It was fifth grade and my third year at private school. I found a seat, my feet swinging freely several inches above the linoleum, and the expansive gym-turned-lunchroom slowly filled with the chatter of grade school lunch hour: who was suspected to like whom, who had the coolest new school shoes, whose turn it was to run out and claim the four square at recess and, of course, the endless recapping of what aired most recently on TGIF. As my fellow students took their seats, the din grew more complex with a crescendo of metal spoons clacking on plastic trays, the soft thumping as each small body found its place on the long Formica benches and the splitting crispness of zippers engaging on brightly-colored lunch boxes.
