Sliced Bread - a short story

“Wanna sit together at lunch?” Karen Steiner turned to see whose whisper was at her shoulder and found Monica Stephens smiling into her face. Too surprised to reply, she suddenly found the two of them filing out the classroom door, each clutching a lunchbox and a waxed cardboard carton of milk they’d been handed by the teacher as they left the room.

Karen usually tried to avoid standing near Monica or her friends when she picked up her milk. While the other children usually handed Miss Turner quarters held tightly in sweaty palms, Karen merely walked by and was handed her milk while Miss Turner crossed her name off a list on the table next to the door. One of Monica’s friends had seen this earlier in the year and had loudly informed all the other kids on the playground that Karen was a ‘charity case.’

“I’m sitting by the swings next to the trees,” Monica said as she led the way out the door. Usually, the class ate in the noisy lunchroom, listening to the low din of silverware striking molded plastic trays, smelling the cafeteria-brand of perfume that brings to mind antiseptic and over-boiled vegetables. But this was one of their last few weeks before Middle School, and they were allowed to picnic on the playground. It was one of the heady honors of being the graduating class for the year, something they all looked forward to as they rose up the ranks of the lower grades. Each class enjoyed smugly marching down the hall past the other grades, with envious kids glancing up from their desks as they paraded past the open doorways.

Apparently interpreting Karen’s silence to be consent, Monica sat on one end of a concrete bench, invitingly patting the spot next to her while she looked expectantly at Karen. “Are you ready for the summer?” Monica’s smile and golden hair were as radiant as the warm sun through the spring leaves.

“I guess so.” Karen had never sat with Monica at lunch, even though they’d been alphabetically placed near each other almost every year. Steiner and Stephens; always in the same row and usually at adjacent desks. She tried to cover the worn knee of her jeans with the wrapped packages in her lunch box. “What about you?” She could at least try to make conversation to cover her awkwardness.

“We’re going to New England for two months,” Monica popped open the lid of a colorful plastic container and carefully removed a sandwich cut into perfect triangles. The crusts had been trimmed off with a knife so sharp that the edges of the bread were as soft and level as the rest of the sandwich. White pieces of fresh chicken and dark leafy lettuce showed between the bread slices. Karen had seen sandwiches like that once before, at a wedding a few years ago.

“I guess we’ll just stay in town.” Karen noticed Monica’s shirt was the same shade of yellow as her hair.

“New England is nice,” Monica continued. “It doesn’t get as hot.” She spoke with the unselfconsciousness tone of someone who assumed everyone would someday spend hot summers in cool New England. Karen tried to hold her rectangle of peanut butter and jelly so the hard, flat slice marks didn’t show. It tasted too sweet, and a little bitter at the same time.

Monica took tiny, precise bites and chewed slowly and deliberately. Karen had never seen such small bites. A snow-white napkin of soft, thick paper protected Monica’s lap from crumbs. Monica didn’t seem to make any crumbs.

Karen thought her hair looked browner and drabber than it ever had. Monica had butter-colored waves that flowed back from each temple and curls that seemed to bounce with a life of their own pouring across her shoulders. Karen wished her braids had real ribbons or cute plastic clips at ends instead of rubber bands.

“Have you thought of an idea for the class project?” As if it were an afterthought, Monica stopped studying her piece of sandwich and raised her face to look at Karen. Her eyes were almost a transparent brown, and little green flecks danced in them.

“I have sort of an idea I want to nominate after lunch.” Karen brightened a little. Schoolwork and grades were one area where she felt real confidence.

“Really?” Monica smiled and nodded while she took another small bite from one of the triangles, signaling for Karen to continue.

“I thought maybe we could hold an Olympics for the rest of the school.” Karen had been bursting to tell someone all morning. She had thought of it the night before while she watched sports on television with her grandfather. She hated staying with him every night while her mother worked; he always spent the entire time staring at the screen and pounding on the arm of his chair when his team scored.

“Hmmm?” Monica’s mouth was still full with her most recent tiny bite. She looked a bit puzzled.

“You know – we could get all the grades to have races and Olympic games and things,” Karen said. The end-of-year project was a big deal for the graduating class. They had to plan something that included the whole school. Some years it was a talent show, or a science fair. Sometimes it was a large picnic.

“It sounds too hot and sweaty for me.” Monica’s cool yellow and white outfit made her look like perspiring was something she would never do. Monica never got dirty. Even in gym class, she stayed cool and clean, with perfect hair.

“You wouldn’t have to be one of the athletes,” Karen said. She had the ability to think an idea clear through and firmly believe in to the very end. “We would need flag bearers, and time-keepers, and everything!”

“I don’t know.” Monica was slowly peeling the rind from a large orange. The peelings came off in evenly matched strips and Karen realized someone had scored the fruit with a knife so that all Monica had to do was gently pull the peel away. Her fingernails, polished a pale pink, barely had to urge each strip from its place.

Karen plunged ahead with her idea, describing how every class would march onto the playground holding bright banners to represent the flags from different countries, and carrying signs with exotic names like “Australia,” or “France,” or “Germany.” She thought Monica had been to some of these places before on one of her summer trips. Maybe that would get her excited about the idea.

“See, each class can learn a little bit about the country and the colors of the flags and everything!” Her voice began to sound a little brittle as she saw Monica’s smile turn cool and aloof.

“I thought the class project was supposed to be fun, not just more schoolwork,” Monica said. Her voice was polite but bored. Too late, Karen remembered Monica didn’t care much for additional assignments.

“It wouldn’t take much work, mostly stuff everyone’s already learned this year, I’ll bet.” Karen’s voice suddenly lost much of its enthusiasm. She took a limp stick of celery from a plastic bag. Her mother always packed her lunch the night before, since she left for work by six a.m. At noon the next day, the lunch seemed to look as tired and old as her mother did each night.

“Well, if it rains, the whole thing will be spoiled.” This time, Monica’s voice had a note of triumph in it; both girls had been disappointed one year when the planned parade had been rained out.

“I already figured that part out – we could hold it in the gym!” Karen could hear a tone she didn’t like in her own voice, like the unconvincing edge her grandfather had when he told her mother about a job he thought he would get. He always sounded like he didn’t really believe it himself, and the jobs never seemed to really happen.

“I heard some of the other kids want to have a pet parade,” Monica said matter-of-factly. “I’m sure your idea is nice, though.” She had the same kind of smile Karen had seen when a lady her mother used to work for had dropped by some used dressed for Karen long ago. Karen’s mother had told her to draw a picture to thank her, and the lady had smiled and said it was very nice. But when she went home, she left the picture on their kitchen table.

“Would you like a brownie?” Monica’s firm voice told Karen the subject was closed. She held in her hand two plump chocolate squares, each with a fat walnut half centered on its iced top. Karen could tell they were homemade because they didn’t have the thin, dark look of the ones she had seen in the rack at the corner store.

“Thanks.” Karen took the one Monica offered her and bit into it. Her mother hadn't made brownies for a long time, since back before the divorce. Sometimes she talked about making cookies now; she would wistfully mention ‘next Saturday,' like she knew she really wouldn’t have the time, or the money for the ingredients, but she wanted Karen to know she wished she did.

Monica began gathering her napkin and other debris into her lunchbox. The box was different from most of the ones the other kids carried; it was insulated with thick quilted plastic and covered with blue denim, like Karen’s jeans, on the outside. A pocket on the front had “Monica” stitched on it in red thread, with embroidered strawberries along the border. Karen wondered if Monica’s mother had made it. Karen’s metal lunch box had a picture on it, but three years of washing had worn most of it away.

“I have to go talk to Jessica, we’re supposed to ride home together after school,“ Monica said as she stood up, brushing invisible crumbs from her white shorts. Her legs were already tanned, even though summer was a few weeks away, and little hairs, made pale white by the sun, glistened on them. Monica, Karen knew, had a swimming pool to cool off in before and after her trip to New England.

“The brownie was good,” Karen said. A smile was the only response she got before Monica walked away. The bell wasn’t due to ring for several minutes, so Karen didn’t hurry as she shook the crumbs from her plastic bags can carefully put them back in the lunch box. Sometimes her mother would use them over the next day. Karen knew the plastic bags were expensive and tried to keep from tearing them when she opened her sandwich each day. As she headed back into the building, she saw Monica talking and laughing with Jessica, and they both glanced at her as she walked by.

Karen realized she should have told a few kids about her idea so some of them would vote for it. She had pictured herself being the master of ceremonies or something, where everyone would watch her. Maybe her mother could get a few hours away from her daytime job to see Karen announce each game. She knew her idea was good, but if Monica and her friends didn’t support it, that would be that. Her grandfather called it ‘politics’ and said it’s not what you know; it's who you know, but he also told her she should always rise above such things. The anticipation she’d felt all morning dulled.

They were filing back into the building now. The halls looked dark after the bright sun, and they smelled like erasers and floor wax. All the classrooms had their windows open and the May breezes ruffled papers here and there on the desks. Karen thought the inside of the school smelled like summer was outside waiting for them.

Miss Turner called everyone to order and began the discussion about the class project. Several boys suggested picnics and parties, but so far, nobody was suggesting the pet parade Monica had mentioned. Karen glanced briefly at Monica, who was looking at her watch and acting even more bored than she had on the playground. Maybe Monica didn’t care one way or the other about the class project; maybe she would vote for her idea after all. Karen swallowed hard and closed her eyes, wanting to get her words in her mind before she spoke. Her grandfather always said to close your eyes and think of good things to keep from being afraid. She opened her eyes and raised her hand, but Miss Turner had already called on the next person. She heard a nearby chair scrape as someone stood.

“I think we should have an Olympics for the whole school.” Monica’s voice was clear, and as sharp as a shining steel knife slicing brown crusts from soft white bread.

Karen went numb and her thoughts swirled downward, like water being sucked into a drain. She slowly lowering her hand, but it was too late. Miss Turner had seen it, and was calling her name. She looked at Monica, who ignored her glance and stared at the teacher smugly. Then, imprinted in her mind as deeply as the endless slogans she heard on his television, she heard her grandfather's voice told her what to do. Her chair made little sound as she pushed it back and rose to her feet.

"I like the Olympics idea a lot; I think we should pick that one." She looked down at Monica, who suddenly seemed small and insignificant. "I volunteer to help."