Lunchtime

Joyce Xi

SEVENTH GRADE

Finally, it was lunchtime.

I never enjoyed being a middle school student. I didn’t fit in with academics – I’d tried out and failed the gifted program. I hated using the field during recess. Athletics was way out of the question – I couldn’t even throw a dodgeball straight.

But lunchtime was always something that I looked forward to. It didn’t matter what the students brought, whether it was Indian curry, perogies, or just a ham and cheese sandwich. I always loved sharing stories of food with my desk buddies.

As for me? On that particular day, I’d brought dumplings. Steaming hot and stuffed to the seams with mouthwatering pork and garlic chive filling. I grasped hastily at the thermos cap as soon as I sat down, each turn bringing me tantalizingly closer to those delicious, delicious treats. My favourite food of all time.

“Let me guess – dumplings again?” I glanced to my side to find Maria sitting next to me. Even though we’d never been friends, she still liked to pick conversations with me. According to her, it made her look smarter.

“Yeah, how’d you guess?” I remarked.

“Ha. Ha. Ha.” Maria snorted. “Funny you say that – you always stare at them like an idiot. Even when they’re still in the thermos!”

“Well, you'd know if you actually decided to taste one!” I knew Maria would never get into trying Chinese food; she was accustomed to her Kraft pre-packaged bologna crackers. I was just about to offer her a dumpling when I heard the scuffle of feet on carpet behind me. The classroom door slammed shut. I spun around. Mr. Morrison never allowed us outside during lunchtime! He gave 30-minute detentions after school – for the whole class!

“Don’t even bother,” Maria said. “That was the new kid. She never eats lunch in here – can you believe it?! I think she just hates being around people like us. Not that I blame her.”

The new kid. What was her name? Loretta? Lauren? No – Lara.

“I gotta get her back in here,” I insisted. “Remember the last time Calvin snuck out during lunch? Stupid detention made me miss math tutoring!”

“Your choice,” scoffed Maria. “But you’re just wasting time.”

I didn’t hear her. I’d already pushed through the door and set outside. Immediately, sunlight scorched my eyes and a blast of heat enveloped my skin. I squinted, trying to regain control of myself, when I suddenly heard crying.

I looked into a dingy corner filled with crushed pop cans and cobwebs. There, a pale, thin girl was crouched in a ball, her dark hair cascading over her shoulders like spilled coffee. She wiped her tears away with a bony hand. It was Lara.

“Hey, get back in! You’ll get us in trouble!”

She said nothing.

Too harsh? I took out my thermos of dumplings and started again, “Um, do you want to share lunch with me? I always share lunch with my friends, it’s so tasty –”

Lara looked up at me with enormous dark eyes.

“I don’t have a lunch,” she said shakily.

I was speechless. But not because of what she said.

But because her gaze was so familiar.

YEARS EARLIER

We used to rent out the tiny basement suite of our house to whoever came by. New immigrants, rich tourists, and whoever was willing to put up with a loud, boisterous preschool kid.

One year, along came the Johnsons. Unlike the other tenants, I never saw much of them. The only time where I could catch a glimpse of them was whenever they took out the trash, and every time, they would hurry back inside as fast as they could. A man and a woman, along with a frail, tearful little boy that I assumed was their son. Not much older than me. None of them were very well built and they often hid their bony frames underneath tattered old clothes. When my auntie came to visit once, she said they were qiong ren. Impoverished. Disadvantaged.

Not that I knew what any of those words meant back then.

Every day, I would try to get some sort of contact with the Johnsons, especially their son. I had no siblings or friends in my neighbourhood, and I figured that all the Johnson boy needed was someone to hang out with. Whether it was before going grocery shopping or helping my mom in the garden, I always tried to catch a glimpse of the Johnsons. But they always kept themselves hidden.

I could never understand why.

One stifling summer evening, Ma took me to the backyard, where the Johnsons’ basement door was. I didn’t know why, and she shushed me when I tried to ask her. She was carrying a covered platter that was still steaming hot inside. It took me a second to realize that they were the juicy pork-and-chive dumplings that I thought she’d saved for my school lunch.

“Ma!” I wailed. “Where are you taking my dumplings?!”

“Shh,” she hushed. “You’ll see.”

I did not see anything. All I wanted was to scarf up all those delicious, hot dumplings in one sitting, all for myself. Nonetheless, I let her drag me down the gravel path leading towards the Johnsons’ basement suite.

She knocked on the door. I saw Mr. Johnson come to the door and immediately hid behind Ma’s skirts. Mr. Johnson was tall, looming, and had hands so knobby that he looked like a living skeleton.

She handed out the dumplings. “For you,” she said quietly.

He hesitated, then took the platter reluctantly and nodded his head in gratitude. He said nothing. I was just about to run back to my room when I saw the little Johnson boy come up shyly by his father’s side. His eyes were swollen as if he’d been crying, but when he saw the dumplings, his eyes lit up with joy.

I was speechless. It was the first time I’d seen him happy. Ever. His gaze met mine.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

I was trying to think of a response before Mr. Johnson closed the door on us. Ma started walking me back to the main door.

The image of the boy’s smile was burned into my mind. The only thing I could say was: “Why did you do that?”

“Sweetie,” Ma responded, “some people aren’t as lucky as we are.”

SEVENTH GRADE

Lara’s weeping, empty eyes were familiar. I’d seen them before – in the hungry Johnson boy’s face.

Some people aren’t as lucky as we are.

I held out my thermos of steaming, juicy dumplings. “For you,” I said quietly.

She stared at the tin of morsels. It was as if she’d never seen food before. “What?”

“Take it. You need it more than me.”

Lara paused, then took the thermos gingerly from my hand. Indescribable wonder filled her face as she bit into the first dumpling. The streaks of tears lining her cheeks seemed insignificant now.

“These are amazing!” she exclaimed. “How did you make these?”

I smiled and sat down next to her in the corner. Finally, someone who loved dumplings the way I did.

“With lots of love – and not too much salt,” I joked. “My Ma says too much salt will turn you into a bat!” Lara laughed, and I laughed with her. We sat in the corner, sharing dumplings and stories until Mr. Morrison came out and yelled at us to get back inside. At this point, I didn’t even mind the 30-minute detention. It was worth it having a new friend.

Most people would have seen only the poverty, the hunger, and the qiong ren in Lara. But there was also hope – the hope that one day, children like her would always have a delicious school lunch to share with their desk buddies.