I'd never do elementary school over.

The lunchroom was an echoing chamber of dread. By the time the bell buzzed and my rattling nerves acknowledged the lunch hour, I experienced a mixed sensation of relief and tension. Relief because my stomach felt pangs of hunger (and had begun making those funny dinosaur roars) and tension because I recognized the tyranny of the social hierarchy—of which I was quite near the bottom. Walking into the gymnasium-like cafeteria was like a different kind of dodge ball. Rather than actual lumps of rubber pelting my bony 8-year old flesh, the battery of snooty glances, cutting statements, and cold indifference razed my sensitivity. A cacophony of voices bounced off the cement-block walls and square-grid floor—a mixture of varying levels of high pitched voices, laughter and random bellows. The social pressure smushed me like play-dough into a cowering bunny-rabbit. Clattering trays were background noises as I shrunk onto a yellow circle seat on the very end of a deserted rectangle table. Eyes glued to my squishy lunch box, I hoped that no one would see me. If nobody saw me, they might accidentally sit by me, and other people wouldn't think I'm a loser. Inside my pony lunch pail was a mixture of scents—plastic, peanut butter, cookies, and milk. Relief. No tangy whiff of egg-salad sandwich. If I had an egg salad sandwich I would zip it back up and banish it to the garbage when no one was looking. Egg-salad sandwiches meant scathing shame. Freakishness. Smelliness. Nobody—nobody­--ate egg-salad sandwiches or even knew what one was. Egg-salad sandwiches tasted good when Mommy made them at home but tasted like humiliation at school.
I felt a tug from the table signifying the weight of another human being upon a circle seat. More tugs. More kids. I felt the warmth of a body next to me. Braving a glance, I saw that it was a boy. Suddenly, I didn't want to eat my peanut butter and jelly sandwich any more. I peeled off the crust and nibbled my cookies, instead.