Chapter 1: The Lunchroom Kingdom

The cafeteria manager—who only has the job because he’s the principal’s cousin—acts like we’re invisible, just background noise to his lunchroom kingdom.

Every lunch period, you can spot him swaggering behind the serving line, barking orders at us like we’re a bunch of annoyances he has to put up with. Half the time, he barely glances up from his phone, only looking up to shoot us that “don’t waste my time, kid” glare if anyone dares to complain about the food. Sometimes, I honestly think he forgets students are the reason he even has a paycheck.

The chicken leg on my tray looked like it had survived the Dust Bowl right alongside my great-grandma.

Honestly, that meat’s so ancient it oughta be collecting Social Security. When you pick it up, the skin jiggles like Jell-O at a church potluck. Jake poked it with his fork and dared me to touch it. I almost gagged. I’d bet the last time this chicken saw the sun, we hadn’t even landed on the moon yet. My great-grandma would probably recognize it from her days working the Dust Bowl fields.

Meatballs made entirely of fat—two bucks each.

They plop those things on your tray with an ice cream scoop, and the grease leaks straight through the cardboard. I poked one with a fork once—it squished like a stress ball. Two dollars for a heart attack in a ball. Squeeze hard enough and you could probably fill a deep fryer just from one meatball.

No matter how much seasoning they dump on it, nothing can cover up the foul, rotten stench of the turkey meat.

There’s always this weird tang in the air, like something left out of the fridge during a July heatwave. They drown the turkey in salt, Old Bay, and hot sauce, but it just makes the smell more confusing. It’s like they’re trying to turn it into barbecue by sheer force of will—and failing.

Just like no excuse, no matter how righteous it sounds, can hide the principal’s greed.

The principal gives these long, preachy speeches about budgets and learning sacrifice, but everyone knows he’s pocketing something on the side. He wears a new suit every other week while the rest of us get mystery meat for lunch. Even the janitors joke about it when they think no one’s listening.

I really couldn’t take it anymore. So I led my classmates and we flipped over the cafeteria’s food trays.

We’d had enough. The whole room erupted—trays clattering, milk cartons splashing everywhere. Kids cheered, fries flew through the air. I caught a glimpse of myself in the window, grinning like an idiot, and felt more alive than I had in months.

For a second, it felt like we could do anything. Like the rules didn’t matter.

The principal called my parents in and demanded that I apologize.

We sat in that office, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, my heart pounding. The principal put on his Serious Voice, talking about respect and discipline, but all I could hear was my own pulse drumming in my ears.

My parents were furious: “We pay so much for your meals every month, and this is what you feed our kid?”

Dad slammed his fist on the table so hard his wedding ring left a dent. Mom’s face was red, not from embarrassment, but pure anger. She waved the monthly lunch bill in the principal’s face like Exhibit A in court.

Then my dad smashed the meal tray right in front of the principal: “Eat it. Right here, right now. If there’s a single crumb left, we’ll see you at the next school board meeting.”

He shoved the tray toward the principal, his voice echoing in the room. Even the secretary in the hallway stopped typing. Dad’s the type who won’t let anyone mess with his family, not even a principal in a fancy tie. I almost cheered right then and there.

But that was just round one. The real fight was only getting started.