Mother Monica's voice poured through the square box speaker on the wall under the Simplex clock. Her Irish brogue boomed over the sixth-grade boys wearing navy blue pants, sky blue shirts, and red clip-on ties; the girls in plaid jumpers wore knee socks and Mary Jane flats. After we declared that we were one nation under God, our arms fell from our chests, and we listened as she continued the daily announcements.
"There will be a McDonald's Day next Friday," she declared. The room erupted with glee. From the hall, I could hear the same enthusiasm coming from the other classrooms. This was a treat.
All the room mothers would descend on the school next week with bags of burgers, fries, and apple pies with their lava-hot filling. There wouldn't be soda, so we'd still have to pay a nickel for a half-pint of milk, but it was still a marked improvement from the typical school lunch.
"Boys and girls, be still," Sister Conlith said, rapping her knuckles against the dark green chalkbo…
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