The Midday Battle...aka Lunch!

At precisely nine minutes before one o'clock, the shrill blast of the bell wrenches me from the stupor to which I've fallen prey in the past seventy-seven minutes. I wrestle my mind away from the captivating world which my daydreams have plunged me into, and back into the repulsive class which is now, thankfully, coming to an end for another day. Only ninety-nine days left of school until classes are officially over! I round up my books in record time, like a rancher with his cattle, and dash out the door. I navigate around the grade nines, who have the infuriating habit of blocking the hallways as they stop to talk about who said this, or who did that, in massive clusters, and consequentially angering the elder - and more important - grade twelve students. Darting through the cafeteria, which is packed with students like sardines in a can, I find myself standing at the rear of a vast line-up.  The grade twelve students should be allowed to bypass the line altogether, just like the teachers do, but, unfortunately, that is not reality.  Oh, the injustice of being in grade twelve but not receiving any special privileges that the grade tens or elevens don't also receive is unfathomable! The line moves dreadfully slow, and I shuffle forward, mimicking a penguin. The students ahead of me grab their food off the counter and scurry towards the register to pay, rushing along as if they haven't eaten in weeks! I eye the last of the French fries, and, just as I extend my hand to seize the golden, deep-fried, deliciously salty potato sticks, another hand reaches out to snatch the dish of fries! My dish of fries! I glare towards the student, ready to give them a piece of my mind about cutting in line, when I notice the fancy rings adorning her fingers; not the type of jewellery a high school student would wear. I look farther up and take in the khaki pants, the flowery shirt, and then the array of expensive necklaces. Finally, I glance up at the fry-stealer's face. A voice chirps in my mind, reminding me of my dear friends: Charlie, Billy and Wanda. I recoil away from the woman, letting her take the French fries. I accept my fate that I won't be eating today at lunch, for I do wish to pass Mrs. Fry-stealer's class and not get on her bad side. My hands drop to my sides in defeat, and I watch her stride over to the door, carrying her French fries triumphantly.  For a moment my mind wanders to what I would change at this school in regards to the grade twelves, and my heart longs to be given that chance.  My stomach growls noisily, reminding me of its emptiness. If only it hadn't been Mrs. Sutherland reaching for those fries...