School Lunch, Part 3

In Jr high lunch was a social thing, in the cafeteria or out, and mostly I ate out. What I ate I don’t know, whatever my mother fixed. What we did, I’m not sure of either, beyond sitting and talking. We certainly didn’t run out to a playground, too grown up for that. All I remember about lunch is that every day someone was not speaking to someone, and I never figured out why or how they kept it all straight.

No. Lunch was not the Jr high issue. Showers were. Daily, after PE, overseen by the teachers. Whoever designed those showers was a sex pervert. That is what I might have said if I had the nerve to say such a thing to a teacher in 1952.

Here’s how it worked:

You left your clothes at your locker, wrapped—ha!—in a very small, thin towel, then waited in line to run through the shower. The teacher checked off your name and watched you as you stepped in, removed your towel, held it over your head and ran—but not too fast—ten feet or so between weak streams of water coming from both sides of the tiled-in corridor. At the end of the ten feet you turned right, turned right again and came back the other side, put your towel on, stepped out, and dripped all the way back to your locker.

If you didn’t look wet enough, the teacher would send you back through.

Nobody ever looked up while in the shower because it was likely some boy had climbed up the outside walls of the gym and was peering in an open window.

Everybody took showers. Every day. And I’m pretty sure everyone hated it and tried to get out of it. There were only two ways of doing that.

“I can’t take a shower today, Mrs. Nibley. I’m having my period.” I hated to announce it, but it would get me excused for three or four days.

“Okay, Alyce,” (my school name).

Then in three weeks. “I can’t take a shower today, Mrs. Nibley. I’m having my period.”

This time I was lying, of course.

“So soon, Alyce?”

“Uh, yes. It came early.” So, they really do keep track. I wouldn’t be able to use that one again for a month.

Or “Mrs. Nibley, I can’t take a shower today. I still have athlete’s foot.” Lying again.

“What are you putting on it, Alyce?” Miss Cooper chimed in.

“Uh, campho-phenique.” Still lying. Campho-phenique, the little green bottle of smelly stuff Mama put on Sterling’s cold sores. It would probably work on athlete’s foot.

“Oh that will never do,” Miss Cooper clucked. “You have to use . . .” whatever she said.

The next day my athlete’s foot had cleared up on its own, as if by magic, and I was back in the shower line.