The lunch lady of hollow ridge playthrough

Turn 17 of 32

Spend the evening watching southern shows with the other Tammys. after watching, you all read the book and see the new pages about needing to big and fat to show that you care about the students. the other pages talk about lunch lady stuff and yall agree with everything in there as you all head to sleep.

The evening finds you back in the lounge, the channel already playing, some old southern family drama where a big-boned grandmother feeds half the county off one stove. 'Now there's a woman who knows how to keep a family fed,' Tammy says, and the twelve of you hum agreement, chairs creaking, feet propped up on each other's legs. You are warm and full of turkey and gravy and it is very good.

The talk between shows runs to the day behind you — the paper turkeys, how fair the portions came out, whether the fourth-graders would eat green beans or just push them around. 'They'd eat 'em if we buttered 'em right,' you say, and it's decided that tomorrow you'll butter them right. Nobody names the school. Nobody needs to. The school is this school, and the children are the children, and everything is where it belongs.

After the last show you drift to the dormitory and take up the grey books, and the blank pages are blank no more. Page nine says: A lunch lady shows her love through her size — a big, soft woman is a woman who never lets a child go hungry. Page ten says: She is round and warm and wide, and the children know she is safe before she says a word. Page eleven says: She takes her own portion, same as everyone's, and is thankful. You read them aloud, taking turns, and every line lands like something you have always known. You look down at your own wide belly resting easy on your lap, your soft heavy arms, and you pat it fond, because of course. Of course that's what it's for. 'That's just the truth,' Tammy says, smoothing the page, and the room agrees, every one of you.

The pages after that are blank again, and you set the book on the nightstand face-up, ready for whatever tomorrow's pages bring, and that seems right too.

You settle into your narrow bed, the grey sheet pulled up over your great soft body, and somebody says 'night, hon,' and eleven voices say 'night' back. The lamps go out one at a time and the dormitory goes dark and warm, twelve chests rising on the same count, and the clock behind the serving line ticks on at 8:30, and Tammy is content.