Cooking, I get a whiff of a smell that reminds me of the cafeteria where I went to grade school. I am transported there. I am small again. There are stains on my white polo shirt from the asphalt of the playground. I am upset because we have to stand in line in alphabetical order when we are waiting for lunch, and the girl I like happens to have a last name that is alphabetically far away from my own. I am hungry, but I am not self-aware enough to know that that that is why I am so excited to be standing in line for lunch. I’m just excited all the time, for everything, until one small thing happens, and then it seems like the whole world is ending. I can remember the condensation on the milk cartons in the freezer on wheels. At some point in the morning, you had to tell the teacher if you wanted vanilla, chocolate, or strawberry. I always chose vanilla. I didn’t like chocolate then as much as I do now. For a period of time, I had to bring my lunch from home. My dad’s business wasn’t doing too well and my parents said that buying lunch from the school everyday was too expensive. It was doubly bad because I didn’t have anything good to trade. My mom would pack healthy lunches, but none of the other kids wanted to trade their cookies for my carrots.