BREAD PROJECT, WEEK 10

ELIOT

That Friday was the last Bread Assembly. Next week was Thanksgiving.

The auditorium looked and sounded different. On the left were seated the kids who already had the sourdough starter, the Haves. Quiet and solemn.

On the right were seated the Have-Nots. Creaky seats. Jokes. Laughter. And a touch of anger at being left out of everything until the last minute, not getting their sourdough starter until just ten days before Thanksgiving.

I held my plastic jar of sourdough starter carefully in my lap. Some kids set their jars on the ground or stuffed them onto the seat beside them. My fingers crept to the lid, itching to tap, to drum. But today was too special. I didn’t want to start something like that. The chair creaking had been necessary to distract kids from spitballs. Today, the air was already crackling with excitement, even if kids didn’t understand why.

The kindergartners were still down in front, going back to the sixth grade under the balcony. There was a vacant row in the middle, marking the change from the Haves to the Have-Nots. Teachers directed the Sixth, Fifth, Fourth, and Third Grade-Haves to the stairs on the left of the auditorium and the Third, Second, First and Kindergarten Have-Nots to the stairs on the right.

At a signal from Mr. Benton, one row from each section stood and marched forward. My heart thumped, just watching. So many hours had gone into this moment.

The columns met in the center of the stage. The Haves gave the Have-Nots a jar of starter, shook hands and then together, they carefully climbed down the center stairs. At the bottom, each row turned back to seats. From my seat in the back, it all looked like a figure eight circling up and around and back down.

Then two more rows stood and repeated the process. And so on. Back through the rows until it reached my row, and I stood. The line surged forward, then inched along, until I carefully watched my feet and climbed the steps to the stage. There was a steady drumming of feet marching across the stage, but it was the right sound track for this last Bread Assembly.

Finally, I handed the jar of sourdough to a curly haired kindergarten girl. All around us was the smell of sourdough starter, that sharp, yeasty smell.

I whispered, “Take good care of it.”

She nodded, solemn.

We marched back to our seats, and finally, everyone in the school had a jar of sourdough starter. When the last kid sat, the adults on stage—Marj, Mr. Benton, Mr. and Mrs. Lopez, Mr. and Mrs. Patel and Mrs. Johnson—broke into smiles and started clapping.

From two rows in front of me, Alli turned and smiled, too. “We did it,” she mouthed.

 

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I remembered the first time I saw Alli, so scrawny, and I remembered wincing at her voice, so harsh. Now, I hardly noticed. Oh, she was still scrawny and her voice still harsh. Now, though, I thought of her knocking on the Patel’s door and asking for Mrs. Patel’s naan recipe. Or at the Zane’s house, filling up a pita with meatballs. Or playing cards. Or—

I almost blushed at my thoughts. She wasn’t my girlfriend or anything like that! No way.

But she had helped change this community, had gotten them out of their rut. And the strangest: people weren’t saying this was Marj’s project, or Alli’s project, or even Griff’s project. Instead, they said, “Our project.”

We did it. They did it. Everyone had brought back sourdough starter, and together, they hadn’t let anyone set off a chain reaction of failure. They did it.

I sat up straight. Banged my elbows on the seat, but barely noticed. Instead, I was caught by surprise. I had gotten so involved with the weekly struggle. Make sure the sourdough survived the week. Make sure the parents—Mexicans, Kurds, Italians, blacks, whites, Indians, whatever culture – understood the project. Make sure the jars were ready to bring back. Even with Alli dividing up the tasks there were days when we had to go and pick up or deliver starter. The struggle to make it work. The struggle to work together.

And now it had worked. We, all of us, were done. Everyone had a jar of sourdough starter.

I closed my eyes against the tears of release that threatened to fall. Griff would have been proud.

Of course, we still had problems.

I opened my eyes as Mrs. Patel took the microphone and explained. “We had planned to hand out a sourdough cookbook today. But the stomach virus that closed the school last week put us behind, and the cookbooks won’t be in until next week. Instead, we are mailing a couple easy recipes to each parent today. Your parents should get the letters tomorrow. Okay?”

Silence.

From behind Mrs. Patel, Marj stood and walked to the microphone. “You did it!” Her quiet but intense voice caught the kids’ attention more than a yell would have done. Still without yelling, she said solemnly, “Hurray for bread! Hurray for new playground equipment!” Startled, I realized that Marj was proud. She was proud of the kids, proud of this community that Griff had loved so much, proud that we had made it.

Everyone was silent a moment longer, then the crowd broke out in cheers.

Beside me, Toby grinned. “Everyone has a jar of sourdough starter. But you haven’t won that bet until everyone bakes bread and brings it to the Thanksgiving party. 500 loaves, you win. 499, you lose.”

And I closed my eyes again, this time from tears of frustration. Toby was right. The Bread Project was only halfway finished.