John Felon
To the onlooker it seems like any other Thursday. Maybe a little more commotion than usual. You go through the day, putting on a facade of normality. You nod cordially at passersby, but the flicker in their eyes tells all. You sit in English as the urges begin. First the left eye twitches, then the leg spasms, then the dry-mouth. You steal a glance at the stubborn red numbers on the wall clock. How can it only be 7:57? Oh no, here come the shakes.
The bell rings and you stumble out of class. Your legs betray you, dragging you to the cafeteria. But you are stronger than last Thursday, not yet you growl through clenched teeth. Pure iron will keeps you afloat through the tumultuous tide of period two.
You feel yourself going through the motions as your mind recedes into the primal corners of your consciousness.
“Did you get number three?” asks the girl sitting next to you.
You can’t focus your eyes. “What class are we in?” you stammer back.
She looks at you quizzically. Her eye twitches.
By the grace of a greater power you make it through two more periods unscathed. 10:47 hits. The sweet release of A Lunch. Your class is in the basement, there is much ground to cover. You tighten your backpack straps, double-knot your shoes, pop in the mouth guard, hike up your pants and set out. You hunger for sustenance.
Merely three trivial steps down the basement hallway you encounter its unmistakable aroma. All brain processing shuts down. You black out and regain consciousness in the snack line. There they are, as beautiful as you last remembered. Their golden crispy crust peppered with sugar crystals that catch the light just so. Their voluptuous volume barely contained by the struggling crinkled paper. Their chocolate chips melted just enough to sparkle with moisture.
Around you, people chatter nervously about nothing. The burning question hangs above all. Will there be enough? You crane your head, eyes straining past the twenty five eager heads before you. What would happen if I jumped over the ice cream freezer and took the whole tray? You shake your head dismissively. No, I must suppress the urges.
You watch someone come out of the lunch line, bagel in hand. He glances at the long line, shakes his head, and moves on. Weak. You hear a freshman remark to her friend, “I’ll just wait until the line dies down and get my muffin later.” Amateur.
You regain your senses and realize you’re up. “One choc-“ then you glance down, heart sinking into your double knotted shoes. “All out!” Ritz exclaims with sympathetic eyes. You are speechless. Your eyes well up, and you look down, embarrassed. You want to hide in a hole and never come out. Everyone looks at you; you’re holding up the line. You grab a skinny pop tart bag with disgust, punch in your stupid lunch number, and slump down at the nearest table.
You win this time, Radnor High School.