Lunch Line

They lined us by name. I was after Nick Walker, who wore new sneakers

each month, his dad managed a Footlocker. I was before Chris Warren. Chris had a nook

in the library, where he sold lemon pie for a dollar, let the older boys use him

for practice. He taught me how to hem my skirt, how to light a colored pencil to dye

my lip red. Miss Deanna made monkey bread on Fridays. She had a gold tooth,

a man’s name on her arm. She let us pick the food ourselves. The lunch lady who took the money

knew the free lunch kids. We’d walk past her, our unfinished chests just reaching

her register, she never tallied our food, or creased our collars with a look. She was a wide, white wall.