Chapter 4: The Lunch Counter

On Monday, I walked into the Schoenberger Elementary cafeteria and saw my mother in a hairnet.

She stood behind the steam table with a pair of metal tongs, handing out chicken nuggets to a line of third graders.

I stopped so fast that a boy walked into my backpack.

Mom looked up and gave me a small wave with the tongs.

I got in line with my tray.

My hands were not very steady.

"Mom," I said, when I got to the front. "What are you doing?"

"Today it's nuggets or the turkey sandwich," she said. "You want nuggets."

"You can't work here."

"I started this morning. The old cook retired, and they needed someone for the counter." She put three nuggets on my plate. "It's only part-time."

"It's my school."

"I know. I looked it up."

"Mom, you can't follow me around."

"I'm not following you." She said it very gently. "I'm just early."

I did not know what that meant.

She put a green apple on my tray, and the line pushed me along.

I sat at the end of a table by myself and stared at the apple.

Under it, folded small, was a paper napkin with writing in blue pen.

Sit down when you're tired. I'm at the counter.

I put it in my pocket and did not eat anything.

Across the room, Mom leaned on the steam table with her arms crossed and watched me over the heads of two hundred kids.

She never looked away for longer than a second.

After lunch I asked my teacher if I could see the school nurse.

The nurse's office had a cot, a poster of the food pyramid and a jar of stickers.

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