Soror Ex Machina

How a Rugrats lunchbox almost ignited a holy war.

Saying my final goodbyes took longer than I anticipated. There were just so many farewells to deliver. The Beanie Babies in my vast collection each deserved solo send-offs from Hissy the snake to Inky the octopus. I figured my menagerie would be divided amongst my siblings. Many of my belongings had first been owned by my sister Katherine. My possessions would return back to their former owner once I returned back to dust.

I figured not every item would be saved. No doubt my Rugrats lunchbox, the catalyst for my impending doom, would need to be burned. And of course, I could not bear the thought of Lucky, my favorite stuffed animal, being re-homed. That 101 Dalmatian missing half of its stuffing meant the world to me. Lucky would need to accompany me as I made my journey through the gray rain curtain of this world and headed into the west where the white shores were calling.

It’s tragic for a six-year-old to prepare for death, but tragedies are the inevitably of wars. Although to be fair, my death would signal the start of the war. I was to be the modern day Archduke Franz Ferdinand. Yet this conflict would not take place across waning European empires, but rather, be concentrated within a one block radius of Elmhurst, IL. And unlike the Great War, this war would be a holy one fought by us Catholics.

Throughout the history of Roman Catholicism, the Pope’s flock have had to defend ourselves against various wolves. Depending on the time and region, the antagonists have changed - be it Muslims during the Crusades or Protestants during the Troubles. For me and my fellow north-side Elmhurst Catholics, we were up against a far worse enemy than ever before. It was an enemy who paid heed to no religion. They were without a god, without a moral code, and without a school uniform.

In the middle of Elmhurst on Church Street off York Avenue, sits two schools far alike in dignity. On one side is Immaculate Conception Grade School, a beacon of respectability. The other, a cesspool for degenerates, known as Hawthorne Elementary School. Although us ICGS Knights did our best to love thy neighbor as ourselves, the Hawthorne Hawks tested our limits.

First and foremost, Hawthorne students were thieves who infiltrated ICGS every other Sunday under the guise of “Sunday School”. These monsters would rummage through our desks snatching every last gel pen and decorative eraser. Clearly, they were too busy reenacting the Grinch pilfering all the Whos down in Whoville to listen to any of the Ten Commandments, specifically the eighth one.

Although Jesus taught us not to hold tight to material goods, it was still hard to forgive the looters given how they already were want of nothing. Unlike IC, Hawthorne had a beautiful jungle gym along with soccer goals and designated wall-ball space. What did IC kids have for recess? Chained basketball hoops reserved only for the upper grades, a blocked off street that was used half the time for funeral parking, and deflated balls. Whenever those useless toys flew over the fence, the public school kids would make us beg for our scraps. We spent more time playing hostage negotiations than playing 500.

Why then did public school kids hate us so when all we had ever done was show them love and compassion? I suppose deep down they were jealous of us. While they would be matriculating onward to Sandburg middle school, we would ultimately matriculate onward to everlasting salvation. Five years with a jungle gym won’t make up for an eternity in Hell.

Besides our salvation, Hawthorne students were also likely jealous at the lack of actual schooling done at IC. Before the state stepped in and reminded the parish of minimum school day laws, IC would be closed for every Holy Day no matter if it was the feast of Tom, Dick, or Harry. IC also ended the school day earlier with bells ringing at 2:35 while Hawthorne waited till the top of the hour. No doubt those extra twenty-five minutes of staring out the window at IC kids enjoying their freedom fueled so much of the publics’ prejudices.

It would be that early dismissal that would ultimately lead to my tragic fate. That and my mother’s refusal to interrupt my younger brother’s nap time to pick us up from school.

Although IC offered its students a direct route to heaven, it did not offer a route home. The only bus available was the Hawthorne bus. Each school day a ragtag group of bus kids, who had working parents or mothers who wanted to let sleeping babies lie, would hang out in the Kindergarten room from 2:35-2:55 then walk over to Hawthorne. We would always be the first in line for the buses, which meant we got the best seats.

Every kid would agree that the back of the bus was the prime real estate. For one thing, you were far out of sight from the bus driver. Not that we were cracking open roadies. It was the idea that we could get away with trouble that made it so tantalizing. Then there was the bump. When going over train tracks and ever present potholes, the folks in the back would fly off their seats reaching heights only seen during the Winter Olympics ski jumping events.

No doubt Hawthorne kids viewed us as the true thieves for stealing away seats they felt belonged to them. During all those bus rides home up in the boring front, the publics dreamt of the day when they would rise up and displace us Catholics. All they needed was a small spark, or a lunchbox.

Normally, I would join my sister as part of the bus kids and together make the journey across the street. However, once a week, I would head out alone behind enemy lines. IC was years away from employing a speech therapist so I would leave IC ten minutes early to attend speech sessions at Hawthorne from 2:30-3. My thoughtful speech teacher would typically end class a few minutes early so I could avoid walking the crowded halls. Dressed in my embarrassing school uniform, I would have been better off walking the halls in my birthday suit. However, on that fateful day, our session ran late. I probably got held up trying to pronounce a very hard word - like very, or hard, or word.

By the time I exited Hawthorne, kids were already filing into the bus so I had to take my place in the back of the line. No worries, a seat would be saved for me. Not by my sister. Absolutely not. She would be sitting next to her best friend Catherine. Luckily the other Catherine had brothers who would save me a spot.

The doors to the bus closed behind me. I made my way down the aisle passing the glares of public school kids until I reached my people in the back. Just as I plopped down in my seat, the front of the bus erupted -

“WHO DID IT?!”

A massive fifth-grade boy stood up. The mad child was foaming at the mouth.

“WHO HIT ME WITH THAT RUGRATS LUNCHBOX?!”

Before I had a chance to react, the boy clocked the branded Nickelodeon merch dangling from my hand in the aisle. The boy took a step towards me, ready to attack, but then the bus lurched forward and we were on the move. The boy could not risk getting in trouble with the driver so he reluctantly took his seat, but not before looking me square in the eyes, slicing his neck with his finger, and mouthing “You’re dead.”

I tried not to panic. If my Rugrats lunchbox did hit him as I made my way past, it would have been a total accident. Surely, this boy could forgive an accident. Maybe he already knew it was an accident. Maybe what he really mouthed was “No worries, all good, we chill.” Who was to say, I wasn’t fluent in lip-reading.

My delusion faded when my friend turned to me and in the kindest manner stated, “That kid is gonna kill you.”

My junior assassin would go on to exit the bus a few stops before mine. He left with a parting note - “See ya tomorrow, Rugrats lunchbox.”

That evening instead of practicing my spelling and flashcards, I strategized a way out of my execution.

I first planned on skipping the bus and hitchhiking for the rest of my days. However, that wouldn’t work as eventually my mom would find out. Then she would yell at my sister for not getting her brother on the bus, and then Katherine would kill me for getting her into trouble. Same ending, different executioner.

I next thought of just disposing of my lunchbox and changing my identity all together. I could be a blonde who watched Cartoon Network. But no matter what I did to my outer appearance, there was no changing my distinctive accent even if I went to speech therapy from 8am to 3pm five days a week.

I then turned to bribery. Trade him some Hot Wheels for a new lease on life. What was the going rate? I wondered if I would have to hand over my entire collection. That seemed like a steep price. I really hadn’t done anything all that bad. It was a plastic lunchbox not an Acme anvil. I likely barely grazed his face when walking by him.

Since I was only six, it took me longer than it should have to come to the logical conclusion that even the keys to an entire Toys R Us would not have been enough. It was never about the Rugrats lunchbox. The publics had been thirsty for Catholic blood. All they needed was the tiniest of paper cuts to swarm.

Once I accepted my fate, I said my goodbyes and scribbled a note asking for Lucky to be placed in my coffin. Then I tried to finish reading Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone but I drifted off to sleep.

I entered school the next day saddled with melancholy, not due to my own fate but for the fate of my fellow classmates. In one sense I was lucky to go first. I would not have to suffer through the eventual war that would ensue. Although I was far from Mr. Popular, I was still a Knight and the others would never allow the publics to murder one of their own without a counter-attack. The violence would eventually spill outside of Church street. It would be neighbor versus neighbor, AYSO teammate versus teammate. The only thing that gave me peace was my belief that God’s warriors would win out. Plus, I figured my martyrdom would earn me a nice St. Daniel of Myrtle Avenue title.

On my final trip from IC to Hawthorne with my fellow bus kids, I realized that while I had made sure to say farewell to the likes of Squealer the pig, I had not said farewell to my own sister. I hadn’t spoken to anyone in the family about the Rugrats lunchbox incident as I did not want them to worry. Standing in the bus line, I figured that brother and sister should have one final moment.

“Katherine,” I politely said, trying to interrupt her conversation with her friends.“Katherine, I just need…Katherine I just wanted to…I mean I -”

“Leave me alone, Doofus,” she said, shoving me aside. That would have to do.

The bus doors opened. I walked as steady as Anne Boleyn did on her way to the gallows. I sat in my seat accompanied by my ladies in waiting and waited for the ax to strike my neck.

Soon enough I heard the pounding steps and the battle cry ringing out through the bus: “Fee-fi-fo-fum I smell the blood of a Catholic young!”

The fifth-grader was stalking every row to ensure I wasn’t hiding from him.

“Where is he? Where’s that kid with the Rugrats lunchbox!”

He caught sight of me and clenched his fists. Suddenly all those feelings of saintly tranquility flew out the window. Jesus might have had the strength to accept his death, but I would have given anything in that moment to snap my fingers and come down from the cross.

There was so much I still needed to live for. I had yet to know the taste of a communion wafer. I had yet to shoot a ball into those chain-linked basketball hoops reserved for the upper grades. And I had yet to find out how Harry Potter would thwart Professor Snape’s attempts to steal the Sorcerer's Stone for Lord Voldemort.

The boy snatched the Rugrats lunchbox that I had turned into a makeshift shield and threw it to the ground. Then he raised his fist. In that moment I saw all of it - my life, my death, and the bloody turmoil that was to follow.

“Hey, sit down.”

The voice sounded like it had come from Athena ascending down from Mount Olympus to save the Greek hero when all hope was lost. But better than a deus ex machina was a soror ex machina.

My sister glared at the boy with all the anger and annoyance only a woman with multiple maddening younger brothers could muster. She was a year younger than my tormenter, but she stood several grades higher.

The boy was shocked that someone, no less a girl, would oppose him. He stood there with his fist still raised ready to strike.

“I. Said. Sit. Down.” Unlike me, Katherine did not ever need speech class. One could never mistake her words, nor her stubbornness. It was a lesson that my would-be assassin learned on that day, and a lesson future school children would go on to learn - don’t mess with Miss Katherine.

The little boy took one big gulp then one bigger leap back to his seat where he prayed to whatever false deity they pray to over at Hawthorne that he made it back to his mommy in one piece.

I was at a loss for words. How do I properly thank my sister for not only saving my life, but countless others in the war she had ended before it ever started.

Katherine picked up the infamous lunchbox that was lying on the ground, and shoved it in my chest.

“Next time put your lunchbox in your backpack, you doofus.”

Thanks to my sister, I would go on to enjoy many more bus rides making sure to keep my lunchbox tucked away in my backpack. I would go on to enjoy many more happy years with Lucky before his untimely disappearance, an unsolved mystery for another day. And I would go on to read that it was in fact Professor Quirrel who was in cahoots with Voldemort, not Snape.

Looking back at the whole affair, I have to wonder that over the course of human history, how many conflicts, how many battles, how many gallons of needlessly spilled blood could have been avoided if only there was a big sister around to tell them all to knock it off.