Chapter 5: Burgers, Brotherhood, and Betrayal

The next day, during the big break after morning announcements.

Kids shuffled into homeroom, yawning and dragging backpacks. The classroom was buzzing with rumors about the food raid last night.

Mr. Sanders suddenly appeared and told everyone to stay in the classroom, draw the blinds, and close the front and back doors.

He strode in, all business, and waved his arms. “Close the blinds, lock the doors. We’ve got a special lesson today.” Everyone looked up, curious.

Then, mysteriously, he pulled out a backpack.

He set it on the desk, unzipped it, and the whole class leaned forward, wondering what he was up to.

When he opened it, the smell of meat filled the air.

An incredible, mouthwatering aroma flooded the room. It was like Thanksgiving in a bag.

It was a backpack full of cheeseburgers!

He grinned, holding up a greasy paper bag. “Courtesy of Sanders Diner, today’s special: cheeseburgers!” The class went nuts.

The whole class cheered!

Chairs scraped back, kids high-fived, some even whooped out loud. I thought someone might burst into tears.

Mr. Sanders hurriedly shushed us, telling us not to let the school leaders hear.

He pressed a finger to his lips. “Keep it down, folks. If the principal hears, I’m finished!” We giggled, covering our mouths to stifle the excitement.

Sixty cheeseburgers for thirty people, two for each.

He passed them out, one by one. The wrappers were warm, the cheese still gooey. Everyone looked at their burgers like they were holding treasure.

Hot and juicy, the bun soft and chewy, bite into it and the fresh cheese slides right down your throat—so good you want to lick your fingers!

I took my first bite and nearly melted. The whole class ate in silence, savoring every mouthful like it was their last meal.

No one said a word.

It was so quiet, you could hear the ticking of the clock. For once, no one wanted to ruin the moment with talk.

Everyone treated this hard-won food with great solemnity.

We sat up straight, eating with both hands, like the burgers were holy relics. There was respect in the air.

Mr. Sanders leaned on the lectern, smiling as he watched us eat, his eyes full of kindness.

He rested his chin on his hands, watching us like a proud parent. I caught his eye and smiled, feeling warm all over.

After that, Mr. Sanders brought us food every few days.

He’d slip in after school, always with some homemade treat—sandwiches, chicken wings, sometimes even pancakes. Each meal was a little miracle.

Often, in the last twenty minutes after evening study hall, we’d draw the blinds, push the desks together, and eat the hot food Mr. Sanders brought.

It became our routine—desks in a circle, blinds shut tight. The outside world faded away, and for a few minutes, we were just kids, happy and full.

Then we’d clean up, take out the trash in batches, and toss it in different school trash cans.

We were careful—no evidence, no suspicion. We’d divide up the wrappers, sneaking them out in hoodie pockets and pencil cases.

The whole class kept this happy secret, unspoken but understood.

We never talked about it outside the classroom. It was our little act of rebellion, our way of sticking together.

Mr. Sanders said we were so cute when we ate, like a flock of chirping sparrows.

He’d tease us, calling us his “hungry hatchlings.” We’d just laugh, mouths full.

We said we wanted to pay Mr. Sanders for the food, couldn’t always let him pay out of his own pocket.

One day, the class treasurer tried to hand him an envelope stuffed with bills. He wouldn’t even touch it.

He waved his hand and said, “A few meals is nothing. If you do well in your studies, that’ll be my reward.”

He clapped us on the back and grinned. “Just promise me you’ll ace that next math test, okay?”

But there’s no wall in the world that the wind can’t get through.

Rumors travel fast, especially in small-town schools. It was only a matter of time before someone snitched.

That damned cafeteria manager still found out.

We heard the news in whispers—someone saw him talking to the principal, face red, arms waving. Trouble was coming.

That noon, Mr. Sanders was late.

The classroom felt tense, everyone checking the clock, glancing at the door. Where was he?

He’d told us in the morning he’d bring food and told us to go back to the classroom and wait for him.

We’d all skipped lunch, saving room for whatever he was bringing. Now our stomachs growled louder with each passing minute.

But more than twenty minutes after the appointed time, there was still no sign of him.

A knot of worry settled in my gut. The cheeseburgers had always arrived like clockwork. Something was off.

I went out to look for him.

I snuck out, heart thumping, eyes darting from teacher to teacher. If anyone asked, I was just going to the bathroom.

After searching around, I saw him at the school gate.

He stood there, sweat beading on his forehead, a bag in his hands. He looked smaller somehow, hunched under the weight of something invisible.

Under the blazing sun, he kept bowing his head.

He wiped his brow, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else. The heat shimmered off the pavement, making the whole scene surreal.

Standing in front of him was the cafeteria manager, looking down on him with contempt, yelling, spit flying everywhere.

The manager jabbed a finger at Mr. Sanders, voice rising. You could hear the argument from fifty yards away. A few kids nearby watched, but no one dared step in.

Mr. Sanders is almost fifty, getting chewed out like a schoolboy by that jerk.

He just stood there, hands at his sides, taking it all in. I felt a burning shame for him, and for us.

My anger exploded on the spot.

My fists clenched. How could anyone talk to Mr. Sanders like that? I saw red.

Getting closer, I heard that jerk say, “I’ve never seen such a shameless homeroom teacher. Not thinking about academics, just making special meals for students. If something happens, can you take responsibility?”

The manager’s voice was shrill. "If a student gets sick, you paying the hospital bill?"

Mr. Sanders said softly, “The kids are growing, they get hungry easily. If they don’t eat their fill, they won’t have the energy to study.”

He kept his voice calm, trying to defuse things. You could tell he didn’t want to start a bigger fight.

He was already giving that jerk enough respect, not even mentioning the cafeteria’s fault.

He didn’t blame anyone—just took the heat, quietly.

But the jerk just got worse: “If they’re hungry, let them come to the cafeteria. Why do you care? Are you a homeroom teacher or a chef?”

The manager folded his arms, smirking. “If you want to cook, go work at Waffle House.”

Mrs. Sanders came over to smooth things over, apologizing: “Sorry, we know we were wrong, but since the food’s already made, just let them eat it this once. I promise it won’t happen again.”

She wrung her hands, pleading. "It’s just a few cheeseburgers. Let the kids eat. Please."

“Yeah, right! Like I’d let you get away with this.”

That jerk snatched the bag from Mrs. Sanders and smashed it to the ground.

He yanked it from her grip, hurling it onto the sidewalk. The food spilled everywhere—burgers, fries, cartons of milk. My heart broke for her.

Milk spilled everywhere, and the food they’d worked so hard on was covered in dust.

A river of white snaked across the blacktop. Burgers rolled under cars, fries scattered like confetti.

Mrs. Sanders couldn’t help but cry out, heartbroken, squatting down to try to save it.

She knelt, hands shaking, trying to scoop up the ruined food. Her eyes filled with tears, but she didn’t look away.

But the jerk stomped on the lunchbox first, grinding it into the ground: “Let you eat, let you eat, eat shit!”

He ground his heel into the last burger, voice dripping with hatred. A crowd started to gather, but no one stopped him.

Mr. Sanders froze for a moment, then trembled and said, “You’re going too far. The kids just want a meal.”

His voice shook, but he stood his ground. For a second, I thought he might cry.

The jerk swaggered: “So what?”

He shrugged, smirking like a cartoon villain. “What are you gonna do about it?”

As he spoke, he kicked an orange away.

The orange bounced off the curb and rolled into the gutter. My blood boiled.

“Screw you!” I rushed over to punch that jerk, but Mr. Sanders grabbed me.

I lunged, shouting, “Leave them alone!” Mr. Sanders caught me just in time, wrapping his arms around my chest.

“Jerk, apologize to my teacher!”

I kicked and yelled, but he held tight. "Say you’re sorry!" I screamed, my voice hoarse.

I struggled hard, but Mr. Sanders and his wife held me tight.

Mrs. Sanders grabbed my arm, her grip surprisingly strong. “Don’t, please,” she whispered.

“This is the kind of student you teach?” the jerk sneered. “What kind of student is that? Really, like teacher, like student!”

He snorted, glaring at all of us. “Just what I’d expect from you troublemakers.”

I pointed at him and snapped: “If you bark like a dog again, I’ll knock your teeth out!”

My voice was loud enough to make the security guard look over. The manager’s face turned beet red.

The jerk got mad, walked up to me and threatened, “Say that again?”

He towered over me, breath sour and fists clenched.

I was about to speak, but Mrs. Sanders covered my mouth and dragged me away.

She pulled me back, voice shaking. "Enough, enough. Don’t let him bait you."

Mr. Sanders said, “He’s just a kid, don’t take it out on a child.”

He stepped in front of me, hands raised, still trying to keep the peace.

The jerk jabbed his finger at Mr. Sanders’s nose: “Get lost!”

He got right in Mr. Sanders’s face, lips curling into a sneer.

I was furious and said to Mrs. Sanders, “Let go of me! I have to knock out that jerk’s teeth today!”

I twisted in her grip, shaking with rage. She wouldn’t let go, tears in her eyes.

She said, “He’s got the principal backing him. We can’t fight him.”

Her voice was small but firm. “Please, don’t ruin your future for this.”

I said, “Even if we can’t, are we just supposed to get bullied?”

It felt so unfair—like no matter what we did, they’d always win.

She sighed: “Your teacher’s about to retire. Do you want him to get in trouble now?”

Her words hit me like a punch to the gut. I hadn’t thought about how much Mr. Sanders had to lose.

I was stunned.

I stopped struggling, looking from her to Mr. Sanders. He gave me a sad, grateful nod.

She added, “You’ll be a senior next semester. Study hard and get into a good college. That’s your teacher’s only wish. I know you’re a good kid. Listen, you still have a long road ahead—it’s okay to take a step back.”

She squeezed my hand, her eyes full of hope. “He believes in you. Don’t throw it all away for a fight you can’t win. Not yet.”

Her words stung worse than hunger. I realized—sometimes fighting means waiting for your moment.

Looking at her exhausted face, my nose stung.

I blinked back tears, ashamed and furious all at once. I’d never felt so helpless.

She was right. We’d already dragged Mr. Sanders into this, I can’t bring him more trouble.

For his sake, for hers, I swallowed my pride. Sometimes you have to wait for the right moment to fight back.

So, even if I want revenge, it can only be in my own name.

I decided right then that I’d find a way to make things right. But I wouldn’t drag them down with me.

I made up my mind.

I straightened my shoulders, wiped my face, and nodded. “Okay. I’ll wait.”

I said to Mrs. Sanders, “I’ll listen to you, I’ll go back now.”

She let out a shaky breath, hugging me for a second before letting go.

She watched me return to the classroom.

I walked back slow, feeling the eyes of my classmates on me. I shut the door behind me, heart pounding.

A quarter of an hour later, I figured she’d left, so I immediately set off for the cafeteria.

As soon as the clock struck two, I was up and out of my seat. The plan was already forming in my head.

The moment I stood up, the whole class stood up too!

Chairs scraped, books slammed shut. I turned and saw everyone—every single one—standing behind me, eyes blazing.

I was surprised: “What are you all doing?”

I turned, mouth open, but words failed me.

The class president grinned and said, “I saw it too. Mr. Sanders got chewed out because of us. If we’re going to get back at them, we can’t let you take all the blame!”

He slapped my back, grinning from ear to ear. “We’re in this together.”

Everyone nodded: “Exactly!”

A chorus of agreement—kids who’d never spoken up before now stepping forward. The room buzzed with energy.

At that moment, I felt a rush of blood to my head.

For the first time, the whole class felt like a team—like a family. No one was backing down.

Full of pride, anger blazing sky-high.

We were ready. It was now or never.

Damn it, what’s the big deal!

We’d suffered long enough. If we were going down, we’d do it with our heads held high.

If you’re going to go down, go down in style—I’m not afraid!

I raised my fist, my voice ringing off the walls. "Let’s show them what we’re made of!"

I raised my arm and shouted: “Trash the damn cafeteria!”

My heart hammered in my chest, but for once, I didn’t care if I got detention. This was bigger than rules.

Everyone shouted in unison: “Trash the damn cafeteria!”

The roar shook the walls, echoing down the hallway. For once, I believed we could change something—together.