The clock read that it was eleven forty five, but the clock was rarely correct. I checked my watch, which told me, in its dark blocky digits, that it was eleven thirty. Close enough. No one else is here, so I guess my time for the next half-hour will be spent sitting.  I whipped out my hand, and viciously throttled the doorknob. The bolt  in the contraption of the doorknob yielded, and the door swung open on painfully noisy hinges, revealing an old, white bearded janitor shuffling slowly towards me on his way out, mop in one hand, tuna sandwich in the other. As he wandered out, I settled down in my seat. But when I started to retrieve a book from the depths of my backpack, I noticed something on the corner of my desk. It was a small, half-eaten brownie, lying pathetically on the corner of my desk. Probably left by the janitor, I thought disgustedly, how unprofessional. I went to the door and looked down the hall, but he was gone. Not wanting to touch it, I put my head in my arms and just stared at it. It was disturbingly close to my face. I moved my head back. Brownies were somewhat taboo at Tindale High because of a sabotage to a large batch of the substance, rumoured to have gone to Mr Cooling, the principal. No one had spoken since of what was christened “The Brownie Incident” and no one ever said anything to the principal that was even remotely close to chocolate, especially not if he was having a bad day. Rumours were going around the school that a 10th grader had offered Principal Cooling a brownie and was immediately expelled. I looked around nervously, as if the curtains would suddenly morph into Mr Cooling and expel me for being in contact with the enemy. I spun back to the innocent brownie, debating what to do with it. I put my head back in my arms and stared at it more. Behind me, the door opened. I jumped, but quickly collected myself and pretended to be disinterested. 

“Hey, bro! What’s up? Are you pumped for math-”

The strange kid glanced down. He glanced back up.

“Is that a brownie? Did you seriously bring a brownie into school? Oh man, dude, you’re in, like, so much trouble.”

“It’s not mine, but I will find a way to dispose of it before class begins.”

The boy stared at me. “Dude, what’s up with your voice? You sound like someone from the knights and castle times.”

This kid just won’t leave me alone! “I assure you that I do not have anything ‘up’ with my voice. And I am an avid supporter of democracy, so you can put the absurd idea of the feudal system away.”

 “O-kay. I’ll just go sit over there…”

“Thank you.”

By now kids were streaming into the classroom. I checked my watch again. 1:49. About time. I sat straight in my tight chair. The teacher sat in his own, slightly larger chair and watched his class with pride, smiling when he was not guzzling his coffee.

  Suddenly, a kid tripped. It may have been caused by me not paying enough attention; it was more likely the restless kids shoving each other past my desk. Whatever caused it, he stumbled forward, his arms windmilling towards my desk. And of all the space on my desk, he had to fall in the one little five cubic centimetre spot that was inhabited by the brownie. His hand decimated the poor thing in one swipe, but thankfully he regained his balance, and did not smear the remains of the brownie across all of my desk. He stood in the aisle, staring at his chocolate stained hand with horror. Suddenly, he screamed.

“Aughhh! It’s a brownie! He knows! He knows! I–. ”

He looked at everyone staring at him.

“Did I just say that out loud?”

Our teacher was no longer smiling. In fact, he was not even looking proud or guzzling coffee. He looked quite angry as he stood up from his very spacious chair and stormed to the kid, who was whimpering. 

“Would you like to expound on the topic of brownies, Carl?”

The boy shook his head “Let’s just forget about all of what I just said.”

“I’m afraid that is not how life works, Carl.”

“Erp!”

“Do you have something to say to me?”

“Okay! Someone dared me to put paprika in the brownies. I didn’t think Mr Coolings would eat them.”

“That’s not what matters. It’s about justice, not where the brownies went.”

“It’s mostly about where the brownies went.” I added helpfully.

The teacher went to get Carl cleaned up and taken to the principal’s office, and guess who had to wipe up the brownie’s sticky entrails: yours truly. Me, the one who had single handedly stared the innocent slice of baked chocolate until it foiled the saboteur. Me, who should be the hero, punished for the brownie’s unfortunate demise. And that’s not even the worst part. The next day, the cafeteria was serving dessert. Every student got a large, hot, rich, sweet, chocolaty piece of brownie, courtesy of Carl’s eleven hours of service time to the lunch ladies. There was palpable excitement from all corners of the cafeteria, with the exception of my little alcove. I was disgusted. Brownies were back in Tindale High, but I couldn’t stomach one slice of it.