The Insurrection of Biscuits

“I got chocolate chip.” The first little voice flittered out from the huddle at the edge of the school yard. Then another and another and another.

“I got Oreos. I had three but I already ate two. I still have one left, though. Tommy, what’d you bring?”

Thomas was the largest and the loudest, a first among fourth-grade peers. “My mom made these the other day,” said he. “They’re her favorite but they have nuts and I hate nuts. I dropped in on the floor of the bus this morning and then I coughed on it. I knocked the dirt and hair off and now you can’t even tell. Look. Has anybody seen that little weasel today? He’d better show up.”

“Yeah, I saw him,” said Oscar. “He’s in Mrs. Jenkins’ class but they always come out to recess late. She makes them line up and won’t let ‘em leave until they stand still for thirty whole seconds. Mrs. Jenkins, is like, the worst. I’m glad we got Mrs. Roman this year. She’s the best.”

“Ew, Oscar’s in love with Mrs. Roman!” righteously accused Sir Thomas.

“Shut up! No I’m not! I just think that she’s nicer than Mrs. Jenkins!”

               The choir of little jeers and insults began. “Oscar loves Roman!” they said, and “He loves her! He loooves her!” The peers jabbed at the weakened brethren in due course and proper show of form.  “Smoochy, smoochy!”

“Shut up, no I don’t!” Oscar lied.

“She’s not nice to me!” exclaimed the newly crowned King Thomas. “She always makes me redo my numbers and she calls my mom like every day. She’s the worst. She stinks. Say she stinks! Say it!”

Oscar bent and folded before the court. “Okaaay, she stinks! OK?” 

Then roused the rabble ‘round the recessed regents, “She’s the worst! And she smells like farts! Yeah, like farts.”  They ballyhooed and caterwauled and taunted their lesser peer with flatulent sounds.

“Anyways, there’s that little weasel. Where’d he say he was from?”

“He said he’s from California, but I don’t believe him. He thinks he’s a movie star or something but he’s just a runt. Look at him. He’s even smaller than the girls!”

Indeed, the boy to which they were referring was puny, girlish, and convenient fodder for the noble class. And better still, he was the most precious and prized of prey: he was new.

“You guys invited him, right?”

“Yeah, I told him we always get together and trade cookies at recess. I said we do it all the time but only the cool kids. Only us friends.”

“Yeah, and I saw that fink on the bus talking to somebody,” pronounced the Sovereign Thom.  “He was acting like he was real excited about it. We’re gonna fix him real good. That little rat’s gonna think twice before he ever tells on us again. I got sent to the principal and because my mom was outta town, they called my dad.”

“They called your dad? Woah…” the boys asked in the hushed tones of awe and terror. The breach of public trust was a violation of the highest moral standards. An unwarranted act, truly, that warranted the gaping jaws of misbelief. 

“I heard that they’re not supposed to call your dad. They have to call your mom or let you go. I got sick last year and they couldn’t find my mom and I heard ‘em say that they weren’t supposed to call my dad. Like it was against the rules.”

“Even so, that kid’s gonna pay, big time.”

“Right.”

“Right.”

“Right,” they all said, each utterance strengthening the resolve of the next. “Right.”

“Here he comes.”

“Ok, everybody remembers what to do?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah, but… tell me again… just so I’m sure.”

“Oscar always forgets. He’s stupid.”

“I am not!”

“Oscar is a dumb dumb!” The boys hawked and squawked at Oscar’s stupidity. “Dumb dumb! Dumb dumb!”

“Shut up! No I’m not!” protested the dumb dumb.

“Guys, stuff it. He’s almost here,” Thomas shouted.  “Listen, we’re going to play Eenie-Meeni-Miney-Moe. And we’re going to make sure that little rat ends up with the garbage cookie. Got it?”

“Not Eenie-Meenie!” said one of the lesser lords. Bubble-Gum, Gubble-Gum!” The voice of dissention sparked an avalanche of alternatives. “Ooh, Engine, Engine, Number Nine!” said another.  “Inky Pinky Ponky!”

“We’re doing Eenie-Meenie! Now shut up!” Towering Thomas overruled them, and the court was ordered swiftly.

“Fine.”

“Yeah, fine.”

“Hey, Sam,” Thomas began while the Samuel joined their ranks. He stood a full head shorter than the rest.  “So you’re from California, huh? I bet you think you’re pretty special. You ever see any movie stars?”

Samuel shrugged and squeeked, “I don’t know, we’re from Sacremento. Only my dad lost his job so we had to move here.” Ignorant until now that Sacremento existed, the boys were left with no open line of attack.

“My dad, lost his job last year, too,” said Oscar, “only we didn’t move, he just sits around the house all day.”

“My mom got fired from her job,” cheerfully offered another. “she said the manager didn’t like her and everybody takes a little bit from the register. But it’s ok if you pay it back.”

“Well, my dad is the boss at his company and he wouldn’t let anyone take money from him,” said Thomas, true to character. “He would fire you on the spot. Your mom probably deserved it.” 

“She did not! Take that back!”

“Nope, I don’t take anything. I’m not a thief like your mom!”

“My mom is in jail,” said the meager young Samuel, and all the boys fell silent at once. “It’s a special jail for just women. She writes me letters and I get to talk to her sometimes on the phone.”

“Woah. What’d she do?”

“I don’t know. She doesn’t talk about it. She just says that it’s always important to tell the truth and to speak up if you see someone doing something wrong. She said she made a mistake and she has to pay for it. But she’s not mad.”

There was a hushed consideration among the peers of the realm. Finally, as is the nature and right of all nobility, Thomas spoke for the rest, “Wow, kid. That’s rough. Anyways, Sam. Welcome to the Cookie Club. Did you bring your cookie?”

Sam didn’t answer, he just proudly lifted his little plastic baggy with a single, sad, iced animal cracker, and a pink one at that.

“That’s not much of a cookie. I’m not sure anybody wants to trade with you. I know, let’s play for it. Everybody put up your dukes.”

Like faithful lieutenants, eight little fists formed ranks in a tight circle inside the loose scrum. Last to fall in were Samuel’s tiny, balled fists, and immediately the operation was underway.

 “Ok, we’ll do Eeny-Meeny-Miney-Moe, and the loser has to trade with Sammy, here. Got it?”

“Got it.”

“Got it.”

Oscar paused. “Got it,” he said meekly.

               Thus began the assault. Like a war hammer, the mighty hand of Thomas rounded the circle of fists and heavily came down on each in turn. On the downstroke of each volley, the war chant was levied, Eeny, Meeny, Miney, Moe. Round the circle he marched, reciting the hymn as he pounded the hands of his retinue. At the end of each recitation, the last boy to be touched solemnly removed a soldier from the field, and tucked him behind his back. 

               With clever strategy and wit, Thomas easily positioned his dukes to remain engaged, double counting and periodically adding the refrain of “And my mother told me to pick the very best one…” It was only a few seconds before the only remaining belligerents were his own forces, and the decimated ranks of both Oscar and Samuel. With Oscar soon off the board, Thomas was poised to lose to Samuel and, showing great humility, trade his mother’s lovingly baked cookie for Sam’s puny cracker. Finally, brothers in arms, they would toast to their success and feast on the spoils of war. All but poor Sam, that is, who would feast on naught but the spoiled cookie from the school bus floor.

               Oscar looked down at him sadly. He was not Hollywood, and he was not a weasel. He looked up at Thomas defiantly. “I want to count this time,” he said. “You always do it, let someone else have a turn.”

               Thomas was at a loss. Their cleverly planned deception did not allow for improvisation, and Oscar was now, most assuredly, off script. “No,” he simply said before trying to quickly move past the issue. This was not the time for boyish squabbles. “Now come on. Recess is almost over.”

               “You always get to do it. Let someone else have a turn. Come on.”

               Thomas beseeched his ministers for help but they only frowned and cast their eyes downward to hide from his gaze. “Yeah, you always go. Let someone else have a turn!” Someone finally insisted, from the back of the crowd.

               Thom was at a loss, both fists at the ready and questioned on the battlefield. He glared viciously at the weasel and more so to Oscar. “No,” he commanded and began counting out the remaining dukes until at last Oscar was eliminated from competition. He bowed out gracefully but stood at the watch. Thomas began counting again. “Eenie…meenie…miney…”

               “Sam, I’ll trade my cookie with you. I’ve got peanut butter. Besides, I like animal crackers. They’re my favorite.”

               Tommy raged! “You can’t do that, we’ve already started!” 

               “That’s OK, I’m allergic to nuts. Besides, this is fun. Let’s keep going.”

               “See! Now butt out Oscar or I’m going to pound you!”

               Oscar hesitated for but a moment before interrupting once more.

               “I want your cookie then. You don’t want that little animal cracker. You love peanut butter! I want to trade with you.”

               The gaggle was aghast. “He wants to eat Tommy’s cookie!” all the little boys said, all in their own little ways.

               Tommy scowled at him in rage and disbelief. Dethroned and declawed, disgraced and dared. Would he? Would he really? “Fine,” he said and tried to hide his fear with laughter. “You want it so bad? You can have it!” The offending cookie was thrown at Oscars feet while Oscar’s own was snatched from his hands. “No take backs.”

               Sir Oscar the Resolute, the Brave, and the Just, lifted the cookie from the ground and drew it from its plastic sheath.  He considered it not, and it was gone in a bite. “Your mom makes good cookies,” he said plainly. “Come on, someone trade with Sammy so we can go play.”

               “I got an Oreo. I had three, but I ate two. You can have the other one.”

               “Thanks. You guys do this every day?”

               The boys looked at one another, the weight of shame in their hearts.

               “Yeah,” said Oscar. “Let’s do it tomorrow.”