Monday: 10:36 A.M. First Lunch

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The slightly raised area due north of the entrance to the cafeteria is home to the Double '00 Hoes (the name's an inside joke--they define themselves by not sleeping around). All seniors, friends since sixth grade, mainly but not exclusively blond, involved in every sport, play and leadership group the school has, they are called "the Clique" by outsiders, who admit that the "Hoes" own the school. Most of them skip the school cheeseburgers and unpack a brown bag of fat-free Yoplait, a Nutri-Grain cereal bar, some carrots or an apple. Sometimes they splurge on an Otis Spunkmeyer cookie, which they divide among about 20 of them.

Today they are doing their regular Monday autopsy of the weekend, trying to figure out whether someone was wearing a thong under her toga at a party last Friday. When talk turns to college, most admit they haven't a clue where they're applying.

Lunchtime is the atomic age, when all the groups split up and fan out, cluster at their tables or flee the school to the parking lot and the fast-food joints beyond, or settle into their regular spot in the school cafeteria, where everyone has a secret and nothing is hidden.

The most remarkable thing about the social warfare of Webster Groves is that there isn't much. There are clubs and tribes, unwritten dress codes and anxious social climbers who admit to their fear of being seen talking to the wrong person. And yet there is something almost diverse about the divisions: "It's very cliquish here," says junior Lauren Bell, "but each group is actually very mixed--it's not all the jocks, all the preps, all the punks, and I like that." Lauren sometimes considers herself an outsider, albeit a straight-A, cheerleading one. "You become a target, not really for looking different, but for thinking different from other people," she says, "like not caring about being popular. That is really asking for it."

Kids will point to money, more than race or looks or athletic ability, as the Great Divider. The guy with the coolest car does indeed get all the girls, but he's not the popular jock. He's a husky kid whom everyone calls the Commander, and the girls hang out at his house after school. "The girls love him," laments one jock. At some schools the rumor is that athletes get special treatment, that they are able to slide by in their work or their conduct because even the teachers treat them like stars. To a degree, some Webster jocks take advantage of their status, but others argue that expectations are actually higher for them. "Teachers look at you differently when you play a sport," says soccer player Bo Biggs. "They want us to be role models." When he is late with an assignment or fools around in class, the response is, typically, "You're supposed to be a leader at this school. I expect more from you." Not all the high-profile athletes seem to feel the pressure, though. Karl Odenwald III, the fair-haired varsity quarterback, argues that "it's not as big a deal as people make it out to be." As for being a role model, "I don't go helping elderly people across the street."