Grammar School Lunchroom

By Jessica Lake

It began with shunning. When I tried to join a group, I was ignored. When I walked away, the other kids whispered and laughed behind my back. I’m sure of it. I felt as if I didn’t exist.

But I adapted quickly.

At lunchtime, the gym doubled as the cafeteria. Big surprise: I sat alone. My mother made wonderful sandwiches—Wonder Bread, bologna, and mayonnaise. Cut into four triangles. They were perfect.

I could never relax while eating. I stayed on high alert. My classmates had invented a new game.

Bang. A spitball hit the back of my head.

Then came bread balls—white bread wadded into hard little missiles. Those hurt.

Finally, empty milk cartons.

Only then would the teacher intervene. Strangely, I was the one who received the evil eye.

Once, I made the mistake of sitting with my back to the wall. Kids passed behind me on their way to the trash can. I scanned for incoming fire and took a bite of my peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich.

Suddenly—cold, wet.

Milk poured over my head.

That was when the teachers had had enough. I don’t blame them. How could they eat with all that ruckus?

From that day forward, I sat at the teachers’ table.

Through all of this, I never yelled, got angry, or fought back. I didn’t even cry.

I had made a mistake. I had lost my invisibility.

My job was to avoid the missiles.

I’d practiced.

Next time, I would be faster.