“Which lunch table did you sit at?” Jamie asks after he’s explained the intricacies of the middle school lunchroom, the center tables and their popular, designer jeans crew, the ‘second tier who basically want to be at the center tables but aren’t,’ and so on.
Odd 14-year-old that I was, mushrooms on toast was one of my favorite meals. I’d have it with room temperature asparagus. This, perhaps with a side of angst and a double dose of obscure and overly angsty often English post-punk semi new wave music. Plus, I didn’t want to discuss my crush, I just wanted to have a real conversations with people (boys) who aren’t afraid of a funny girl. And I wanted to escape the fear I had of turning one of those friendships into a relationship. I wanted to speak in silly accents and talk in depth about novels and families and poetry. I wanted to have different hair. I wanted to get away from catty girls and logarithms. I wanted to be serenaded but taken seriously. I liked baseball but not softball. I like fountain pens too much. I wanted to have a place where I could do all of this and even make mushroom toasts for others.
Where was that able located? Oh, right, in adulthood.
“I didn’t really have a table,” I tell him and explain.
“Me, neither,” he says.
“Want to sit together?” I ask him.
He’s young enough that he doesn’t roll his eyes. He just nods.
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