NONFICTION // Rites of Passage
by Jacquelyn Jordan
I am waiting in line in a large, brightly lit room, for what I do not know. Suddenly, I am pushed by the crowd, back and forth, squeezed and released, squeezed and released, squeezed and released until I begin to feel the weight of the crowd consume me. Just as I feel as if I am going to burst, the crowd disappears and I am left standing alone, in the large, brightly lit room. The crowd returns. They begin growling at me, salivating and gnashing their teeth. Their desire to squeeze and release, squeeze and release, squeeze and release me again hangs loosely in the air. I knew that I was dreaming again.
I was standing in the order pick-up line at my favorite burger joint near my school, waiting for the cashier to prepare my order of chicken rings with honey mustard dipping sauce. It was an overcast fall day, early in the morning and I had about five minutes to get to school before the first bell rang. I checked my watch. 8:10. I wasn’t going to make it.
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