1st grade. My class had just returned from lunch and we were now in a line outside of the restrooms. To help keep her students quiet while waiting their turn, Mrs. C had started her version of the quiet game. She chose a student to observe their classmates, and the CHOSEN ONE would eventually pick the most quiet person in line (AKA their bff) who would begin the process again. While I waited to be picked, I felt a strange cramping feeling building in my abdomen but I had decided it was the dizzying hope of being selected as the CHOSEN ONE that made my insides twist. A few students in, I was rewarded for my quietness (not absolute quiet as my stomach was making some funky sounds) with a tap on the shoulder by my best friend. I took my position as CHOSEN ONE very seriously. I sauntered up and down the line, looking each classmate in the eye to assess their worthiness as my successor. SUCH POWER I WIELDED. But ugh, being a paragon of silence was hard. My body felt like it was in active revolt against my newly-bestowed position, but my mind knew I was destined for greater things and ignored the protests issuing forth rather audibly from my stomach. After much deliberation, I had made my decision. I had benevolently chosen the New Kid near the back of the line as my heir. Each step I took made my insides spasm. Was my body trying to tell me New Kid was the wrong choice? Before I could reconsider my options I felt this roiling pressure rising and finally understood what was happening. I lunged forward. As my fingers brushed New Kid’s arm, an inordinate amount of partially-digested pizza erupted from my tiny body and splattered our shoes and jeans. New Kid, I’m sorry for puking on you when a toilet was literally on the other side of the wall you were leaning against. And for having a much more memorable reign as CHOSEN ONE.