“We Hate the Seniors”

By, Lia K. and Abby G.


Administrative data report high levels of shook throughout the Lower School students of Winsor on Senior Prank Day.

You are sitting in the front of assembly. You are so small that you can’t even see over the edge of the stage, and Ms. P is only the stuff of legends. “I’ve seen her, I’ve seen her!” your classmates insist, but you know better than to believe them. Only her voice carries down to you, filling you with more joy than those three minutes prior to your cereal privileges being revoked. “Class One, you can finally lead us out.” You jump up, but your euphoria is interrupted by newer voices from those random Upper Schoolers you can never identify because they’re not seniors. Doesn’t matter who they are though, because there are donuts in the cafeteria! No longer will you have to content yourself with graham crackers or animal crackers. No longer will you have to toast your ten pieces of bread a dozen times to get the perfect one, annoying absolutely no one as you abandon nine burnt slices.

You scurry out of the assembly and make the long, treacherous journey to the cafeteria, trampling several zip-tied backpacks and tearing through plastic wrap in your haste. Hardly taking a breath, you spin around corners and under tables and through mouse holes until you reach the cafeteria. That one senior who did that one activity with you on the second day of school stands towering above a plethora of Dunkin’ Donuts boxes on the far side of the cafeteria. You run. You leap. You soar. You will be the first. You will get a chocolate glazed donut.

The box opens. A gasp escapes from your trembling lips and you see hundreds of familiar faces staring up at you from inside the box. Plastic babies. Hundreds, nay, thousands of them. Their miniature mocking eyes stare at you from the otherwise empty Dunkin’ box. How? What? Why? Your eyes dart back and forth over the tiny hands and feet. Your mind, inundated with pre-pre-algebra and the Conjunction Junction song, cannot comprehend this treacherous breach of trust. Of contract. In the past, in a world that made sense, when you were promised food, you just… got it. When you asked for a petting zoo in the middle of a school day, you just… got it. When you didn’t ask for a private audience with a Supreme Court justice, you just… got it. You dejectedly look around at the seniors eating your chocolate glazed donut and sigh.

Oh, cruel world. It’s hard to be a Lower Schooler in 2018.