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Description
You arrive at school in your children’s cartoon shirt and brand new sneakers. Seeing your normal group of friends crowding around one of the front student desks, you rush over to join them. You eagerly ask them what they’ll be eating for lunch on this fine Friday. You don’t really care, because you’re just setting up the topic so that you can tell them you have a twinkie in your favorite Thomas The Tank Engine lunchbox. It’s Friday, the least dreadful day in the school week, and you’ve miraculously gone from Monday to Thursday without going to the principal’s office even once. Thus, your mommy has rewarded you with a special treat, but only if you have good behavior. You plan on eating this twinkie first, and ending your lunch with the soggy peanut butter and jelly sandwich that always serves as your main course.

Your friends, mostly seven year olds with white skin, brand name shirts of cartoons and franchises, and light-up sneakers, have mixed reactions to your inquiry. Half look at you with scorn, the other with glee. They try to talk over each other, while the others look at the chipped, white paint falling from the classroom’s walls. However, as they were all surrounding a desk, you turn your gaze to the one who sits in it.

Quincy, one of the few first graders in your school who has a black skin, sits quietly in his seat, practicing his division and uninterested in the conversation around him. You’ve been told he has black skin because he’s “African” as well as “American”, which means he was born on a second piece of land called “Africa” whereas you were only born on this piece of land, America; however, you don’t think that’s why he’s always sitting by himself and playing with boring math. Instead, you believe it’s because he doesn’t like to wear fun clothes and shoes like you and your friends. You don’t know why he prefers to wear the same three faded, white shirts and same pair of ragged sneakers; but you really can’t be bothered to care about that. You’re too excited about your twinkie. You draw Quincy’s concentration away from his paper by rapidly tapping him on the shoulder. He slowly looks to you, brown eyes unimpressed and a frown pursed on his lips.

You tell him of your valuable, prized possession, and he nods along, rubbing his stomach with his left hand as it growls. You tell him of how grand your lunchbox is, how it sits with pride on the top of your cubby outside the classroom unguarded, and how it houses the prized twinkie you’ve barely managed to earn. He continues to rub his grumbling stomach, which strikes you as odd, because he surely had a hearty breakfast like you did. Regardless, he thoughtfully indulging you. He usually minds his own business and can be found alone on the playground of adventurous cockroaches and chipped blue paint; but since no one else will speak to you, you’ll have to make do with Quincy, who sighs heavily, frowning as you reiterate again that you have a twinkie no one else can have.

The door to your classroom squeaks open, and you all turn to see your teacher walk in with her usual bloodshot and baggy eyes. She is appalled at the wet towel smell your classroom emits and mutters something about God for it. You all tell her good morning in the same, monotonous tone. As always, she nods with a yawn and slumps down at her desk in the back of the classroom. Running a hand through her frazzled, greying hair she tells you all to get into position for the pledge of Allegiance, so you leave Quincy at the front and move to your desk in the back.

It’s like this for most days. You’re so full of energy and excitement that you have trouble being quiet while Mrs. Miller drones on about math, English, and Spanish. She leaves nasty tarry and swampy breath behind her as she moves up and down the aisles, reading from a packet, never taking her eyes off it. And when she’s done with that, she tosses packets of glossy paper for everyone to work on while she goes back to her desk and does grown up things like talk to other teachers about things like “child support”. Meanwhile, your left handedness makes you smear everything, and so you can only ever get half the packet done with slow, neat writing or all of it done with sloppy, fast writing. Mrs. Miller takes off lots of points either way, which makes you irresponsibly furious at everything in life, and you’re only ever able to vent by cornering your introverted peers. This is only exacerbated even further when you’re not allowed to use the bathroom without Mrs. Miller escorting you, while Quincy can go on his own and take his sweet time. You always make sure he knows you don’t care for the blatant favoritism.

As Mrs. Miller gets accustomed to the odor of the classroom, she goes through the motions of plopping into her desk and telling everyone --mainly you-- to be silent at once. Today’s a good day for you, since you get to have a delicious twinkie, so you do as you’re told the first time and sit down. Mrs. Miller assembles her favored glossy paper packets and has you all recite the Pledge of Allegiance to your American flag, and once she’s satisfied with the monotone droning of you and your thirty classmates, she starts passing out the packets and lecturing about the topics to be learned today.

She haphazardly repeats herself, checking on the clock every few minutes, as she strolls up and down the aisles with her nasty, tar breath in tow, and she “encourages” you to pay attention by firmly slapping you on the back. As it’s a good day for you, she only has to do this twice for the morning session. The bell rings, everyone jumps up and rushes outside to snatch up lunchboxes, and Mrs. Miller coerces you and the other misfits into a quiet line of troops, slowly trodding down the halls of tainted white paint and passing rusty water fountains. You try to tell one kid who stops for a drink that your mommy told you not to drink the water, because it’s not always safe, but Mrs. Miller tells you to shut up and keep walking.

Arriving in the lunchroom, you and your friends grab a plastic, chipped table that’s not under missing ceiling tiles and get comfy while others like Quincy go to get free food from the cafeteria line. The socio economic divide is quickly forgotten as you open your namebrand lunchbox to discover that your prized twinkie is missing.

You’re not emotionally equipped to handle this horrifying twist of events. You immediately ask your friends if they’ve seen a fallen twinkie on the floor as you lurch out of your seat, quickly scavenging around the table, crawling through the moldy crumbs and dead insects, ever vigilant; sadly, you fail to find it, and no one else can locate your missing twinkie. Desperation overcomes you, and you leap to your feet, smacking your head on the underside of the table. Ignoring the pain in your skull, you demand that the thief turn over your twinkie. In exchange, you will show mercy to the perpetrator. No one has possession of your twinkie, despite their proclamations if their innocence as you empty the contents of their lunch bags. You realize that the non-existent trail has already gone cold. You see Quincy chowing down on slimy cafeteria food with his fellow black-skinned friends. Even with this tragedy on your mind, you remember that you need to eat something if you don’t want to get hungry. Although the twinkie is gone, you still have the main course: a spongy peanut butter and jelly sandwich, in which the peanut butter dries out, and the jelly soaks into the bread. You drown your sorrows with metallic water as you massage the sore bump on your head.

However, not all hope is lost. As lunch ends, recess begins; and you have access to all of the gossip of the day. Ignoring your friends, you run about interrupting all games of hopscotch, basketball, cards, and the like; you demand to know if anyone has seen any twinkie thieves. Many turn you away. Some back away and mumble. Others tell you to leave them alone. To your great delight, you are eventually informed of the culprit by one of your neutral classmates. It would seem that, as they were returning from a bathroom break one of your classmates saw Quincy eating a twinkie as he was on his way there.

You’re excited. You’re angry. The cheerful joys of laughter turn to mockery, as you realize you’ve been conned by the malicious Quincy. Like any logical seven year old, you rush around the playground until you find Quincy in the last place you would expect to find him: where he normally is. He sits at a picnic table, arms crossed and cushioning his head. For such a heinous villain, he is far more at peace than you are, undoubtedly filled up on twinkie goodness and however many other snacks he could steal.

As you shake him awake, you begin interrogating him. “Why did you steal my twinkie?” you demand as you loom over him, glaring as intensely as you can. His answer is not to your satisfaction, and you rush over to Mrs. Miller, who can always be found in the same place: in the corner, as far away from the playground as is possible. Surrounded by that disgusting smell of tar, today she’s reading a book with a shirtless man on the cover. You pull her attention away from the book and drag her over to Quincy’s table. “He stole my twinkie!” you lament, pointing your finger at the thief’s head, just to make sure she knows he’s the one you’re referring to.

Glancing at her watch, Mrs. Miller mumbles something about God and kids. Rolling her head, she cranes her neck until it pops. Languidly, she asks Quincy, “Did you steal his twinkie?” As Quincy nods in guilt, she looks down at you with a glum expression, and you get a good look at the dark circles under her eyes, which aren’t as bloodshot as they were in the morning. She tells you to resume playing, for she will determine the best course of action on her own time. You tell her that you feel it would be best to bring the criminal to justice immediately, but she tells you to shut up and run along. You begrudgingly obey, angry that the legal system will not work in your favor as you desire.

Mrs. Miller is true to her word, and at the end of your last class, just as you’re about to go outside to wait for the carpool, she pulls you and Quincy aside in the hallway as everyone else files out in an orderly fashion. With slumped shoulders and her favorite rectangular box of brown and white sticks in hand, she scratches the back of her neck and informs you, “On Monday, Quincy will bring you a tastier snack.” Looking to Quincy, she deadpans, “Is that okay, Quincy.”

Quincy has never been in a position of power to bargain, and thus he speedily agrees to the terms of his punishment. You are satisfied with the logic of his sentencing. Although you adore the creamy goodness of the beloved twinkie, you can only imagine what kind of heavenly treat awaits you for Monday. You would like to tell mommy what transpired on this eventful day, but by the time she pulls up in the school carpool, you hop in to find her with gritted teeth and white knuckles on the steering wheel, so you wisely shut up.

You spend the rest of Friday staying out of her way, mostly in your room with your toys. Saturday is filled with morning cartoons and endless merriment. Sunday begins with a trip to your local church, where the pastor tries to convince you that thousands of animals were crammed into a giant boat.

Monday begins again, and you give a charismatic, friendly hello to Quincy before remembering that you hate him. Thus, you make sure to give Quincy your nastiest glare every chance you get during class time; however, he either doesn’t see or doesn’t care, because he’s so wrapped up in learning the material, while you divide your resources between writing on the glossy packets and making him feel bad. This upheaval in your heart results in two trips to the principal’s office before lunchtime, which results in even greater anger and frustration as you now lose the chance to have another treat on this coming Friday. You’re just not capable of considering the possibility that some things might be your own fault, and that not everyone is out to get you.

Lunch time finally arrives, and Mrs. Miller brings Quincy before your table. You try to tell your friends to be quiet and give Quincy the evil eye, but they’re all too wrapped up in their merriment. Quincy has a small tupperware container in his hands, its contents wrapped in brown napkins. Mrs. Miller’s eyes look better today. She initiates the thief’s redemption. “Thomas, Quincy made a big effort in giving you a good snack, so say thank you,” she tells you as she pushes Quincy towards you. “Go ahead, Quincy. Give Thomas your snack.”

You watch Quincy square his shoulders, showing the wrinkles in his faded white, buttoned shirt. He extends his offering to you, and you politely thank him. Your grand designs for redemption have finally reached fruition as you unwrap your gift; however, this grand design is immediately tarnished as you gaze upon four tiny sandwiches made of saltine crackers. They each sandwich a thin layer of orange jam, probably peach.

Taking a few moments to inspect their contents, you look back up at your teacher and patiently explain, “Mrs. Miller! These aren’t better than twinkies! You said Quincy would give me a better snack!” You have no idea why people are being so idiotic about this. You’re shocked that Quincy would try to give you lesser and lie that it was all he had. You would never consider the idea that someone might not have anything better at home, as you yourself have never known hunger.

Quincy apologizes, slumping his shoulders and staring at you with those glazed eyes. Mrs. Miller says something about misfortune and gratefulness. She tells you to eat them or throw them away, for she no longer cares and stalks off with her paper box of white and brown sticks. You glare at Quincy, but he just gives you a glazed look. He’s not crying, but he’s not smiling. Slowly looking down at the box of saltine sandwiches, he asks, “If you don’t want them, can I have them back?”

He has broken his word and given you a snack that is lesser in value than your stolen twinkie, so you feel it’s best to show him that you won’t stand for this insolence and treachery. Being only seven, you cannot hope to articulate this through words, but you still manage to tell him that he may certainly not have them back. Refusing to be the victim of his dishonesty, you move to throw them into the nearest trashcan.

As you’re about to throw them, you realize that Quincy could easily remove the plastic trash lid and fish them out. In fact, you’re positive that you’ve seen him do that before. To ensure that he can’t benefit from his dishonesty, you pulverize all four cracker sandwiches, smear their sticky remains into the napkins, and then chuck the paper ball into the trash. You give back Quincy’s tupperware container, because mommy trained you to always return borrowed supplies.

Description
You arrive at school in your children’s cartoon shirt and brand new sneakers. Seeing your normal group of friends crowding around one of the front student desks, you rush over to join them. You eagerly ask them what they’ll be eating for lunch on this fine Friday. You don’t really care, because you’re just setting up the topic so that you can tell them you have a twinkie in your favorite Thomas The Tank Engine lunchbox. It’s Friday, the least dreadful day in the school week, and you’ve miraculously gone from Monday to Thursday without going to the principal’s office even once. Thus, your mommy has rewarded you with a special treat, but only if you have good behavior. You plan on eating this twinkie first, and ending your lunch with the soggy peanut butter and jelly sandwich that always serves as your main course.

Your friends, mostly seven year olds with white skin, brand name shirts of cartoons and franchises, and light-up sneakers, have mixed reactions to your inquiry. Half look at you with scorn, the other with glee. They try to talk over each other, while the others look at the chipped, white paint falling from the classroom’s walls. However, as they were all surrounding a desk, you turn your gaze to the one who sits in it.

Quincy, one of the few first graders in your school who has a black skin, sits quietly in his seat, practicing his division and uninterested in the conversation around him. You’ve been told he has black skin because he’s “African” as well as “American”, which means he was born on a second piece of land called “Africa” whereas you were only born on this piece of land, America; however, you don’t think that’s why he’s always sitting by himself and playing with boring math. Instead, you believe it’s because he doesn’t like to wear fun clothes and shoes like you and your friends. You don’t know why he prefers to wear the same three faded, white shirts and same pair of ragged sneakers; but you really can’t be bothered to care about that. You’re too excited about your twinkie. You draw Quincy’s concentration away from his paper by rapidly tapping him on the shoulder. He slowly looks to you, brown eyes unimpressed and a frown pursed on his lips.

You tell him of your valuable, prized possession, and he nods along, rubbing his stomach with his left hand as it growls. You tell him of how grand your lunchbox is, how it sits with pride on the top of your cubby outside the classroom unguarded, and how it houses the prized twinkie you’ve barely managed to earn. He continues to rub his grumbling stomach, which strikes you as odd, because he surely had a hearty breakfast like you did. Regardless, he thoughtfully indulging you. He usually minds his own business and can be found alone on the playground of adventurous cockroaches and chipped blue paint; but since no one else will speak to you, you’ll have to make do with Quincy, who sighs heavily, frowning as you reiterate again that you have a twinkie no one else can have.

The door to your classroom squeaks open, and you all turn to see your teacher walk in with her usual bloodshot and baggy eyes. She is appalled at the wet towel smell your classroom emits and mutters something about God for it. You all tell her good morning in the same, monotonous tone. As always, she nods with a yawn and slumps down at her desk in the back of the classroom. Running a hand through her frazzled, greying hair she tells you all to get into position for the pledge of Allegiance, so you leave Quincy at the front and move to your desk in the back.

It’s like this for most days. You’re so full of energy and excitement that you have trouble being quiet while Mrs. Miller drones on about math, English, and Spanish. She leaves nasty tarry and swampy breath behind her as she moves up and down the aisles, reading from a packet, never taking her eyes off it. And when she’s done with that, she tosses packets of glossy paper for everyone to work on while she goes back to her desk and does grown up things like talk to other teachers about things like “child support”. Meanwhile, your left handedness makes you smear everything, and so you can only ever get half the packet done with slow, neat writing or all of it done with sloppy, fast writing. Mrs. Miller takes off lots of points either way, which makes you irresponsibly furious at everything in life, and you’re only ever able to vent by cornering your introverted peers. This is only exacerbated even further when you’re not allowed to use the bathroom without Mrs. Miller escorting you, while Quincy can go on his own and take his sweet time. You always make sure he knows you don’t care for the blatant favoritism.

As Mrs. Miller gets accustomed to the odor of the classroom, she goes through the motions of plopping into her desk and telling everyone --mainly you-- to be silent at once. Today’s a good day for you, since you get to have a delicious twinkie, so you do as you’re told the first time and sit down. Mrs. Miller assembles her favored glossy paper packets and has you all recite the Pledge of Allegiance to your American flag, and once she’s satisfied with the monotone droning of you and your thirty classmates, she starts passing out the packets and lecturing about the topics to be learned today.

She haphazardly repeats herself, checking on the clock every few minutes, as she strolls up and down the aisles with her nasty, tar breath in tow, and she “encourages” you to pay attention by firmly slapping you on the back. As it’s a good day for you, she only has to do this twice for the morning session. The bell rings, everyone jumps up and rushes outside to snatch up lunchboxes, and Mrs. Miller coerces you and the other misfits into a quiet line of troops, slowly trodding down the halls of tainted white paint and passing rusty water fountains. You try to tell one kid who stops for a drink that your mommy told you not to drink the water, because it’s not always safe, but Mrs. Miller tells you to shut up and keep walking.

Arriving in the lunchroom, you and your friends grab a plastic, chipped table that’s not under missing ceiling tiles and get comfy while others like Quincy go to get free food from the cafeteria line. The socio economic divide is quickly forgotten as you open your namebrand lunchbox to discover that your prized twinkie is missing.

You’re not emotionally equipped to handle this horrifying twist of events. You immediately ask your friends if they’ve seen a fallen twinkie on the floor as you lurch out of your seat, quickly scavenging around the table, crawling through the moldy crumbs and dead insects, ever vigilant; sadly, you fail to find it, and no one else can locate your missing twinkie. Desperation overcomes you, and you leap to your feet, smacking your head on the underside of the table. Ignoring the pain in your skull, you demand that the thief turn over your twinkie. In exchange, you will show mercy to the perpetrator. No one has possession of your twinkie, despite their proclamations if their innocence as you empty the contents of their lunch bags. You realize that the non-existent trail has already gone cold. You see Quincy chowing down on slimy cafeteria food with his fellow black-skinned friends. Even with this tragedy on your mind, you remember that you need to eat something if you don’t want to get hungry. Although the twinkie is gone, you still have the main course: a spongy peanut butter and jelly sandwich, in which the peanut butter dries out, and the jelly soaks into the bread. You drown your sorrows with metallic water as you massage the sore bump on your head.

However, not all hope is lost. As lunch ends, recess begins; and you have access to all of the gossip of the day. Ignoring your friends, you run about interrupting all games of hopscotch, basketball, cards, and the like; you demand to know if anyone has seen any twinkie thieves. Many turn you away. Some back away and mumble. Others tell you to leave them alone. To your great delight, you are eventually informed of the culprit by one of your neutral classmates. It would seem that, as they were returning from a bathroom break one of your classmates saw Quincy eating a twinkie as he was on his way there.

You’re excited. You’re angry. The cheerful joys of laughter turn to mockery, as you realize you’ve been conned by the malicious Quincy. Like any logical seven year old, you rush around the playground until you find Quincy in the last place you would expect to find him: where he normally is. He sits at a picnic table, arms crossed and cushioning his head. For such a heinous villain, he is far more at peace than you are, undoubtedly filled up on twinkie goodness and however many other snacks he could steal.

As you shake him awake, you begin interrogating him. “Why did you steal my twinkie?” you demand as you loom over him, glaring as intensely as you can. His answer is not to your satisfaction, and you rush over to Mrs. Miller, who can always be found in the same place: in the corner, as far away from the playground as is possible. Surrounded by that disgusting smell of tar, today she’s reading a book with a shirtless man on the cover. You pull her attention away from the book and drag her over to Quincy’s table. “He stole my twinkie!” you lament, pointing your finger at the thief’s head, just to make sure she knows he’s the one you’re referring to.

Glancing at her watch, Mrs. Miller mumbles something about God and kids. Rolling her head, she cranes her neck until it pops. Languidly, she asks Quincy, “Did you steal his twinkie?” As Quincy nods in guilt, she looks down at you with a glum expression, and you get a good look at the dark circles under her eyes, which aren’t as bloodshot as they were in the morning. She tells you to resume playing, for she will determine the best course of action on her own time. You tell her that you feel it would be best to bring the criminal to justice immediately, but she tells you to shut up and run along. You begrudgingly obey, angry that the legal system will not work in your favor as you desire.

Mrs. Miller is true to her word, and at the end of your last class, just as you’re about to go outside to wait for the carpool, she pulls you and Quincy aside in the hallway as everyone else files out in an orderly fashion. With slumped shoulders and her favorite rectangular box of brown and white sticks in hand, she scratches the back of her neck and informs you, “On Monday, Quincy will bring you a tastier snack.” Looking to Quincy, she deadpans, “Is that okay, Quincy.”

Quincy has never been in a position of power to bargain, and thus he speedily agrees to the terms of his punishment. You are satisfied with the logic of his sentencing. Although you adore the creamy goodness of the beloved twinkie, you can only imagine what kind of heavenly treat awaits you for Monday. You would like to tell mommy what transpired on this eventful day, but by the time she pulls up in the school carpool, you hop in to find her with gritted teeth and white knuckles on the steering wheel, so you wisely shut up.

You spend the rest of Friday staying out of her way, mostly in your room with your toys. Saturday is filled with morning cartoons and endless merriment. Sunday begins with a trip to your local church, where the pastor tries to convince you that thousands of animals were crammed into a giant boat.

Monday begins again, and you give a charismatic, friendly hello to Quincy before remembering that you hate him. Thus, you make sure to give Quincy your nastiest glare every chance you get during class time; however, he either doesn’t see or doesn’t care, because he’s so wrapped up in learning the material, while you divide your resources between writing on the glossy packets and making him feel bad. This upheaval in your heart results in two trips to the principal’s office before lunchtime, which results in even greater anger and frustration as you now lose the chance to have another treat on this coming Friday. You’re just not capable of considering the possibility that some things might be your own fault, and that not everyone is out to get you.

Lunch time finally arrives, and Mrs. Miller brings Quincy before your table. You try to tell your friends to be quiet and give Quincy the evil eye, but they’re all too wrapped up in their merriment. Quincy has a small tupperware container in his hands, its contents wrapped in brown napkins. Mrs. Miller’s eyes look better today. She initiates the thief’s redemption. “Thomas, Quincy made a big effort in giving you a good snack, so say thank you,” she tells you as she pushes Quincy towards you. “Go ahead, Quincy. Give Thomas your snack.”

You watch Quincy square his shoulders, showing the wrinkles in his faded white, buttoned shirt. He extends his offering to you, and you politely thank him. Your grand designs for redemption have finally reached fruition as you unwrap your gift; however, this grand design is immediately tarnished as you gaze upon four tiny sandwiches made of saltine crackers. They each sandwich a thin layer of orange jam, probably peach.

Taking a few moments to inspect their contents, you look back up at your teacher and patiently explain, “Mrs. Miller! These aren’t better than twinkies! You said Quincy would give me a better snack!” You have no idea why people are being so idiotic about this. You’re shocked that Quincy would try to give you lesser and lie that it was all he had. You would never consider the idea that someone might not have anything better at home, as you yourself have never known hunger.

Quincy apologizes, slumping his shoulders and staring at you with those glazed eyes. Mrs. Miller says something about misfortune and gratefulness. She tells you to eat them or throw them away, for she no longer cares and stalks off with her paper box of white and brown sticks. You glare at Quincy, but he just gives you a glazed look. He’s not crying, but he’s not smiling. Slowly looking down at the box of saltine sandwiches, he asks, “If you don’t want them, can I have them back?”

He has broken his word and given you a snack that is lesser in value than your stolen twinkie, so you feel it’s best to show him that you won’t stand for this insolence and treachery. Being only seven, you cannot hope to articulate this through words, but you still manage to tell him that he may certainly not have them back. Refusing to be the victim of his dishonesty, you move to throw them into the nearest trashcan.

As you’re about to throw them, you realize that Quincy could easily remove the plastic trash lid and fish them out. In fact, you’re positive that you’ve seen him do that before. To ensure that he can’t benefit from his dishonesty, you pulverize all four cracker sandwiches, smear their sticky remains into the napkins, and then chuck the paper ball into the trash. You give back Quincy’s tupperware container, because mommy trained you to always return borrowed supplies.