Denny Powell, the boy who never misses the opportunity to humiliate me. My eyes dart left and right, looking for a path that won't make it so that I have to walk right past him. There isn't one. Also, he's spotted me and if I turn and run, he'll make things even worse. Holding my head high and ignoring him as I walk past is my safest bet at this point.I'm so intent on my mission of making it past him that I don't notice his foot sweep out just as I'm about to exhale with relief. I'm holding my tray out in front of me and so as my feet tangle with his leg, my weighted arms pull me forward and I crash down to the floor, mac 'n cheese, steamed carrots, and jello ending up all over my short sleeved, yellow button down shirt, some splatters hitting my face and hair. My body goes into survival mode, letting go of the tray, turning around and crab crawling backwards, away from Denny, but through the spilled food. When I see that he is still in his seat, barely containing the laughter that is just behind his eyes and in the smirk on his lips, I rise slowly to my feet, feeling as if I'm somewhere just outside my body.I am a mess of dripping food, milk puddling on the floor at my feet as the leaking carton empties its contents.
