The lunch line of hungry high schoolers extends all the way to the entrance of the lunch
room. Kids push and shove each other while they attempt to get closer to the front of the line,

where a spread of gooey grilled cheese, crunchy curly fries, hot tomato soup, and refreshing lem-
onade awaits them.

      The lunch flow has begun. People enter the lunch room, push and shove to the front, grab
their lunch, and find a seat. The flow of people coming in and out is strong, except for the small,
minuscule section that I am in, the section that does everything but move forward.
      The back of the line.
      My stomach growls and turns over, begging for food, but I know that it’s going to be a
while until its demands are met.
      All of my friends say it’s my own fault.
      “You’re too nice.”
      “Just cut the line.”
       I’m hungry, but I’m not that hungry.
       So I stand and wait for my turn as the smell of the cheese, potatoes, tomatoes, and lemons
fill the air, taunting me.
        While I am searching the crowd for any signs of hope, my friend Coco walks by with a
full plate of food. A heap of straw-yellow curly fries dominates the plate, fresh from the oil and
glistening in the fluorescent light. If you look close enough, you can see a perfect golden-brown
crust peeking out from underneath the fries.
        As I stare at her plate, I feel an elbow jab me in the middle of my spine. Quickly, my small,

insignificant body gets pushed into the boy in front of me and before I can recover, I am tram-
pled over and thrown to the side, like roadkill. Seconds later, everyone in the group has their

own towering plate of food, and I watch as they walk together out to the lunch room.
        To my surprise, just as I am turning my head back to its original position, the boy in front
of me gets his lunch and I am now the first in line, the entire lunch presenting itself to me. Or at
least, what is left. All that remains are a couple of burnt crusts and some soggy fries.
        So I wait for the trays to be refilled.
        I look around just to realize that I am alone in the lunchroom. Just me and the crummy

leftovers. And as I stare at the pool of oil in the bottom of the tray, I feel a light tap on my shoul-
der.

        “Sorry, Colby, the next lunch wave is coming. You have to go.”
        My stomach starts to hurt even more. Nothing is worse than being told you can’t have
what you want.
        So, quickly, I grab two slices of bread, add some cheddar cheese, some tomato, and some
potato salad. Then, I grab the last water bottle from the corner of the cooler and leave the lunch
room.

        As I walk to class and eat my flavorless sandwich, I begin to imagine dinner tonight. I

think about the long lines, the old plastic trays, and the same hungry faces. Suddenly, the caf-
eteria line becomes short and my sandwich in my hand has transformed into a giant plate of

mouthwatering grilled cheeses, flavorful curly fries, savory tomato soup, and one tall, refreshing
glass of homemade lemonade.