Seven Up and Sandwiches
Thursday, October 29, 2009 at 09:58PM There weren’t any desks in my grade 1 classroom, just tables.
There were four or five to a table and we were grouped by reading ability. At my table, the enriched reading table, there were five of us. Me, my best friend Melanie, my other best friend Heather, my other best friend Verna, and Tony … who was most definitely not my best friend. I had a lot of best friends then … I still do, but none of them is Melanie, Heather or Verna.
I was stuck beside Tony.
Tony told me about his fish and fish books every day.
He had a lot of fish.
He also had a lot of fish books … or maybe he just had a lot of stories about that one fish book.
I wore skirts with prints of flowers and soft cotton t-shirts. White cotton undies that rode up my butt, long blonde pig tails that tickled my back, and velcro sneakers. My hard plastic lunchpail had a thermos inside that most days held sugary tang, but some days it had ravioli - and ravioli days were the good days.
I loved craft days and gym days and library days with read-aloud time. Losing myself in a book or in my rendition of the voice of the character in a book was not losing myself at all - it was like finding a home where everything smelled of fresh-baked cookies and every surface was covered in cozy just like my blankie.
I especially loved game days. Game days were a lot of fun. Seven-up was my absolute favourite. I loved the anticipation - would somebody tap me, would I be able to guess who, would I get to do the tapping, would I steal a quick snooze or snatch a momentary daydream? We’d sit there at our tables … our heads nuzzled into our elbows to block out the light. Except for Melanie … she told me on the playground that she always let just enough light in to see the passing shadows. She did not like to lose.
Melanie sat on the other side of me at our enriched reading table. “Do it”, I heard her whisper through the crack under her arm.
Sure our heads were down on our desks poised and ready to be tapped, but there would be no seven-up that day.
“Say it was yours”, she coaxed, “and hurry up - I really have to pee”.
“GIRLS!” Ms. Appleby said harshly. “There’s no need to be whispering. Now class, we are going to sit here as long as it takes for whoever threw out this whole sandwich from their lunch to come forward.”
Melanie nudged. I could see her eyebrows egging me on. I felt my hand go up. I didn’t want it to go up. I didn’t want it to be my hand that went up. It was not my sandwich. But there I was, hand up.
My shoulders, my everything stiffened up in anticipation … in fear of what was to come next for me from Ms. Appleby. The room buzzed with relief and whispers and energy.
“Everybody but Norma Jean can head outside for recess.”
“QUICKLY!”
Thank-God she said quickly. I know I had to pee. I know I wanted it to be over with.
She set the sandwich in my lunchbox next to my pink thermos. She told me I would have to take it home - I was not to eat it, and I had better not throw it out again. Her knowing disappointed look stayed with me throughout the day and during the long bus-ride home.
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“What’s this sandwich?” my Dad yelled from the kitchen.
I told him the whole story. The heads on desks … Melanie … Ms. Appleby … the pee … the lie. The lie, the lie, the LIE my best friend made me tell.
“Uh-huh,” Dad would say periodically as I went through my long sordid tale. I am sure I shed tears, because I always shed tears. I still do, but not over sandwiches.
When I had finished, he leaned over and lifted me up and set me on the counter. He got up really close and pressed his nose against mine, so close that our eyelashes kissed like butterfly wings. Then he said,
“Looks tasty. Want half?”
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If you liked my story, return to http://www.thegirlwho.net and vote for me by typing “I vote for Norma” (or words to that effect) in the comment block of the post that contains the links to “The Great Experiment - Childhood Memory”.
Norma Jean Barrett
YIPPEE! I won thegirlwho’s great experiment contest for October, which asked us to share a childhood memory. Thanks to all who visited and read my submission AND a big thanks to all those who voted AND to all those great teachers like Ms. Appleby (not her real name) who toil away in the classroom and encourage students to find, do, and be their best. Finally a big shout out to my Noonie, who didn’t always have the right thing to say, but struck gold when he did.
Reader Comments (9)
I loved your story! I want to vote for you but under the contest the comment section is "off" - is there another way?
peace to you today - Kel
I started to read some of your blog, mainly the stuff on divorce. Mine's been dragging through the courts for the last two years. It's so hard trying to keep my 4 year old shielded from the debilitating effects of it.
Can't wait for the day I can breath again.
Reminded me of the time my sister and I were playing down in the basement. Seems someone had spilled sugar on the kitchen counter. We could hear my mom ranting just above us, her pitch growing louder by the second. My sister, fearing for her life, BEGGED me to take the blame. " She won't hit you, G, You never get hit!" I was banking on that. I"How much will you pay me, not now but when you grow up and start working" She offered 5 dollars. No one would take a beating for 5 bucks. We agreed on 7 dollars to be paid at which time she became gainfully employed, I went up and boldly admitted to the mess. Mom eyed me suspiciously. No beating was administered, since Mom owed me for all of the cleaning I did around the house. about 10 years later my sister made good for the money. Thanks for bringing it to mind. VERY CUTE STORY!!