Burger Rings
"Squea-ak. Squea-ak." I gaze bemusedly at the seductively-arrayed supermarket shelves, my nonchalant expression betraying none of the mortification I feel at my rusty, outspoken trolley. They parade before me: an endless sea of lurid colours and plastic wrappers, each vying for that V.I.P space beside the Milo at the bottom of the cart. A flash of orange catches my eye, and halting the trolley mid-squeak to investigate, I identify the Burger Rings packet smiling coyly up at me from the third shelf. A memory tugs insistantly at my thoughts, as a demanding child would tug at her mother's hand, and I stand perfectly still, my eyes locked on the Burger Rings.
Interval. The sun stretches its golden fingers over the shadowy crest of a hill, its faint rays of warmth signalling the end of Autumn. A soccer ball speeds past into the undergrowth, accompanied by a series of groans and accusations. My fingers delve eagerly into the Burger Rings packet, its bright orange jacket fitting snugly into my hand. I smile at the tingling taste of too much salt, and chatter happily to my friends, our voices mingling with the sound of many, echoing throughout the crowded courtyard.
"Hey guys!" My friend Heather bounces energetically towards us, her sea-green eyes sparkling mischeviously and frizzy hair casting a wild halo about her head. She spies my Burger Rings and immediately pleads for a taste. I glance down at my one remaining chip and frown but, feeling generous, I relent.
"Go on then. But only if you take the packet to the bin for me!" Heather grins impishly, and without another word, grabs the Burger Ring and sprints off towards the quad.
"Hey, come back!!" I feel angry; stung, and dash off in pursuit, my childish pride winging me towards the quad at more speed than the lure of the canteen ever did.
One two! Step! Step! Jump! I fly down the steps leading to the concrete quad, my arm reaching determinedly out in search of the back of Heather's jacket. Hand meets denim in a blur of frenzied impact, and too late I realise the speed at which we've collided. My triumph turns to horror, as with a tangle of limbs we hit the ground.
I think it's the sound, more than anything, that I remember. The unmistakable, solid THUMP of flesh colliding with concrete; body colliding with ground. The golden sun is now a hostile glare in my eyes, playground chatter an unwelcome addition to the ringing in my head. I sit up with a groan; beside me Heather nurses a grazed knee with a scowl on her face. My friends approach with worried looks, and faceless students recite a series of "Are you all right?"'s, but with a mumbled "I'm fine, really," I turn away to survey the damage. I wince at my bleeding knuckles, my bruised, grazed knees and at the large lump forming on my left arm. Pain.
The hospital's bland white corridors leer menacingly at me, as I huddle miserably on a waiting room chair. I feel small, and full of self-pity. How quickly things can change in a single moment... This very morning, I'd been making toys and crafts for Electives Week; had been elated at the prospect of my parents finally allowing me to go on Year 8 camp. And now..
I gaze wistfully at the scars already forming on my hands, smudges of blood tainting the pure white sling wrapped carelessly around my neck. My heart sinking, I realise that there will be no camp now. Not for me.
An ill-concealed sigh startles me out of my daydream, and I make way for a harried-looking woman reaching towards the Burger Rings. My muttered "Sorry" is swallowed up by the rebellious squeaking of my trolley. I sigh, and head towards the next aisle where I know my mother will be waiting, gazing enchantedly at the coffee selection. Frowning, I ponder the irony of life. There are some lessons that you need to learn at some point or another, and six weeks in a full-length cast certainly taught me a thing or two about running on concrete. But the sheer fact that Heather came out with only a grazed knee, and that the whole dilemma was over a Burger Ring?
My childish pride stirs discontentedly within me still.
Turning into the next aisle, I resume my speculation of the shelves, my nonchalant expression betraying none of the mortification I feel at my outspoken trolley.
"Squea-ak. Squea-ak."
By Hannah Collins.
Only one thing, and I feel really stupid for asking: I hope you're British. No American has the right to call a shopping cart a "trolly." 
