Turning the Tables

Moira Cevasco
Mrs. Mecoli
Honors English IIA
8 February 2008
Turning the Tables
My hand trembled as I slammed the phone back into the receiver. Stomping across the carpet, I hurled myself up the stairs, groping for support against the rail as I headed for the sanctuary of my bedroom. Curled on the floor, clutching a pillow tight against my stomach, I felt the soft, lacy white edges wrinkle into a soggy state between my fingers. I pressed the pillow hard against my face to muffle my tears and screams of rage. My thoughts whirled about me, consisting mainly of choice words aimed to stab, aimed to injure one person. I wished she could hear my thoughts. Yet my recriminations would remain silent. I wished she knew that I cried.
How had it come to this? When had our friendship actually ended—her treachery actually begun? I recalled our blissful eighth grade year. We were always together, the three of us. When I walked in, alone, on that first day of school, Annie found me. Then Erin found us. And it was decided: we were all that each other would need for the year.
But years change and high school began in the next one. We were to be freshmen—how important that sounded. The school was bigger, the population greater, the people taller, but we would still be friends, of course. The day before the dreaded four-year-commitment-to-one-building began, I sat in front of my closet, a plethora of newly sharpened pencils, pens, bright plastic rulers, binders and spiral notebooks laid before me. I didn’t touch any of it. I stared blankly at the off-white wall, no thoughts intruding.
The phone rang, jarring me out of my non-thoughts.
“Annie?”
“Hey, Moira. I have the lunch schedule! What is your fourth period class?”
I seized that dreadful piece of pink paper that sentenced me to my educational internment for the next year. It crinkled in my hands as I scanned the page. First Trimester, fourth period. “I have French IIA.”
“But that’s a sophomore class!”
I had tested out of French I. I gave her the name of my teacher. There was a pause on the other end as she did her research.
“Moira! We have the same lunch!” Relief flooded through my entire body and my hands went nearly lax as I thanked the heavens I wouldn’t be eating alone. I felt badly that Erin, part of our original trio, would be fending for herself. I was the lucky one. I fumbled with the phone before I exhaled my excitement: Great, I can’t believe it, see you tomorrow.
Sweaty palms mismanaged my locker combination the next morning as summer-slept eyelids struggled with a six o’clock wake-up. I slouched through three periods of school rules and various mispronunciations of my name. Fourth bell arrived and I filed into class behind the herd, seating myself in the back. I scanned the classroom. No familiar faces. A variety of blues songs played in my head as I anticipated a lonely hour.
The French teacher bounced in front of her indifferent students. I was amused at her jovial attitude, noting its contrast to our (for wont of a second year French word) blasé ones. From her bright yellow floral skirt to her deep red pumps, she could only be described as bubbly. I wasn’t sure yet if I liked bubbly people.
“Bonjour classe! Je m’appele Madame Gist! Bienvenue à la classe de francais deux!” She proceeded to remind us of how little we knew of French by continuing her fluent speech in said foreign language. I looked about, searching for a countenance of comprehension among us—there was none. Finally Madame Gist abandoned her French filibuster to say (in English, thank God) “Find a partner everyone!”
Perfect. In the one class where I possessed zero acquaintances, I was forced to make one. The rest of my classmates milled about, greeting each other with how was your summer and what other classes are you taking and ultimately do you want to be my partner? I made no move toward such a union. Huddled in my seat, it appeared I would be partnering with me, myself and I.
“Hey, do you want to be my partner?” A girl I had failed to notice sat timidly in the desk beside me.
Before I could answer, Madame glared at my predestinate partner, yelling “En francais, Mademoiselle!”
I smiled at the girl, and she laughed slightly. Madame was savagely watching us, so she said “Uh . . . Est-ce-que tu veut être ma partinère?”
I acquiesced with the extent of my French vocabulary, “Oui.”
Madame beamed.

Her name was Mahduri. She had deep brown eyes and skin the color of cinnamon. Her shiny black hair was long and thick and wavy. At about 5’ 4”, she was nearly three inches taller than I, but she seemed much smaller. Instead of focusing on my face when she spoke, her eyes sought almost anything else: the floor, her desk, the curtains. I sympathized with her timidity and assumed it would lift with time. As it turned out, Mahduri was a freshman, having tested out of French I as well, thus making us a pair with something in common. We both had no friends in fourth period. We were both a year younger than our peers. We both understood little of Madame’s lectures.
Soon the bell rang, and we stampeded into the hallway for a half-hour of lunch and “socialization.” I grabbed my books and darted for the door, but Mahduri called me back. “Where are you sitting?”
This was a pre-can I sit with you question, so I cut straight to the chase. “I don’t know. Do you want to sit with me?” She grinned. Yes, she would love to sit with me, thanks. I was only too happy to walk with someone.

Annie received me happily. She grabbed my sleeve, explaining that she had found a table with people we knew. She was overjoyed; I asked who they were.
“Oh, you know, like Kate and Marissa and them.”
“Who?”
“Moira, you know them. Come on.” Mahduri stood awkwardly behind us. Annie didn’t seem to notice her, so I turned and motioned for her to follow. When we arrived at a beige table, just one out of the other ninety million beige tables in the crowded cafeteria, it turned out that I really didn’t know Kate and Marissa, or any other girl seated except Annie. No introductions were offered because, apparently, I did know Kate and Marissa; I just didn’t recognize them yet. Annie chatted away immediately, in a language and lingo I had never heard her use before—language harder to follow than Madame’s endless French. The other girls chirped loudly in like manner.
“Oh my God, like wow. I know, right?” What did that mean? Was there a subject in that sentence? I glanced at Mahduri who was quietly nibbling at her sandwich beside me. She had retreated to her no-eye-contact policy; I didn’t blame her.
Annie finally paused for air and stole a look in my direction. Her eyes narrowed. “Moira, who is that? Do you know her?” She didn’t even bother to whisper.
I raised my eyebrows and wadded my napkin into my hand. “Who, Mahduri?”
Annie shrugged. “I dunno. You tell me.” Mahduri received a sneer that could only be called . . . lets just say, rude.
“Yeah. She’s in my French class. Mahduri, this is Annie. Annie, this is—”
Annie’s eyes lit up, but not out of delight in the introduction. “Colleen!” she screeched, “Hey girl, hey!” She abandoned her chair beside me and moved to the opposite end. The others did likewise, until all had flocked to one half of the circular table, fluttering about the newly arrived Colleen.
Colleen was not tall. Colleen was not blond. She was of medium height with ram-rod straight, dark hair and naturally tan skin. Her Latino figure was curvy and her eyeliner heavy. She chewed gum as she spoke and her large hoop-earrings clinked when she tossed her head. From our empty half of the table, Mahduri and I watched as Colleen consumed three french fries over the entire lunch period, all the while entertaining the roost with her latest boyfriend drama.
The bell rang signifying the end of lunch, and I sprang from my chair. “Bye Annie!” Annie giggled at something Colleen said in response, and Mahduri followed me out of the cafeteria.
The next day proved to be the same. And the day after that, and the day after that, until I sensed that Annie no longer required my presence at Colleen’s table. The seating arrangements continued in the earlier-established fashion: Mahduri and I on one half, everyone else on the other, squashed in a 180° angle around Colleen. It was a big enough table. We could have all had enough room to fill up the space, but they preferred to share chairs in order to sit on the side with the greener grass.
I told myself I didn’t care. I told myself that Annie was still my friend. But the looks of confusion that Mahduri gave me every day confirmed that I was entertaining lies. For Mahduri’s sake, I should have had the courage to leave. But where would I go? A lunch room with so many people could be awfully lonely and depressing and intimidating. However, watching the girls, including Annie, whisper and laugh at Mahduri, at us, from less than a three-foot diameter distance away was heart-wrenching.
Each day I tried to talk with them. Each day they openly smacked down every word I uttered. If I laughed at a joke they all shared amusement in, I was told not to join in a conversation I wasn’t part of. Mahduri was silent, but I persisted in trying to make things work. I had nowhere else to go, so I chose to ignore their treatment of Mahduri and myself.
One day, Colleen decided to take matters into her own hands. Colleen’s table was empty when we arrived. I scanned the cafeteria for Annie, but didn’t see her.
“Let’s just sit,” I suggested in confusion. Mahduri and I picked at our food in silence for nearly twenty minutes when it finally dawned on me that the rest of our regular table members were not going to show up. I stood in anger and frantically searched the large room once more, eyes darting back and forth. There was Annie. There was Colleen. There they all were on the opposite end of our quadrant at a different beige table. I gathered my lunch in a fury and kicked at my chair. “Come on.” I mumbled.
Mahduri followed behind me as best she could as I made my way promptly across the lunch room, determined not to lose sight of them. Even from a distance, I could see the table watching us. They knew where we were. They had made no attempt to inform us of their relocation.
I approached the table. “Annie.”
She pretended not to hear.
“Annie.” My voice was not steady, I knew.
She looked up at me, uninterested in what I was going to say. “What?”
I noticed that their seating arrangement had changed. No longer did they only occupy half the circle; now the whole space was fully utilized. Chairs that were not holding a skirted girl were holding bags, purses and books.
“What?” Annie repeated her question with an impatient tone. I was surprised she was able to focus her attention on me for that long.
“W—why did you move tables?” I glanced at the other girls who had all miraculously busied themselves with something trivial.
“We . . .” Annie looked desperately at Colleen who was enraptured by her reflection in her nail polish. “We . . . we just didn’t like the old table, that’s all. Is that a problem?” She didn’t meet my eyes.
“No, it’s not a problem. If you tell us where you’re sitting.”
“Well . . . you found us, didn’t you?”
“Did you want me to find you?” Colleen looked up and smirked. Annie was silent. I sighed, not wanting to create a scene. “Can you make room?” Annie gingerly plucked her purse from the seat beside her.
I didn’t sit. “For Mahduri too?”
Annie stared at me. Colleen spoke up. “We would, but there isn’t any room.”
My cheeks flamed. “Yes there is. Just move one of your bags.” Colleen shrugged. “Annie, tell them to move one of their bags.”
Annie took a sip of her lemonade.
“Annie.”
The bell rang. Colleen’s girls leapt from the table and flew from the cafeteria. “I have to go,” Annie muttered. She turned her back and followed the others.

That evening I sat in my family room, a history textbook spread across my lap, trying to focus on the events of the French Revolution—fantasizing about Colleen at the Guillotine. My temples throbbed with a headache I was sure no Advil could cure. Anti-depressants, maybe? The phone rang and I let it go. I heard the familiar click from another room and my sister bellowed “Moira! It’s for you!”
I groaned as I crawled off the couch to retrieve the phone. “Hello?”
“Moira? Hey, this is Annie.”
I was silent. I listened to her struggle to continue without my conventional greeting. “Um, so I was supposed to call you. Because, like, Colleen wanted me to tell you . . . well, actually, everyone at the table feels like this . . .”
“Like what?” I prompted her; I didn’t want to talk any longer than I had to.
“Well, they don’t want your friend to sit with us anymore.”
“What?”
“Come on, Moira. We all know she’s weird. Let’s face it. Everyone feels like she’s always giving us dirty looks, and she doesn’t seem to want to be there anyway.”
Why would we want to be there? “What do you expect me to do?”
“I dunno. Just tell her to sit somewhere else or something. We already tried switching tables, and that didn’t work . . .”
My emotions were high. I tried to maintain a fairly calm voice. “Well, can you tell Colleen not to do that again? If you want Mahduri gone, I’m going to have to go too.” My voice cracked.
Annie didn’t seem to notice. “Well, no offense, Moira, but I don’t think anyone really cares whether you stay or not, either . . .”
If she said more, I didn’t hear. My ears began to ring and my stomach seemed to leap into my throat. Fat tears spilled over the brim, streaming down my face. My breathing became harsh, so I covered the phone with my hands.
My voice faltered as I interrupted. “Annie, I have to do homework, bye.” I disconnected the call. The phone felt the full effect of my fury. I ran to my room and sat in the dark. Annie was gone. She had lost me for good. I would never return to that table.

“Renee?”
A girl of medium height turned toward me. She had wispy dirty-blond hair and the biggest, greenest eyes I had ever seen, further enhanced by fair skin. Friendly eyes, I decided. This girl didn’t smile, she grinned.
“You’re Moira!” It wasn’t a question. “Your sister gave me a note. I was supposed to find you. Wait . . .” Renee searched her pockets, “Here it is! Find Moira at lunch today, please. Well, I didn’t even have to do anything! You found me!” She laughed loudly, deeply. I smiled in relief.
“Who’s your friend?” Renee turned her green eyes to Mahduri. She was delighted to meet her. I got the feeling she would have been just as delighted had I introduced her to a troll. “Your sister’s told me so much about you . . .” She led the way, and we didn’t look back.
Renee demonstrated clout just as Colleen had, minus the hoop-earrings and bubble gum. She was the kind of girl whose Pirates of the Caribbean impressions merely added to her loveliness. When she demanded that our table make space, space was made. It was crowded; we shared chairs and bumped elbows. Yet there was more room for us than there had ever been at Colleen’s table. The faces surrounding me harbored no false pretenses, no constant worry of maintaining their popular status. I knew that if I turned around, I could easily locate Colleen’s table. But my old chair didn’t call me back and I congratulated myself on having found a new seat.