Dougie shambled into the cafeteria and took a seat at the end of the table, far away from his fourth-grade classmates.
Oh, how he envied them. He watched as they opened their sack lunches, digging into their peanut butter-and-jelly sandwiches, their salami-on-ryes.
For him, it was an endless parade of sardines on cream cheese, of tuna salad. Weird, fishy sandwiches, the aroma of which clung to him all afternoon. Other kids avoided him, calling him “Fish-Boy.”
It wasn’t easy being the son of the Gorton’s Fisherman.
And the fins growing out of his head and back were no damn help.
Oh, how he envied them. He watched as they opened their sack lunches, digging into their peanut butter-and-jelly sandwiches, their salami-on-ryes.
For him, it was an endless parade of sardines on cream cheese, of tuna salad. Weird, fishy sandwiches, the aroma of which clung to him all afternoon. Other kids avoided him, calling him “Fish-Boy.”
It wasn’t easy being the son of the Gorton’s Fisherman.
And the fins growing out of his head and back were no damn help.
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