by Alana Siegel
I echoed Helen’s gesture as she waved to groups of kids. Three sophomore girls sat at the other end of our table. They gave us a friendly hello and then turned toward the girl in the center who was eagerly showing them a new wallet.
A few girls from Pandora’s softball team approached the opposite side of the table. Recognizing one of the girls as a family friend of Helen’s, I watched Helen elegantly skip to Jaime Forte and give her a quick hug.
Helen had known Jaime since elementary school and continued a steady friendship to this day. Living across the street from each other their whole lives, Jaime and Helen were the type of childhood friends who had joint pool parties at age seven and family camping trips every summer. The Fortes and the O’Reillys were still friendly, but High School cliques kept Jaime and Helen friends from a distance just as Helen and I became close.
I gave Jaime a small wave from my seat. Jaime and I didn’t have the same history, but through Helen, we had become acquaintances. With nothing in common but similar schedules, we had developed a quiet friendship based on Honors homework assignments and Advanced Placement tests.
I relaxed into the calm routine, opening my lunch and taking out each item as Helen returned to her seat next to me. I placed a sandwich, three cookies, and a bottle of water on the slightly sticky table. Unwrapping my peanut butter and jelly sandwich, I smoothed the tin foil until it was flat and folded it under the perfectly cut quarters. While I ate, I drowned myself in one of Helen’s dramatic and endearing family stories about her brother scoring the winning touchdown at last week’s football game.
I had just taken a bite of my sandwich when an argument began a few tables over. A good fight was breaking news in the cafeteria, but the familiar voices of Chelsea and Max had drawn my attention and made all the muscles in my body tense. I grasped the table and tried to remind myself to breathe.
“If you are going to buy me lunch, don’t steal money from my wallet and eat half the sandwich! You didn’t even ask me what I wanted to eat!” Chelsea was accusingly leaning over the table she shared with Max and a few others from the crew that gathered on the smokers’ corner.
In perfect view, I watched her angrily standing across from Max. Fury blazed in her blue eyes as they bore down at him. It made my palms sweat. Barely five feet, she wasn’t a tall girl and the long blonde hair she always had pushed back in a headband wasn’t intimidating, but her sharp tongue usually made others back down with respect. She stopped pointing her finger and instead put her hands on her hips. Her reproachful battle stance was not meant to be friendly.
“Chels, I was doing you a favor, ensuring you use your money on sensible purchases and watch your calorie intake. Plus I was making sure you don’t have to make any tough decisions, since women should let men handle that.” I heard the manipulative laugh escape his mouth and the sound of high fives. Clearly, he had chosen his words to push her buttons. Chelsea shoved the table in frustration and the metal legs screeched as they scraped across the floor. More kids at the surrounding tables zoned in on the yelling match.
This wasn’t the first public fight between Chelsea and Max. It was rare not to see them at each other’s throats. Chelsea wasn’t someone who was easily pushed around. Strong-willed, she stood her ground when it came to something she was passionate about, and I knew from experience, Max could drag anyone into an argument. He loved a good fight. In fact, he thrived on it. It was the main reason my relationship with him had kept me on edge.
I watched them from the corner of my eye while pretending to listen to Helen. Max leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms lazily behind his head, refusing to show he was upset by Chelsea’s accusations.
She countered his quick remarks, “You know what, Max, you and your friends are a bunch of pigs. With a family background like yours, I’m not surprised at your foul treatment of women.”
Lightning scarred the dark sky and the windows swung open as the kids in the cafeteria oohed and ahhed Chelsea’s comeback and the accompanied weather accents. It was no longer harmless bickering. Chelsea’s comments struck a chord with Max. It was a personal attack on his family, and I knew that didn’t sit well with him. Even from a few tables away, I cringed, thinking of Max’s growing anger. Outside, I saw a dark rain cloud hovering over the school. A howling wind elevated the noise of the yelling kids, excited from the cafeteria fight and the strange sudden weather patterns.
I looked back at my table. Helen had finally stopped, mid-story, to listen to the fight. Rolling thunder filled the room.
That’s when I heard my name. Max continually found ways to drag me into his current relationship, thrusting me into the line of fire and using me as a tool to prove a point to Chelsea while pointing out my shortcomings. And of course, Max had to portray himself as the victim, publicly.
“Olivia! You are comparing me to her AGAIN!” Chelsea’s face was scrunched in a look of disgust as the lunchroom turned to look at me. Mortified, I looked down at my shoes. My eyes traced the white stitching on my left shoe. It crawled over the black fabric, disappearing under the laces and reappearing on the other side.
“Women are all the same: non-appreciative and selfish!” Max shouted back, gesturing with his hand to the room to explain his comment was all-inclusive. His action was perfectly synchronized with a strike of lightning that cut through the view out the window.
Hoping the attention was no longer aimed at me, I snuck a peek in Max and Chelsea’s direction. The smile was gone from Max’s face. In fact, his skin was colored a red hue. It didn’t look like he was blushing from embarrassment or anger. It was a darker, unhealthy shade of red, almost a glow.
At an unnatural pace, the sky outside turned murky gray and wind whipped through the open windows of the cafeteria, blowing my hair behind me. Like we were in a wind tunnel, paper plates, food, and plastic silverware were flying off tables. People were distracted by the realization that a tempest had built inside the lunchroom. No longer paying attention to Chelsea and Max’s fight, people began grabbing their lunches and school books and scattering throughout the room.
My interest never faltered. Max’s irrational, take-no-prisoners anger and the growing storm seemed inexplicably linked. The angrier he became, the greyer the sky turned outside, the stronger the electric buzz through the air, and the darker the red hue that surrounded him.
I had had enough. The public humiliation happened one too many times. With a sudden confidence that I knew wouldn’t last long, I shot out of my chair and started a slow walk toward the argument. It took every ounce of courage to keep one foot moving after the other.
The wind worked against every muscle in my body, forcibly pushing me back. I could no longer hear what Max and Chelsea were saying over the sounds of the storm, but I kept my eyes on them, fighting through the tornado of wind and food. As they volleyed insults back and forth, my view of Chelsea flickered. She was disappearing instead of flinching at Max’s verbal abuse, and then reappearing in my view as she continued the name-calling. I tried to clear my eyes a few times to make sure that was what I was seeing.
The wind groaned and howled, whipping through my clothes and my hair. The rain pelted the floors and walls inside the cafeteria. People seemed unaffected by Max and Chelsea’s odd behavior, and instead they were screaming and laughing as if the rain and lightning were part of an amusement park ride.
I could hear Max’s mocking laugh. The wind picked up, dragging dirt and debris from outside. I wasn’t discouraged. I was determined. Today, I would stand up for myself. I imagined myself marching defiantly to their table instead of the painstaking pace I was currently achieving.
As I got closer, Max’s red aura became more vivid to me, and I could swear there was a strong smell of vanilla in the air. In a last fit of rage, Chelsea slammed the tray on the table as hard as she could and completely disappeared from sight. The noise that followed made my stomach do flips.
Food and books exploded around the room. The wind picked up and spread the
swarm of paper and silverware. When it reached the height of the ceiling, it scattered in all directions, casting a shadow, and covering every inch of table, chair, food, and floor.
Frozen with fear, I shielded my face from what I was sure was death by plague and fell to the floor. When a moment passed and I didn’t feel the wrath of my attackers, I peeked through my hands. What was going on?
Jaime Forte, the friendly and soft-hearted girl who sat a few seats over from me in almost all my classes, had pushed me aside, completed a full spin in the air, and caught the stream of debris between two metal trays before she landed with both feet on the table next to Max and Chelsea. As she passed, fast and graceful like an Olympic runner, the smell of lavender filled the air.
The rush of the adrenaline calmed when the wind, rain, and chaos died down. Chelsea and Max were finally silent. The bell rang and the students headed out of the cafeteria. No one else seemed to notice anything strange.
* * * *
Chapter Two: The Strange Day Continued
The built up tension drained from the lunchroom, and chairs scratched the linoleum surface as students jumped out of their seats. Empty plastic trays were piled on the covers of the trash bins and crumpled brown bags were thrown inside. I heard the heavy trudging of sneakers in the hallways.
As the air calmed and the students scattered, my body switched to autopilot. Helen scooped up my belongings, casually linked arms with me, and navigated me out of the cafeteria. We floated through the sea of apathetic, unconcerned students. Shouldn't they be running for cover?
I had a hard time grasping what I had just seen, but one look at Helen’s smile and I could tell she didn’t feel the same. I watched her wave enthusiastically to a friend across the hall. The smooth features on her face showed no trepidation for the ferocious storms that had hurried through the windows a few minutes earlier. Had I really seen the cafeteria filled with rain and flying plates? Was it possible that no one else saw Max and Chelsea at the center?
It didn’t make any sense. Hoping to validate the thick, grey fog that I saw hanging low in the sky through the cafeteria windows, I unhooked myself from Helen, and ran to the windows at the end of the hall. Instead of a fog, I peered outside at a blue, cloudless sky. The air was completely still. Not even a leaf dropped from the trees.
People brushed by me on their way to class, but I couldn’t compel myself to move. I gave my arm a small pinch, wondering if it was a dream. It stung. Had I imagined Max causing the rain, the wind, and the electric buzz through the air? Was it anxiety from an encounter with him that had the hairs on my arms standing up? Was it my overactive imagination that saw him turn an inhuman shade of red? And how about Chelsea’s disappearance? So many questions and no one to ask.
Crossing my arms protectively across my chest with my eyes closed, the flashback started. Max and I were sitting at adjacent corners of the small, kitchen table in his mom’s house on a Saturday afternoon. It was a few weeks into our relationship, and the first time Max invited me to his house. His mother was never around so some of a kitchen’s basic essentials were missing or neglected. Max opened a bunch of loosely-hinged cabinet doors before finding two clean glasses for us.
After a few shared movies and dinners, I began to trust Max and finally felt comfortable enough in my own skin to spend time alone with him. He made us peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, my favorite, and I used my free hand to take a bite. The other hand was entwined with his. I drowned myself in the sensation of his fingers gently caressing mine. It felt wonderful.
I looked up and caught him staring at me, a pleased and amused smile on his lips as he observed me taking another bite. For once I wasn’t self-conscious or blushing from embarrassment under his gaze. Our relationship felt solid, it felt real.
I watched his thumb stroking my hand and mimicked his motions. Lifting my head, I turned my eyes to his and smiled.
“Why me?” I asked and immediately felt shy at having said my thoughts out loud. The moment was so happy and perfect that the words had escaped my thoughts and come right out of my mouth. Uncertain, I tried to pull my hand away, but he kept his hold.
“I was drawn to this,” he said placing his pointer finger on the easy smile spreading on my lips before he leaned in, lightly brushing his lips to mine. I kept my eyes closed to linger in my happiness. At the time, I didn't realize the rainbow would be short-lived.
Just then, a disgruntled, pudgy man disrupted our lunch by charging into the kitchen with a beer in one hand and a slice of pizza in the other.
One look at the grimy and foul-smelling man, and Max’s entire demeanor changed. Quickly dropping our tangle of fingers, his hands formed fists on the kitchen table. He sat up straighter and taller in his chair. Without being introduced, I knew this was Bob, Max’s mom’s current boyfriend. Max created an air of isolation, completely ignoring my presence in response to Bob’s entry.
Max’s father had left him and his mom when we were in elementary school. Since then, his mom had her share of boyfriends who disrespected her son, either verbally abusing him or ignoring him altogether. Bob was guilty of the former. This was all the information I had gathered from Max before that day’s events but being in Bob’s presence solidified the few stories he had shared.
The smell of greasy food and dirty gym socks filled the kitchen. Bob’s barely white T-shirt had a grease stain in the shape of a slice of pizza over his round belly. Clearly, this was where he rested his pizza as he drunkenly yelled at the TV.
“Boy, it’s time for more beer. Take your little girlfriend and get me some,” he demanded, slamming his almost empty bottle on the table and adding a noisy belch for emphasis. I pushed away from the table, half out of fear, and half trying to avoid the spilled beer.
Max was seething. I witnessed the damage caused to others by Max’s quick tongue, but I had never been the target. Still, I avoided eye contact in hope of avoiding the line of fire.
Max scorned his mother’s long list of ex-boyfriends, but Bob was his toughest foe. He huffed out a breath of disbelief and attempted to show he wasn’t bothered by Bob’s orders.
“Get your own beer, you useless moron,” Max uttered, keeping his eyes on the table. Bob didn’t flinch.
“What’s wrong Maxi-pad? Did I interrupt your date?” Bob picked up the half-eaten peanut butter and jelly sandwich on my plate and took a monster bite. That was the last straw. Pushed around one too many times, Max jumped out of his chair.
My sweaty palms grasped the chair beneath me until my nails dug into the fabric. The tension in the room was unbearable, and I couldn’t stand the built-up rage. I didn’t want to attract their attention, and I certainly didn’t want to jump into the fight.
I felt a tingling sensation like tiny sparks from a live wire jumping through the air surrounding Max. In a voice barely audible but chilled to the bone, Max asked Bob, “Where is my mother?” Bob took the question as a challenge. He walked at a deathly slow pace toward Max until they were eye-to-eye and angrily yelled, “Hell if I know! The slut stormed out of the house!”
That was all I could take. I didn’t want to be at the center of the storm so I ran out the backdoor before being subjected to any more fighting. I welcomed the crisp autumn air that slapped me in the face. There were no undertones of an electric current pulsing through the space around me. I heard Bob laughing from the kitchen as I leaned against Max’s car. I put my hands over my heart, hoping to slow it down.
That day, Max followed me out of the house instead of answering Bob. Similar occasions occurred after that one, and oftentimes I walked myself home. It didn’t matter. Whenever Bob showed up, Max became irritable, and the magic of his gentle kiss was gone.
I felt that same electric buzz of apprehension in the cafeteria today during Max and Chelsea’s fight, and that sensation was what sent me back to Max’s kitchen. Except this time the sensation magnified itself into an actual storm. But that’s impossible! It’s like saying there was actual steam coming f
rom someone’s ears. It was just a figure of speech and my eyes were playing tricks on me.
I tried to erase the unhappy memory. I was a different person back then, and my relationship with Max was a closed chapter in my life.
Helen sashayed over to me by the window as I came to grips with my out-of-body experience. Her languid smile was content, peaceful, and contagious. There was no need to burden her with my unsubstantiated worries. For now, I was glad to have escaped the uncomfortable stares in a crowded lunchroom. I turned to join her down the hall.
We approached Jaime Forte’s locker where she paused from taking out books and placed her hands on her hips. Helen greeted her, and she returned the hello with an absent nod, hastily pushing up the sleeves of her oversized jersey that said ‘bump, set, spike.’ Her legs were spread apart over the notebooks and textbooks she had piled on the floor. Distracted, she was staring hard at the sweatshirt hanging in her locker.
Thoughtful silence was not one of Helen’s strong points. Ignoring Jaime’s dazed look, she used the pause to link her arm through Jaime’s and rehash the day’s gossip. “That fight was a riot.” I cringed as the words left Helen’s mouth, thinking about how many times I would have to re-live the lunchtime events.
Breaking her from her trance, Jaime shook her head to clear it. She asked, “What fight?” Her eyes were groggy, like she had just woken up from a nap.
I sucked in a quick breath. Jaime squinted, analyzing my reaction before noticing Helen’s how-can-you-forget-the-biggest-cafeteria-fight-of-the-year stare, and quickly recovered, “…Oh, right, Max and Chelsea.” To avoid eye contact with both of us, she broke free from Helen’s linked arm and started collecting her books from the floor. Her reaction made me think twice. Could it have been real?
Helen was unfazed and continued her teen drama analysis. “Did you see how angry Max was when Chelsea mentioned his family? It looked like he was going to set the room on fire,” she flippantly joked as she began to walk toward our next class.
