Twelve. The ring bells. Like a horde of elephants, starving children rush out of the classrooms, reaching finally a democratic state of equality in this primitive race towards food. I am part of it. After going down the stairs, jumping the steps two by two, our human mass overcome the schoolyard.
Since there is not enough room in the dining hall for all of us, we are assigned a 'wave'. The first wave is allowed to eat at 11:30; the second at 12 and the third at 12:30: the hated one. We are released by groups of 15 but it feels like a drop to drop. Every day, it is likely that this waiting never comes to an end.
In rank under the covered playground, some of us try to cheat, overtaking the younger and being overtaken by the older, like links in the food chain.
Neither among the babies nor the daddies, I am ignored -and happy to be- into the social hierarchy that reigns in my middle school. As a 7th grade kid, I am left alone by the tyrannical 15 years old, the appealingly helpless 6th grade little snots being preferred to me. However, I better don't show off. This new freedom, gained at the return from the summer vacations, has to stay quiet. If I stand out, it could be seen as an insurrection and would excite the fury of the tyrants, breaking this status quo. No, being invisible is great. Being invisible is a luxury after being martyred for an entire school year.
Several supervisors are there, keeping a close eye on us while we queue. They pretend we are civilized. We all know -including them- it is not true. We all know it is the survival of the fittest.
Neither among the babies nor the daddies, I am ignored -and happy to be- into the social hierarchy that reigns in my middle school. As a 7th grade kid, I am left alone by the tyrannical 15 years old, the appealingly helpless 6th grade little snots being preferred to me. However, I better don't show off. This new freedom, gained at the return from the summer vacations, has to stay quiet. If I stand out, it could be seen as an insurrection and would excite the fury of the tyrants, breaking this status quo. No, being invisible is great. Being invisible is a luxury after being martyred for an entire school year.
Several supervisors are there, keeping a close eye on us while we queue. They pretend we are civilized. We all know -including them- it is not true. We all know it is the survival of the fittest.
Thus, every day it is a feeling of surprise and relief that seizes me, when I eventually enter the cafeteria, surrounded by my friends. They too, after the same struggle, managed to pass the door and to join the very selective group of the 'chosen.'
After picking my food (I stopped to be exigent a long time ago, being grateful to sustain myself, action without which I would pitifully die during recess under the wide-opened eyes of my companions of misfortune), I choose my seat among what is still available: most of time, some 4-spots tables (not enough for my friends and I), some isolated chairs here and there or the counter (but then, you can only talk with your sides neighbors). Never mind, it is better than nothing.
Here as well, a hierarchy prevails. A group of 11 years old is forced to split to let the big ones take the 8-seats table; they reign on the dining room like masters, spreading themselves everywhere. They are a plague, except that their power is not contagious.
Here as well, a hierarchy prevails. A group of 11 years old is forced to split to let the big ones take the 8-seats table; they reign on the dining room like masters, spreading themselves everywhere. They are a plague, except that their power is not contagious.
When finally everybody has found a spot, more or less satisfying, the degustation can start. The program is the following: as a starter, I eat the daily diced vegetables salad. The overwhelming mayonnaise makes me consider the dish as a mayonnaise salad with vegetables and not a vegetables salad with mayonnaise. The main course is most of time a meat drown in a thick and greasy sauce and some starchy food. As for the dessert, I have the choice between the coffee-flavored flan (tasteless actually) and some unripe fruits. In short, a perfect assortment for what we call 'piuk-parties', a funny game consisting in mixing all these dishes and eating them altogether. Of course, it is designed for the braves only: Jeff, Maxim, Martin and some others boys but no girl. Ever.
I decided that I wanted to try. I wanted to prove them I was as able to do this as anybody around the table. To prove them girls could be as gross as boys. To prove them I had guts, for lack of balls.
The day's dishes were peas and carrots, a rubbery piece of pork and some mash. After officially announcing my participation to the game, they -boys and girls- laughed at me, incredulous. No speech would have convinced them. I had to show.
I mixed the daily special in an empty bowl, slowly, each stirring increasing my sudden popularity. When I could not make it last any longer (the kids started to be impatient), I stopped. I was finally done and the preparation, ready to be eaten. When I lift the spoon to my mouth, already dreading what was coming next, all my friends were looking at me, motionless, a smile of challenge and curiosity on their childish faces. The sole smell of this bite was unbearable but it was too late to back up. My heart beat the drum. I looked at them, determined, and went on.
The day's dishes were peas and carrots, a rubbery piece of pork and some mash. After officially announcing my participation to the game, they -boys and girls- laughed at me, incredulous. No speech would have convinced them. I had to show.
I mixed the daily special in an empty bowl, slowly, each stirring increasing my sudden popularity. When I could not make it last any longer (the kids started to be impatient), I stopped. I was finally done and the preparation, ready to be eaten. When I lift the spoon to my mouth, already dreading what was coming next, all my friends were looking at me, motionless, a smile of challenge and curiosity on their childish faces. The sole smell of this bite was unbearable but it was too late to back up. My heart beat the drum. I looked at them, determined, and went on.
My first surprise came from the incredible taste of cigaret of this awful mix. I picked the wrong day: somebody from the staff, we learnt that later, dropped a cigaret in the flan's batter. Then came the disgust of the sweet and salty unassorted tastes put together: the watery coffee cream of the flan, the sweet peas and crusty carrots got along with the sour pieces of meat coated in their nauseating sauce, already tasting that way usually. A climax of monstrosity. Or so I thought.
I could not believe it. I did it. Of course, I made a funny face as soon as the spoon entered my mouth but I did it. The other were amazed. Marie, a girl (and not even a tomboy!), having a 'piuk-party'? Incredible. Was this event as much about food as it was about honor ? I doubt so. This day, I gained the respect of my friends, my classmates and even the older, who -I did not realize- gazed at me while I was inoculating the substance. From that moment, I had an assured spot in one of the best tables of the cafeteria. An unexpected reward from the oldest for my brave behavior. From that moment, I also stopped to rush to food: what happened at the cafeteria was definitely more risky than not eating at all.
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