He demands that I show him the contents of my lunch box. “Spanky Pantalones!” he shouts. “Whatcha got?” I remember the way he came at me in gym. I remember how he said “See. You. Later.” I open my lunch box and show him. “Bread and peanut butter, yuck,” he says. “Yogurt, yuck. Apple, yuck. Oh, Oreos!” “They’re not Oreos. They’re organic sandwich cookies,” I mumble, hoping he’ll drop them. But no. He just eats them both at once and grabs my Tupperware container full of chocolate sprinkles. “These are mine, too,” he says, mouth full. “How come ya got sprinkies?” “Sprinkles?” I say. “My parents own an ice-cream store.” “You get sprinkies every day?” Gillicut asks. “A lot of days, I guess.” Why am I telling the truth? I think. I should be lying right now. But it’s too late. Gillicut pours the sprinkles into his mouth. He tosses the empty Tupperware on the floor, then trots across the room to the lunch line. My shoulders sink and my eyes fill.
