Memory as Story

A horn blares, tires screech, children scream and onlookers gasp. This is how I spent one fateful lunch period of my elementary school years. Attending St. Peters elementary growing up had its positives and negatives just like any other school. Positives being good teachers and lots of friends; negatives being uniforms and having to walk three downtown city blocks to the cafeteria located not a hundred yards away. We were more excited than usual for lunch that afternoon, being that it was Friday; pizza day. The last bastion of hope for a disillusioned third grader. As we jostled each other to make it to the front of the line behind our teacher, Ms. Millie, she abruptly stopped us at the curb and waited on the light to change so that we might cross the street to the cafeteria. Being extra hungry that day I had managed to make it to the front of the line with my friend Seth. Both of us waiting in agonizing anticipation for the signal to go; like two thoroughbreds’s anticipating the gunshot that would set them free. Jumping the gun Seth darted out a split second before the light changed and was rudely introduced to the front fender of an old cutlass. A screech and a thud and it was all over, and me with a front row seat; and to think, pizza day was supposed to be the best day of the week.