The first meeting of KRAPS is about to take place.
KRAPS stands for Kilmerites Rebel Against Poor Sustenance. Personally I think the group name is a little obnoxious, but I was outvoted.
Rosie and I ring the doorbell. Sarah Bennett answers it. “Everyone’s in the living room. Go in. I’ll be there in a minute.”
Rosie leads the way because she’s been here before and I haven’t.
The house is absolutely beautiful, all natural wood and all the furniture in earth colors. It’s large, with high ceilings.
Everyone’s sitting by the fireplace. Some are on chairs; a lot are on cushions.
Dave’s not here yet. There are about twenty kids already present and there should be about thirty, so maybe he’ll arrive soon.
Sarah brings out dip and vegetables. There is already some great-looking food on the table—apple slices with melted cheese, granola cookies, carob candies.
Garbage Gut downs a couple of carob candies.
Jennifer Farley says, “Milt, how come you’re here? You like the school food.”
He doesn’t answer until she asks him the same question, calling him Garbage Gut.
I can’t believe it. He seems to prefer that awful nickname because he stops eating long enough to answer. “My father, the dentist, said that I should come here. Anyway, I like parties.”
His father, the dentist . . . . I think about Rosie’s comment about kids having to rebel. It’s a good thing that Garbage Gut’s father isn’t a policeman.
The kids are all sitting around talking.
Wendy Aaronson pulls out a cigarette and lights up.
Sarah walks up to her. “Listen, if you want to smoke, you’re going to have to do it outside. We don’t let anyone smoke in the house. The smell . . . plus we care too much about people to be part of their harming themselves.”
Wendy says “Okay” and goes out the side door.
“That was done nicely,” I say.
Sarah nods. “My parents used to smoke, and then my uncle died of lung cancer.”
More kids arrive. Some are from Woodstock. Others are from other towns. That’s good because sometimes only the Woodstock kids get involved in causes, like leftover hippies from the sixties. Also, it’s hard for all the kids to get together because there’s no public transportation.
Abby Streetman. Harry Marcus. The school couple. They go everywhere with their arms around each other. Most of the time his hand is in her back jeans pocket. Sometimes I wonder if it has to be surgically removed every time they go to class or home.
Pete Redding. The school clown. He does the best imitation of teachers and the Principal.
Holly Marham. Willow Smith. Meredith Cooper. The three of them are always together unless two of them decide to gang up on the third. That usually lasts for only a few days and then they are all back together until the next fight.
Still no Dave.
Oh, well, I’ve got to remember that the real reason for being here is to work on the committee.
The work begins.
Everyone starts talking about the steps already taken . . . letters sent to the Principal and the school board . . . trying to talk to the Principal and nutritionist. Nothing has worked.
I take a piece of broccoli and stick it in the dip.
It’s interesting to watch everyone. Even though there’s some joking, everyone’s serious about the subject, except for Garbage Gut, who keeps saying things like “I love hot dogs . . . . What’s wrong with processed cheese? . . . So what if potato chips have a little grease?”
“Any suggestions besides the things that Phoebe told us they did at her old school?” Rosie picks up a notebook and pen.
“Why don’t we have a commando raid on the kitchen, take it over, and make our own meals?” Sarah practices a ballet step as she talks.
“Illegal,” Rosie says. “We want to stay within the law.”
“I thought of a new one.” I raise my hand, forgetting that we’re not in school. “I guess by now that most of you know I have this weird habit of rearranging letters in words so that they mean other things.”
“Those are called anagrams,” Steve Gleason says, pushing his glasses back.
“An A-plus for the Poindexter.” Pete waves a piece of cauliflower.
Rosie shakes her head. “Yeah, you rearranged my name, and I ended up with I SORE. What a friend.”
Abby stops making out with Harry long enough to call out, “See what our two names are when they are put together.”
“Your two names together are going to spell out BABY if you aren’t careful.” Garbage Gut cradles his arms as if he’s got an infant in them.
Harry makes an obscene gesture to Garbage Gut.
Then he and Abby go back to making out.
“Continue.” Rosie nods to me, trying to get back to the subject.
“Well, I tried it with CAFETERIA and ended up with several things.” Taking out my list, I read from it. “Here are some . . . I TEAR FACE . . . EAT FAR ICE . . . AFTER I, ACE.”
“That would be good to use when someone cuts in front of the cafeteria line,” Sarah calls out, using a chair to practice leg extensions.
“Better than flat tires, even,” Jill says, braiding Wendy’s hair.
Garbage Gut does flat tires a lot. That’s when someone behind you steps on the back of your shoes and the shoes come off.
I continue to read from the list. “I CEE A RAFT . . . I.E. FAT RACE . . . I.E. RAT FACE . . . FACE IT, EAR . . . I CARE, FEAT . . . .”
“Not bad.” Pete Redding does his imitation of Mr. Morley, the math teacher. “But could you get to the point? Remember the shortest distance between two points is a straight line, Ms. Brooks. You’re taking the long cut.”
“Okay. Listen to this one . . . CITE A FEAR. That’s it. We can write that on a piece of paper and everyone can tell what their worst fear is about the cafeteria.”
“I like it,” Willow Smith says.
Holly and Meredith agree. So do the other kids.
Dave walks in the door. He’s out of breath. His blond hair is flopping in front of his brown eyes.
I’d love to go over to him and brush the hair off his face but decide that would be a bit much.
He walks through the crowd and sits down next to me. “Sorry I’m late. I had to do some errands before I could get the car to come over here.”
Rosie looks at me and smiles.
Jill says, “I’ve made up a list of committees to work on. Everyone sign up and get to work.”
As people get up to look at the paper, Dave turns to me. “I have an idea too. I stopped at the library to get a copy of ‘Trees.’”
“I figure you should know it by heart, since we have to sing it in assemblies all the time.”
“No one pays attention to the stuff they make you memorize in school . . . . Look, let’s work together on it.”
“Okay. So what’s the idea?” I really want to brush the hair out of his eyes.
“You know how English teachers are always telling us that parodies make fun of an established work. Well, I think we should do one of ‘Trees’—and then we can get the whole school to sing it at an assembly when we’re supposed to do the school song.”
“I love it,” I say. “Let’s get to work.”
We pick up two pillows and go sit in a corner. Kids all over the room are working. Even though there’s a lot of joking, everyone’s serious, except maybe Garbage Gut. It’s interesting. In Woodstock a lot of grown-ups are active politically—fighting for good causes, like against nuclear plants, getting rid of the gypsy moths without using dangerous sprays, people’s rights. There’s even a runaway house and a battered women’s shelter. I think that when kids grow up seeing their parents involved, the kids get involved too.
Dave and I look at the poem. It feels comfortable being with him.
We start to laugh as we begin the parody. A couple of kids come over to see what’s so funny. When they realize what we’re doing, everyone joins in.
When it’s finished, Pete does his imitation of Ms. Douglass, the English teacher. He pretends to readjust a bra strap, points into the air, and says, “Well, class . . . . It’s not Shakespeare, but at least it rhymes.”
(to be sung to “Trees”)
I think that I shall never see
A cafeteria as gross as thee.
A cafeteria where hungry mouths are pressed
Against food that’s really messed
A cafeteria that looks at kids all day
Who have fears of ptomaine, so they say
A cafeteria that may each day wear
Out stomach linings that will tear.
Upon whose food lines people have lain
People crying and writhing while in pain
Poems are made by fools like me,
But a cafeteria like this drives me up a tree.