Don't forget your lunch

I had been walking for about twenty minutes, but I was almost there. I walked this last stretch of clean sidewalk toward the light green garage door, which marked the end of the street. The trees the grew in about every other yard were green and well kept. The air smelled of summer, but the school year was not yet over. When I got to the corner, across from the garage, I could see my school, Smith Elementary, across the street and to my left.

As I made the turn to walk to the orange vested crossing guard, I was struck by horror. It was not by anything I saw, but my brain had discovered a significant oversight in my morning routine. The brown paper bag, which had been packed by my Mom had been left on the counter. Earlier in the year it would have been a brightly colored lunchbox, but the snow boot of a malicious kid had shattered the cool plastic one I had, had and it was never replaced. I wouldn't have overlooked it, if I still had a lunchbox, I thought.

I immediately started to do what I always do, I talk myself down. I'm continuing to walk, but I'm looking into the future, making plans. Odds are my Mom will notice the forgotten lunch and bring it to me, so it will be no big deal. If that doesn't happen, I could go to the office and call her. Lastly, if I can't get a hold of her, or she can't bring my lunch, I know they have free lunches for those people that forgot. It wasn't the rectangle pizzas or tater tots the people who bought got, in was usually just a sandwich and a milk. It would do.

I walked across the street and into the building convinced that it wasn't that big of a deal. In the hallways filled with talking kids, walls covered with black and rainbow art, made by scratching off the black paint and floors that had already started to collect the liter of the day, I forgot, for a time, my trouble.

In no time at all lunch was upon us. Alarm bells went off. I had not been called down to the office, meaning my lunch was not here. Perhaps she had just gotten there and there had been no time to call me down yet. That was it. So, I walked into the office. It took a while to explain the situation and for them to figure out what to do. My Mom had not brought my lunch and at this point, they didn't want to wait for me to get it. They gave me a little ticket, which I could use in line to receive a free lunch. I was no longer worried about what I would eat, but time had ticked away and I was sure I wasn't going to have any time to play.

I quickly took my lunch ticket down the line into the kitchen. I stood in a short line clutching the ticket the office had given me. I notice that it is a different color than the other kids in line. I don't say anything about because I don't really know any of these kids and I know it is because they are getting the bought lunch.

When I get to the lunch lady she asks me if I want bologna or peanut butter and jelly. They wouldn't do that today. I select peanut butter and jelly. On a brown tray they had me back the sandwich on a small paper plate and a white milk. The sandwich looks a little moist, but I don't think a lot about it. I get into the lunch room and see my class table, which is pretty much empty at this point.

At the first bite I know something is very wrong, I am left gagging. The bread is overly moist and has a flavor which should not be there. I do not know what is wrong at first. I just know in addition to the sweet of the jelly and salty of the peanut butter, there is a tangy, oily flavor, which makes me think of soured milk. I try to take the sandwich apart to figure out what is wrong, but I can't do it very well. The bread shreds when to try to separate it. Under the pieces I have pulled away, the white of the bread looks to have liquified.

I drink my milk, but don't eat, while I'm trying to figure it out. It takes me a while, but I eventually conclude that someone put miracle whip on this peanut and butter sandwich. It try another bite, trying to muscle through this combination, but even with this knowledge I find it hard to stomach. So, I walk back into the kitchen and try to explain the issue. They either don't understand or don't care. I am told to go eat.

I force my way through half the sandwich, but I feel green even doing that much. I plan that next time this happens I will go to the office right away, so I can call to get my lunch. I don't need this plan, though, because I don't forget my lunch ever again.