new one every day. You decide he is a show off.

As you approach the lunchroom doors, you try to scoot by Tom Brady. You quickly realize that he is the center of this strange hour. Girls like him. A lot. You attempt to tap him on the shoulder, but are transfixed by his boyish good looks and, like the others, hypnotized by his chin dimple. Across the room you hear loud laughter. Someone tells you his name is Chad Johnson. You recognize him from Spanish class, where he swears his name will one day be “Ocho Cinco.”

Once you make it through the line and prepare to settle in to a nice county-provided meal, you turn and stop. There are so many tables. And in this sea of people, the most important decision will be where to sit. Who you sit with may catapult you to a packed social calendar or banish you to the Audio Visual/Glee/Chess club.

You take a minute to survey the landscape. And inch closer toward destiny.

Your first attempt …

The Redneck table
Karl Malone: A nice dude, but talks about horses and how you have to meet his buddy John. His buddy John assists him with everything he does. “He picks me up sometimes or we roll together to the movies,” he says.
Brett Favre: He’s the mayor of the group. He was going to switch schools, but then decided not to, then he was going to, then didn’t. You remember the school paper covering the story non-stop. Nauseating.
John Daly: You are pretty sure he had a triple-bacon salami sandwich and washed it down with Jack Daniels. He offered a smoke, then popped open a Diet Coke and left.
John Rocker: He has a weird mustache and strikes the fear of God in you. He looks at you, picks up your milk and tastes it, and then tells you to have some. You smile and sip. He gives you the finger. You find out later that they let him sit at the lunch table because they fear saying no.
Randy Moss: He talks non-stop about owning a racing team someday. 

After tiring of truck talk, discussing what that Calvin sticker will be peeing on when Brett gets his new Ford, and horticulture; you sneak to the empty seat at the next table. 

The Hippie Table
Ricky Williams: He wears really dark, big sunglasses all the time. He avoids contact with most people and has more vitamins and holistic remedies than food. He’s known as the Medicine Man. He left school for a few years to deal with some legal run-ins, but he’s back now and swears he will graduate.
Jake Plummer: You saw him pull up this morning in a Honda Element. He’s the first person you’ve ever seen drive an Element. He was also wearing a pair of Teva’s.
Steve Nash: You can’t tell if he’s a hippie or Canadian.
Bill Walton: You realize he doesn’t stop talking. Ever. Whether it’s about how awesome the food is or the Grateful Dead. He doesn’t stop. But you do hear he owns a teepee in his backyard.
Tony Gwynn: He’s from the West Coast, and you aren’t sure if he is actually a hippie until he pulls out a hacky sack and rattles off one of the longest streaks in the history of hacky-ing. He averages somewhere in the high 300s.
Brandi Chastain: She’s big into women’s rights and refuses to wear shirts. People tried to tell her that it was not wearing bras that signify women’s rights, but she just dropped to her knees and yelled every time. So she walks around topless now. You decide there are worse things.

You realize this scene is not for you. You like simple pleasures: deodorant, capitalism and shaved armpits. Just when you start to plan your exit strategy, Bam Morris shows up. “You guys have to see my trunk,” he says. An awkward situation is easily avoided, but you are sitting alone now. So you decide to give the old social whirlwind another go. Perhaps your boldest move yet...

The “It" Table
There is a lot of posturing at this table. It’s the upper echelon of Athlete High. You decide if each of these people were to sign your yearbook, you would put it on eBay to see how much you could get.

A-Rod: He’s a good student until final exams. For some reason he always botches. He was also rumored to be dating the new teacher of Spiritual Studies, Ms. Madonna.
David Beckham: He’s English and posh.
Tiger Woods: Rumor has it that he’s dating twins from another town. It hasn’t been confirmed. He won’t tell anyone. He just stares at people when they ask the same questions over and over. He’s like a stone wall.
Matt Cassel: You find out that he is simply holding Tom Brady’s spot while Brady roams the lunch room. Cassel sits at the second-string “It” table. You recognize a few faces over there as Cassel walks back to his table: Phil Mickelson, every current American men’s tennis player (though it is rumored that Andy Roddick once sat at the “It” table), and Matt Leinart.

With about 10 minutes left before the bell, you have two options. Sit with the meatheads to your left: Barry Bonds, Bill Romanowski and the German women’s swim team. Or with the nerds to your right: nearly every kicker, league commissioner and front office manager. You see that table is way too crowded. You decide to head for the door. It appears you are destined for a long year of solitary confinement (people around here call social limbo getting “Vick-ed”).

Alas, there is a glimmer of hope. Packed deep in the corner, highlighted by a hideous green backdrop, with a bathroom door adjacent to the table, one student sits. There are plenty of chairs, yet this person chooses to sit alone. As you tip-toe lightly, the world seems to stop. As you sit down, he looks up. As he sets down his milk and wipes his hand, you wonder why, or how, he’s able to sit calmly and alone in this jungle of social posturing. Then suddenly he offers his hand.

“Hi, my name is Manny,” he says. “Wanna be me with me?”