A New Girl’s Struggle: Lunchroom Pressures

The cafeteria line is extra long today, a giant polyester worm snaking across the stairs to the hot meal serving area. Navy blue skirts resting on their hips, girls chatter, laugh, yell, in constant momentum. The hot, noisy air thrums with so much energy; it’s almost tangible. I want to run my slim fingers through the heavy atmosphere, which starts and ends in the cafeteria, a self-contained universe of its own. I want to feel its pulse, ensnare the scattered musings, and rapid cogitations prancing through. Pelican-like, I crane my neck forward trying to catch a fleeting glimpse of the day’s lunch, knowing full well that I’m too far away. I don’t actually care what kinds of foods they’re serving today: carbs, vitamins, protein; doesn’t make a difference. Just as long as I keep up with everyone else. Must stay in constant momentum. God forbid I be branded the lonely new girl.

I smile and pretend to laugh at something, but it comes out forced, unnatural. I try again. Better this time, a deeper pitch, not my usual hyena cackle. Shoot. Now two girls are looking at me weird. Suddenly interested in the trash can labels, my dark head turns down. Food waste, styrofoam, mixed paper, plastic, aluminum. 

Holding my last shreds of dignity tightly to my chest, I reach the front of the line. Eyes scanning the blackboard, searching, searching, searching. Tilapia. Of course. And I’m vegetarian. Off to the salad bar! Egg salad, chicken salad, pickles, and something called kimchi. I grab a plate smudged with a suspicious yellow cream, bring it to my nose, and sniff. It’s only mustard. 

A petite girl who looks like she’s in a grade below ogles me. Great, even fifth graders can sense I don’t belong. One wrong look and their onto me, secret feelings and pent up insecurities spilling open at the seams for the whole world to see as I desperately try to grab what I can. It’s like bumping into someone and watching my books crash to the ground in slow motion, dread running through my bloodstream a thousand miles per minute. Little do they know my life is contained within the pastel pages of that notebook, which now lies splayed across the floor, ink running thick. Yet another sensation that I’ve almost forgotten in the days spent among history homework and lab reports, is stronger still, and a strange calm washes over. In the few, sweet moments that I am paralyzed, unable to stop the inevitable, I’m transformed into a removed, indifferent stranger, nosy and peeping through an open window. But then it ends as everything has to. Finished. Finite. Nothing lasts forever. It’s all too fragile. Time is back to normal, the cruel hands of the clock rushing past, I am myself again, a normal schoolgirl, unimportant and forgettable just how I like it. 

I’ve gone on a tangent. A mind fog as mom calls it. I can tell from the way a girl behind me shifts from one foot to the other impatiently, blowing her cheeks in frustration. Oh my god, oh my god. Move out her way, idiot, move! Don’t panic. Be systematic. Remember my lines so I don’t do anything out of the ordinary. Or risk breaking the chain. And what will happen then? The world might just collapse in on itself. Like a crumpled napkin. 

We are all play actors. Expert pretenders. Stage directions come to us naturally. Actor’s neutral, center stage, now snatch up the last bagel and retreat. Retreat where? To the dank, five by four bathroom or to the harsh fluorescent lights of the cafeteria? I picture the iconic eating in a bathroom scene from “Mean Girls.” Protagonist Cady in a red v-neck and black eyeliner, biting into a sandwich as she looks around; a roll of toilet paper on her left, two purple stall walls on both sides. As I enter the cafeteria, I realize that I would choose to be popular, conniving Regina any day over lonely Cady. 

Long tables are pushed together in the middle, round tables fringing the walls. I proceed slowly, one foot in front of the other, danger may lay ahead. My head moves side to side as I survey the scene, assessing the situation, calculating the chances. Will you be my friend? Will you? Or maybe you? A tragic plea that I refuse to acknowledge, pride swelling in my chest. Every time I see a group of girls smiling, talking together, grabbing their friends in excitement, comfortable in themselves and their belonging I feel a stab of burning envy until I’m practically green. Who will I be? The cool one, the funny one, the nice one possibly? My gaze falls on a girl sitting alone in the corner, her face obscured by waves of frizzy hair. An ominous warning. No matter what, don't be the lonely girl. 

Names pinball rapidly in freefall, and I try to connect them with faces. Brunette Adeline, freckled Charlotte, long-limbed Isabelle, purple glasses Eliza, wait… no that’s Adeline, which means the other girl is? I turn around, one forgotten name and I’m disoriented, confused, left for the wolves. I bite my lip, an unwitting staring contest with the backs of heads, but which one is Eliza? I feel sick. Tears blurring my vision, shaking hands, churning stomach, all symptoms of my sickness. Not a physical one or anything even considered a sickness by doctors. Shows how much they know. This is worse than any cold or runny nose I’ve suffered. Loneliness? Jealousy? Fear? Eyelids fluttering as if I’ve awoken from a bad dream. Breathe. In and out. Compartmentalize, refresh, and resume search for a table. I’ve already finished one whole loop around the cafeteria and brace myself for a second, fingers-crossed no one recognizes my walk of shame. 

Uh oh. Another challenge up ahead barrels toward me. A well-meaning teacher dressed in all green, armed with sugar-coated words and penetrating questions. She’s spotted a floundering, new student and swooped in to save me. Thinking she’s throwing me a lifebelt when she’s only sinking me deeper. Don’t you understand that I don’t want your pity? I scream internally. You seem really nice, but don’t you see that you’re making it worse? Go away. People are staring now, arms poised with food, their mouths left gaping like repugnant caricatures. You’re marking me, a permanent ink tattoo, burning my forehead with every candied phrase that falls from your barbed wire teeth. Please oh please just go away.

I blink once. Then twice. Hoping that this time the teacher will be gone and the linoleum tile flooring will miraculously swallow me up, transporting me to a sparkling underground city, where I will live a glamorous life, the awkwardness of my aboveground days easily dismissed and forgotten. Third time’s the charm. Eyelids flit down and up. It’s game over as soon as a paisley green blouse comes back into focus. There’s nothing I can do now, except succumb. Let them mold me like scented play-dough. Inward cringe as I plaster on a bright smile. Perform my best “mhm”s and “uh-huh”s. Present the model student I’ve been trained to be since kindergarten, deserving of all the “Awesome!” and “Great Job!” stickers. I respond politely, with ease, so unlike the chattering, nervous girl hidden inside. Nerves taut as cords, my jitters just one shove away from being released. The teacher’s mouth, smeared in mauve lipstick, opens and closes, garbled sentences flying past me. Ears clogged as if trapped underwater. The teacher’s saying goodbye now, her eyes glazed over, already preoccupied with something else. Turning on her heel, she walks back to her table, steps punctuated with sharp click clacks. Whew. I’ve been holding my breath this whole time. Wipe the sweat off my face and thank my lucky stars it wasn’t worse. A Titanic-like disaster diverted. 

I wander. Lost. Simple chair and table formations loom before me as complex as the twisting turns of Daedalus' Labyrinth. My movements are becoming steadily more uneven and irregular, I’m tottering like an eleven-year-old drunk. If only I could see into everyone’s minds. Reach in and unspool the transparent fibers of their thoughts. Watch them. Marvel at them. Try to understand. Like abstract art. Two blue splotches here, five dark lines there, a swirl of red pigment. It’s a 1000 piece jigsaw puzzle that I can’t figure out. My parents used to call me the Puzzle Queen. But that was when I was little when I only had to fit 50 big pieces together, which I knew so well they seemed to slide perfectly into place. Not these unfamiliar, fragmented shards that cut like glass and slip clumsily through my fingers. Where do I fit into this puzzle? Am I the missing piece? It certainly doesn’t seem like anything’s missing. Perhaps I am the jagged, forgotten piece, swept under the coffee table, never to feel the caress of warm, sticky human hands again. Too unlike the smooth curves and concise lines of everyone else. 

I’m being silly. How can people feel the absence of someone they’ve never met? It’s ridiculous. A part of me still wishes they would. 

Salvation! Up ahead, a familiar face smiles at me, shining like golden daylight at the end of a subway tunnel. It’s Dana, a girl I met at a ballet intensive, who promised to take me under her wing. Before I’d scoffed the offer, confident in my abilities and independence. I told myself that I didn’t even like Dana that much so what was the point? Nevermind all that now. Nothing matters except that I get a place at a table. Girls with friendly smiles and ready jokes await me. Girls with shiny hair and pressed uniforms. Most of all, belonging, sweet sweet belonging awaits me. Pick up the speed and rush, rush, rush to the last place. I’ve made it to home base. I turn down my beaming smile a few notches. No need to seem overly enthusiastic. No need to jeopardize my position. The fate of my middle school career perches precariously in the balance, a bad first impression could prove fatal. But I’ve made it through the hardest challenge, mainly unscathed. Relief sets in. Furrowed brows, tensed muscles relax. Safe at last.