Damn, I have no memories of, or traditions associated with, school lunches, unless cutting class to get stoned at the Cloisters instead of going back to class after lunch counts.

I'm-a sit back and enjoy everyone else's this week. It's like a different language.

Sometimes it's not so much the lunch you remember as the container...

There are some people who, the instant you meet them, you just know are going to be your best friend. You were one of those people. We were enjoying comfortable silences bare minutes after meeting, and before long were completing each other's sentences, much to the amusement of the mutual friend who had just introduced us.

I think, though, that the thing that convinced me we were sisters separated by birth is that we both, half a continent away from each other and completely unware of the other's existence, defied first grade gender expectations by proudly toting Evel Knievel lunchboxes.

I'm thinking this is...not that great. But what the hell...
My mom was sort of a hippie so my lunches were weird to the other kids. Generally just in a plain bag, although one year there was a Muppet lunchbox tooApparently in grade school only freaks eat fruit without sugar on it, so I was a freak among freaks. I should have prepared...this was going to happen a lot. My best friend in the world(so much easier to say when you’re nine) had a mom that was, like, a hardcore hippie. She rode her bike to help out at school and they had a nude drawing in their house.She also cursed quite a lot, and she never gave my friend anything that even looked like junk in her lunch. I suppose I could’ve gotten some of the weird off of me by giving it to her, but our moms were friends and I suppose what my mom said was true: Things were different in New York, where my friend’s mom was from.

unless cutting class to get stoned at the Cloisters instead of going back to class after lunch counts.

Oh, HELL yes! Please?

For Teppy:

---

"Monks?"

"Yep."

Post-lunch, and we're stuffed with falafel. The afternoon looms: geometry, civics, German. Aviva, rocker and Israeli exchange student, has Spanish, gym and trig. Yuck.

"They grow marijuana?"

"Yep."

We take the train to Ft. Tryon Park. Aviva's pop-eyed, a Sabra confronted by a medieval monastery in NYC. I know all the monks.

We slip into the Bonnefont Cloister gardens. Two of the brothers are passing the pipe.

Pot smoke wafts across the Hudson. Aviva and Brother Clement are debating judaism versus christianity, giggling a lot. I close my eyes, getting a contact high, digesting my falafel.

Beats the hell out of civics.

As somebody who got an "A" in civics...yeah.

I just sent the worst thing I've ever written since...hm. Since high school I think, our for beta.

I lost my mojo. If someone finds it, please send it as an attachment to my profile addie? It's creating panic.

Allyson, you have mail. Questions.

Just to let you know, the structure isn't nearly as bad as you think it is - what's off, big-time, is your tone. Off, as in, startlingly different from the rest of the book. But that's not a hard fix, not once you can see where it's wrestling with you.

Asked in email - do you want deep edits, general commentary, or both, or neither?

I can't see where it's wrestling with me. I'm pinned with my face to the mat.

Sent back!

School Lunches

A curl of metal in some overcooked vegetable ended my cafeteria days. That long moment when I held my tray and looked across the cafeteria, hoping against experience that someone would gesture me to a table, was hard enough on my digestion. It was against the rules, but most teachers selectively ignored the few of us who stayed in the classroom with our sandwiches and apples. We talked, we read, and occasionally risked our clandestine status by hanging out the windows, walking on the desks or laughing too loudly. It was the only community where I belonged.