Chris Clowar has the best lunches.
He pulls the blindingly white bread sandwich out from the already crumpled brown paper bag, tossing it aside rapidly and turning his full attention toward the rectangular Wonder Bread princess he’s gently laying on the lunch table like an offering on a pedestal.
All of us are crammed onto plastic benches under our school’s outdoor patio, newly shaded by an aluminum awning. I’ve heard my mom routinely tell other parents that the PTA put significant time and money into securing this for us so that we don’t get sunburned or dehydrated. I hate sunscreen so I’m pretty happy about the whole thing, even though I’ve already heard the story approximately one hundred times.
The crust on Chris’ sandwich has been expertly removed, leaving not a single trace of its original existence. She shines like an unearthed diamond and we are all awe-struck. She has commanded everyone’s full attention and the absence of a frame is a quickly forgotten element of what it means to be a slice.
Did his mom buy this magic or did she dedicate her time to carving it away just for him?
It’s so unfair. I have whole wheat, crust intact.
My life is literally over. I’ve made it to nine and it’s been a hard road, but now I must bid farewell. So long, Kristin. So long, Neda. You’ve been the bestest of friends. So long, Mrs. Sewell. I really love your class, but my career as a student must end because of this sandwich shell I have to eat.
Sigh.
He’s jabbering on about god only knows what, his blue eyes dancing vibrantly with dark long eyelashes fluttering up and down. I hear snippets about the heavy yellow uniforms, water pressure of hoses, and something about how fast the truck can go. He’s absolutely obsessed with firefighters. He has dark brown hair, slightly curly, and it’s always a mess, left a little too long. His tanned skin is luminous, which is seemingly impossible because apparently a bunch of parents had to have meetings about shade first.
How is he always so bright?
His eyelashes are stupidly long for a boy. I stop looking at them and return to mindlessly holding my limp, lettuce-riddled burden, nibbling slowly on the dried border to reach the softer center sooner than later.
Out of everyone here, he always sits closest to me. I find myself routinely near him, in class or during a school assembly, but it isn’t voluntary; he simply appears whenever things go quiet for a moment. I return to reality after a pleasant daydream and he’s there, talking.
I am staring down at my turkey and cheese between laborious bites, heavy with failed focus and immense sadness, attempting to look indifferent, but hopelessly trying to sneak a peek across the table without him noticing I’m staring and thinking I like him or something.
The sticky ivory edges of the prize call to me from afar. They’re lined with a gelatinous dark pink, sparkling against her pillowy softness; it leaves a tacky residue on the plastic baggy.
Ugh, it’s even a fold-over without branding. How chic.
I have a Ziploc secure closure to avoid spills, but having to show a green and red seam to my peers, much less a metal My Little Pony lunchbox, is torture.
The teachers can’t keep Chris’ energy under control, so he’s a dangerous acquaintance. I don’t want them thinking we’re friends. Teachers know everything and they talk to your parents, so this seems like a totally unnecessary risk. I’m always cautious of how long I stay to hear him ramble. He asks me endless questions. Way too many questions. I know most of the answers, but keep them to myself and pull farther into my turtle shell. He doesn’t seem to notice. He’s busy attempting to talk, chew, and somehow manage to avoid choking all at once. He’s even figured out how to drain a juice box while eating. He’s a fascinating creature.
I’m salivating thinking about his lunch contents, which is surprisingly helpful considering I need the moisture to break down the bread sitting in my mouth. I’ve essentially stopped chewing since my focus is jealous observation and I am not a gifted multitasker.
The weird part is that I honestly don’t even like white bread. It tastes like cardboard. Actually, it tastes like less than cardboard. It’s a non-existent taste that somehow makes me crave it. Because somehow all the kids at lunch want white bread, so I want it, too.
There’s only two acceptable sandwiches allowed for the third graders of Magnolia Elementary School.
One is two or three, never more than three, rounded slices of Oscar Mayer bologna with thinly scraped yellow mustard on BOTH sides of the white bread. Don’t even dare to fancy it with Dijon. You can, however, draw scribbles on the bologna instead. It’s an artist’s signature and there’s some leeway to the rules. A sharp cheddar cheese is an acceptable addition if it isn’t cut too thick. Here, the crust is acceptable. It’s somehow needed to contain the toxic tanginess of Heinz and welcomed as an acceptable companion. The other sandwich is the holy grail. The crème de la crème. The crustless royal jelly. Not jam, not preserves. We don’t want any of these feral seeds messing up the smooth glossy glow, and it must be Smucker’s, duh. Strawberry is divine, but no one will throw out grape. However, if you dip into any other fruit options outside of this, like the dreaded blueberry or plum, you might as well just not show up for school or sit by yourself on the grass.
Neilly Sheville is not someone who has anything anyone craves. She always has gross tomatoes.
She’s sitting to Chris’ right wearing enormous glasses and earrings that look like something a grandma would wear to church. Her hair is cut like a boy’s, which I don’t understand. My hair is almost to my butt; I’ve been growing it forever.
Why would you choose that when you could have long hair?
She’s munching loudly on her red slices, and per usual, attempting to simultaneously speak. Everyone around me is always talking at me.
Juice is gathering around her lips and I keep watching it with absolute horror because I’m positive some of it is going to land on her white shirt. Then she’ll have a tomato stain for all of recess. The worst part is that she probably won’t even care, and I will.
She tells me tomatoes are healthy and she likes eating things that are good for her, as if this is a perfectly reasonable reason to bring tomatoes to school. It isn’t. Nobody likes tomatoes enough to bring them on purpose. She’s clearly making excuses.
“Do you want the other half?”
I am jolted.
“Do you want to trade for my other half?”
Chris is talking to me and I’m actually hearing a full sentence, but I’m too shocked to respond. He’s staring at me and holding the second half of his coveted sandwich out toward me. The entire table has stopped talking and everyone else is staring at the treasure offering being made.
I don’t say yes. My hand does it for me by reaching forward and snatching the outstretched gift.
“Give me your sandwich. And your Shark snacks.”
I slowly release the wheat and find myself thoroughly confused while he bites it and hums a deep satisfied YUM.
“My mom never buys brown bread. It’s good. I mean, I like the white bread, too, but this is yummy.”
He likes the brown bread? He’s as crazy as Neilly.
Up until this point, the lunchroom is still pretty focused on our exchange and I feel increasingly uncomfortable, frozen like a statue holding a half-eaten sandwich, but grateful that everyone is now newly distracted by the frantic negotiations that have started over the lottery-winning bite-sized man-eater.
He’s already swallowed the turkey, cheese, mayo, and lettuce, leaving large crumbs on the table, and he has commandeered my fruit snacks. He’s tearing open the gummies pouch hunting for the coveted Great White Shark mystery flavor. He pours out translucent hammerhead blues, mako reds, and tiger oranges into his palm, and at last, the Holy Grail topples out and falls on top of the pile.
“I’ll trade you a Jell-O pudding!”
“Come on, Chris, I’ve still got some of my Snackable you can have!”
“I have a Rice Krispies treat!”
Chris ignores everyone and pops the entire handful of fruit snacks into his mouth. Including the white one, causing Neilly to squeal and screech.
“Chriiiisssss, you’re supposed to eat the white one separately! There are rules, Chris!!”
I hate to admit she’s right. It’s unacceptable to not completely clear your palate and savor its unique, undefinable flavor. Is it fruit? Why is it creamy? We don’t know and we don’t care, but you don’t taint it.
Not surprisingly, he misses the entire point of specialness; he’s already off and running around the field for post-lunch recess.
Boys. They just don’t get it.
As the other kids continue to exit the table and find freedom on the playground, I’m still holding the jelly sandwich. In this moment, I’ve won life. Chris granted me a desire so intense I don’t know if I should eat it now or save it for later.
I’m briefly jolted back to reality by my friends all departing at once, yelling at me as they throw out their trash.
Come on, let’s go play.
But I can’t leave this moment. Sitting alone, finally, and with a slow breath, I close my eyes and draw the sandwich to my mouth. I sink my teeth in and feel the texture fill the gaps in my teeth.
Ew! I hate white bread.
I immediately throw the remains away and chase after my peers.
They won’t know that I didn’t finish it. The whole class will only remember that I had the best lunch out of everyone else.
Today, I was Queen.
