Chapter 10 - Friday Cheetos
By the first Friday of November, the autumn leaves along the Lehigh River had turned the brilliant, burning copper of late season.
The morning was cold, crisp, and clean.
At 5:15 AM, the radiator in our kitchen clanked twice and settled into a steady, comforting hum.
I stood at the kitchen counter, cutting a thick slice of honey wheat bread. I spread real butter across the crust, layered on fresh roast beef from the local butcher shop on Hamilton Boulevard, and packed two sweet Clementines into the side pouch of Annie’s purple lunchbox.
Then, from the pantry cupboard, I took down a fresh, unopened bag of Cheetos.
The small, neon-orange foil crinkled softly in the quiet kitchen.
I slipped it into the mesh sleeve right beside her water thermos, zipped the insulated lid shut, and set the box by her backpack near the front door.
Annie came down the stairs fifteen minutes later, wearing her yellow sneakers and a green sweater that had small embroidered daisies along the cuffs. Her hair was brushed into two neat braids.
She looked at the lunchbox by the door.
“Mommy?” she asked, pausing on the bottom step.
“Yes, bug?”
“Does Mrs. Albright like Cheetos?”
I walked over, knelt down on the floorboards, and pulled her into a warm hug that smelled of lavender soap and clean laundry.
“Mrs. Albright told me yesterday that she thinks Cheetos are the most important scientific discovery of the twentieth century,” I said.
Annie’s face broke into a broad, brilliant grin—a smile completely unshadowed by the terror of the blue tray or the scrape of the brute trash can.
“She’s silly,” Annie giggled.
“She is,” I agreed. “Now grab your coat. We’re walking the long way through the park today.”
We walked down our street hand in hand. The morning sun was just cresting the ridge of South Mountain, burning through the morning river mist and setting the yellow birch trees ablaze with gold light.
At the front entrance of Hawthorn Elementary, the yellow buses were unloading.
Children were laughing, their boots scuffing along the sidewalk, their backpacks bouncing against their shoulders. There were no inspection stations. There were no monitors holding clipboards in the vestibule.
Standing at the double glass doors, greeting every single child who walked through the threshold, was Barb.
She was wearing a brand-new white apron with embroidered sunflowers on the bib, her silver hair tucked under a clean cotton cap.
When she saw Annie approaching, Barb’s face broke into a smile that reached all the way to her blue eyes.
“Morning, Annie,” Barb said, leaning down to give her a gentle high-five.
“Morning, Miss Barb,” Annie chirped, holding her purple lunchbox high in the air for everyone to see. “I have Friday Cheetos!”
Barb looked at me over Annie’s head, her eyes bright, steady, and clear.
“That’s the best kind, Annie,” Barb said softly, her voice carrying the absolute, immovable certainty of twenty-two years of service. “You eat every single one of them.”
Annie bounced through the doors into the warm, bright hallway, her small shoes squeaking happily on the linoleum, heading toward her classroom with her chin up and her shoulders back.
I stood on the sidewalk for a long minute, watching the door swing shut behind her.
The air was sharp and cold, but my hands were warm in my coat pockets.
Nobody was taking her food.
May you like
Nobody was taking her dignity.
And as I turned and walked back toward the hospital for my morning shift, the whole world felt like it had finally been set back on its proper, honest axis.
