#26

You remember that story about Little Red Riding Hood and how she foolishly believed her grandmother had monstrous eyes, hirsute ears, rugged teeth, and a distinctly wolfish voice? Well, I feel like that foolish child. I feel like I’ve been deceived and swallowed whole by an imposter.

I had a few days left before I could start eating lunch at school again. But during this time I developed habits: I feast like a king during breakfast and I stuff my face with food when the 3:30 bell rings. But in between I’m what Homer Simpson is to being sober – painfully out of my mind. All day I dream about fruit baskets and the fruit they contain. I imagine my fist is an 8 oz. filet mignon and chew. And sadly, in my hunger I lose control of my movements and decisions: I babble, I drool, I move around like a cretin. It got pretty serious.

Even Carl noticed. And I so wish he didn’t. One day during recess he came up to me and offered me a sloppy joe sandwich. He said it was his lunch and he felt bad for me – felt bad enough to sacrifice his own physiological needs. Of course I, the dimwitted, hungry savage, accepted the sandwich without hesitation.

You probably think it was filled with bugs or gravel or mud. But in actuality, it was filled with all of the above. I barely sunk my teeth into the sandwich when the spread dripped into my mouth and I quickly spat it out.

Carl toppled over in mountainous laughter. Stupid Carl. Stupid Me.

I continued to feel sorry for myself the rest of the day.

After an uneventful lunch I came back to my seat and found within my desk half a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. My first thoughts were of Carl and how this might be a continuation of his tricks, but after peeling open the top layer I realized it was clean.

I looked up from my desk and saw Anna staring back at me. She gave me a discreet wink and turned her attention back to the teacher.

I snuck the sandwich into the bathroom and ate half a sandwich. Yeah, I broke the rules of the game, but you can’t blame a hungry man.