They were the real victims, when you thought about it.
A bully was supposed to say “give me your lunch money.” That was what Cody Burrell (the perfect bully name - what had his parents expected?) had learned from TV. Animated and live-action; scripted and documentary. It was one of the only constants in life. You grabbed the short, scrawny kid by the collar of his shirt, pushed him up against a locker, and said, “Give me your lunch money, punk!” It was that or head-in-toilet, but that took a level of upper-body strength that Cody, at eleven, hadn’t acquired yet.
But at his school they didn’t have lunch money. They had cards. Stupid, little, laminated-piece-of-paper, ugly, yellow cards with your name and number printed on them, which you handed to the lunch lady at the end of the line and she ran it through some scanner and that was it. Whether your parents put two-hundred bucks in your account every month to cover your daily snack bar habit - rounds of Hot Fries and Chipwiches for the whole squad - or you were deep in the red, or you were one of the free-and-reduced lunch kids, it was all the same. The day of reckoning came later, when the teacher put folded, stapled slips of paper into everyone’s cubby, your total balance just hidden under the fold. More private than report cards, because with report cards the first thing everyone did was rip open the manila envelope and shout out, “B in Science, what’d you get?” or “Mrs. J. gave me a D!"
But you couldn’t steal someone’s lunch card.
Cody tried once anyway. He chose his target very carefully and deliberately, since he figured he'd only get one shot. Carter Banks was on the small side, quiet, a reader; he came from a happy, stable, middle-class home, an actual house with a yard, two parents who both worked and cooked and did Activities on weekends; plus, he had the same initials as Cody, so if the lunch lady looked quickly, she might think it was the right name. She usually didn’t look, but you had to be prepared.
Cody chose his moment deliberately, too. It had to be before lunch, obviously, but since lunch for fifth grade was served at ten-thirty-five that was more of a limitation than you might think. It also had to be after the teacher took the lunch count, so he knew Carter was getting hot lunch that day. Sometimes his parents packed him one. And if you tried to buy hot lunch when you hadn’t signed up for it, maybe your card wouldn’t work. Cody didn’t know this for sure, but again - preparation. Why else would the teacher need to take the lunch count? It couldn’t be just to put the stupid little name magnets in their proper places on the board. Could it?
So that left Cody about two hours to work with, most of which was going to be spent writing down random numbers on math worksheets (you got full credit for completion) or silently reading their respective versions of the same stupid story about a boy and his dog (green, yellow, and red, as if no one could crack that code.) But there was a fifteen-minute recess that started at nine-fifty, and before recess, there was a moment where everybody went to the cubbies and put on their coats. It was March, it was warm, the snow was all melted, but you had to wear your coat outside.
In the cubbies, you were shielded from the teacher’s eye. All you had to worry about then were the rats.
Each day, they went to the cubbies in a different order. Sometimes it was boys, then girls (or girls, then boys); sometimes it was by birth day or birth month; sometimes by favorite color (as dictated by a chart on the wall, from September.) None of these would work. But here again Cody's genius made itself manifest. Some day the teacher would send to the cubbies by name, first or last, and then he and Carter would be back there together, and hopefully none of the known or likely rats would be with them, and he could have his moment.
It wasn’t lockers, and it wasn’t money, and he wasn’t going to say “punk,” but it was the closest he was going to get.
Cody started a new routine: at as close to nine-forty as he could manage, he would get up from his seat, write his name in messy print on the sign-out sheet by the door, take the Boys’ Pass (a rectangular block of wood, painted blue) from its hook, and head to the closest bathroom. There, he would splash a bit of water on his face, and stare at himself in the mirror. A fat, freckled face and a tuft of orange hair stared back. “You can do this,” he would mutter. He’d pound his fist into his palm and try to look mean.
One day, as he performed his ritual, he knew, intuitively, with absolute certainty: today would be the day.
It wasn’t.
But the next day was.
That day, when nine-fifty hit, Mrs. J. stopped in the middle of her lesson, and said, “Alright, boys and girls, we’ll pick back up there after a little brain break!” Her lessons were not interesting, nor were they meant to be, but it wouldn’t have mattered if they were. The clock above the door was the boss of the classroom. “Let’s see, how about . . . why not . . . hmm . . . if your name begins with A through J, you may now get your coat.”
“First name or last name?!” shrieked Stephanie Tillman, who wasn’t getting her coat either way.
“Hmm, let’s say . . . first name,” Mrs. J. said thoughtfully. She gave a round of apologetic smiles to students like Zack Harrison and Taylor Ackerman, and nodded encouragingly at Adrianna Zelinsky. Mrs. J. knew all the groupings, all the arrangements by heart.
Cody was already in the cubby area. He had gotten up as soon as she said A through J, hoping everyone would think he was eager to get outside. Really, he wanted to make sure he was already back there when Carter came. (Carter was the type of kid who would listen to all the instructions to make sure he truly belonged in the first group. Mrs. J. had tricked them before.) He needed the element of surprise to ensure the whole thing went down quickly, in a second, before anyone else realized what was happening. Like a drug deal on a busy city street. There were no known rats in the first half of the alphabet by first name (except for Carter himself, of course) - but you never knew for sure what was lurking beneath the surface, even with the cool kids.
There was no honor among thieves in fifth grade, no Godfather-like loyalty. It was every man for himself. Even your best friend would sell you out for dropping the f-bomb, even if he was the one who taught it to you. Even if he said hell and damn all the damn time. You never knew where another guy’s red line was; they were always shifting.
“Hey,” Cody grunted, as Carter turned the corner, hoping he sounded intimidating.
“Hey, Cody!” Carter replied cheerily.
“No, not hey Cody.” He approached his target, considered grabbing his shirt, but didn’t. Carter backed away instinctively. “Like hey. Give me your lunch card, hey.”
“My lunch card?” Carter repeated, in way too normal of a voice. Other kids could have heard him. Luckily, they didn’t care; they were just putting on their coats and lining up.
“Yeah. Your lunch card. Give it. I’m taking it.”
“It’s in the pouch. Why do you want my lunch card?”
Of course. The pouch. In all Cody’s planning and preparing, he had somehow forgotten about the existence of the lunch card pouch, hiding in plain sight the whole time. A rectangular, blue-fabric thing with twenty-five numbered, plastic pouches attached to its front. Where those who were getting hot lunch went just before and after lunch, while the cold lunch kids went back to the cubbies for their lunchboxes. Located in the far corner of the room, away from the door, for traffic control purposes. Cody visited that corner twice a day, as per the schedule, but somehow he had overlooked it.
“Well. Go get it then,” Cody insisted.
“But it’s not lunch time yet.”
“I said. Go get it. Or I’ll . . .” Cody’s brain suggested pound you, but he was also right at the age where he was starting to hear that with a sexual connotation, so he settled for a lame, “beat you up.” He tried to keep his voice a low, flat growl.
Carter evidently decided to obey. Relieved, Cody started to put on his coat, lest he be caught lingering in the cubbies by a bottom-halfer, which would just lead to questions. But then he heard Mrs. J’s voice cut across the din: “Carter Banks, whatever are you doing over there?” All the heads, at desks and in line, swiveled to look at Carter, who froze.
“Oh, um, I was just, um, getting my lunch card?”
“Mr. Banks, it is not lunch time,” Mrs. J. said pompously, imperiously.
“Oh, right, um. I. Um.”
“Now go get your coat on and get in line. The rest of us will wait patiently for you to follow directions.” Cody took advantage of the distraction to slip into line himself, at its current end (eventually the middle) - if Mrs. J. noticed that he was so late getting into line, when he had been first to reach the cubbies, she could very well turn on him. Carter hadn’t betrayed him (not yet, at least) but that didn’t mean he was safe. He was only safe when Carter, coat hanging off one arm, fell in line behind him and locked everything into place. Mrs. J. nodded, rolled her eyes conspiratorially at the remainder of the alphabet, and released them.
“Sorry,” Carter muttered.
“Yeah, you’re gonna be,” Cody said without thinking. He had no intention of hurting Carter. He wasn’t that kind of bully. Maybe someday he could be. But not before he could even successfully steal another kid’s lunch money. Got to walk before you can run.
The second half of the line came into existence. Mrs. J. flicked off the lights, put up three fingers, the school-wide code for shut up, waited patiently for absolute, pin-drop silence, turned the door handle, and led her class down the hallway, out the door, and onto the playground for what remained of their recess thanks to Carter’s “wasting time.” Twelve minutes and forty-three seconds, precisely, as measured by her watch, synced with the master clock above the door.
Then there would be Science, thirty minutes of it, and then Carter Banks - usually a decent kid, what had gotten into him today? - could get his lunch card.
But he wouldn't give it to Cody. And Cody wouldn't ask again.
