'A Parley at Lunchtime' (Complete Scene from 'The New Story' - Some Spoilers Ahead)

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A Parley at Lunchtime

12:20 PM, Near the End of First Lunch

 

“You did what now?” Mark Prieto’s expression was a mix of thunderstruck surprise and wry amusement as I finished telling him about my upcoming solo in the 1981 Winter Concert, which was less than one week away.

We were seated at our usual table in the school cafeteria – a round table normally seated five or six people at a time – a short distance from the teachers’ lounge and the main corridor leading to the school’s first floor. As usual, the room was filled with a cacophony of sounds as several hundred adolescents sat in clusters at the other tables, gossiping, joking, bitching about how much homework Mr. or Mrs. X handed out daily, guessing about mid-year exams and grades, or even arguing about the Miami Dolphins’ waning season. There were even spats between teenage lovers, usually based on rumors that one half of the couple was cheating on the other. And, of course, the murmurs and laughs and occasional yells were accompanied by the thudding of plastic trays on wooden tabletops, the rustle of cold-weather clothes, the clatter of girls’ heeled shoes, and the softer pad-pad-pad sounds of sneakered feet upon the tiled floor of the cafeteria, and, from speakers overhead,  the tinny-sounding music – provided by WSMH, the school’s internal radio station – and occasional announcements by either Dr. Burke, our principal, or peppy commentary from student DJ Mike “Stone” Estromboli about the songs (including Olivia Newton-John’s “Physical”) currently on the rotation. It was an acoustic Bedlam, but after a year and a half of attendance, my ears had gotten used to it, and I’d learned to tune most of the noise out and hold a conversation in the cafeteria without having to shout or say, “What was that? I didn’t hear you.”

I took a swig from my half-pint carton of chocolate milk – a rare holdover of my childhood since I had never got a taste for plain “moo juice” – and waited till I’d swallowed before answering.

“I must have been out of my mind or something,” I said with a sigh as I placed the now-empty brown and white McArthur’s Dairy carton in its niche on the canary yellow plastic lunch tray, which now only contained the last traces of mashed potatoes, too-salty canned green beans, and bits and pieces of Salisbury steak with gravy, which was one of the few entrees on the school lunch menu that were halfway enjoyable. Dessert – which was also now just a recent memory – was fine, though; a small wedge of spicy pumpkin pie topped with a dollop of Cool-Whip.

“I can’t believe it, Jim. A solo. Wow. And ‘Jingle Bell Rock,’ at that.” Mark shook his head and grinned. “I would have thought a slow and sentimental song like ‘White Christmas’ is more your style, not a fast and upbeat one like ‘Jingle Bell Rock’.”

“Hey,” I said, raising my hand in protest. “It wasn’t my idea. It was Mrs. Quincy’s.”

Mark snorted. “You could have said ‘No.’” He leaned closer and lowered his voice. “Or did she use her Jedi mind tricks on you?”

“Maybe, if it had been a one-on-one conversation in her office,” I said nervously, glancing around to see if anyone was listening. “But she asked me in front of the entire class.”

Mark’s expression softened and he put a hand on my shoulder. “Yeah, I can see why it would have been tough to turn Mrs. Q. down. Especially now that you’re in mixed chorus – with all those cuties in the same group as you.” He paused for a moment, as if he were trying to remember something, something important. Then, as realization struck, Mark’s eyes went almost as wide as the lunch tray in front of him. He snapped his fingers and said, “Wait a minute – she’s in your third period class….”

“Who?” I said, trying to feign ignorance.

“Oh, come on, Jim. Don’t bullshit me. We’ve been friends since fifth grade; I can read you like those World War II books you love so much.”

“Okay, okay,” I said, raising my hand to placate him. “Yes, Marty’s in third period chorus. She made the cut after doing well in the girls’ choir last semester.” I tried to sound as if I were discussing the weather or the latest episode of Private Benjamin, but my words were laced with longing and regret.

“Oh, man, you have it bad for that chick,” Mark said, not unkindly. “I haven’t seen you so into a girl since Kathy broke your heart.”

“I wish I didn’t, though.”

“Why? Because she’s Kenny Garcia’s girlfriend?”

I nodded.

“Well, it’s a big school, pal, and there are literally hundreds of other chicks you can ask out,” Mark said.

“I know. And I’ve tried to. But they either play the ‘But I only like you as a friend, or like a brother’ card, or they just flat-out say ‘No’ cos, you know, I am not ‘their type.’”

“Well,” Mark said in an “I keep telling you” tone that was half funny, half annoying, “maybe if you bothered to go to more parties or just hang out with people at Sunset Place or even Dadeland, you’d probably meet a cute chick. Maybe even get laid!”

Before I could even think of a suitable retort – hopefully a witty one – I saw, out of the corner of my eye, someone walking with deliberate purpose from the cafeteria entrance toward our table. I turned my head in that direction, and when I recognized who this someone was, my heart leaped to my throat, and I almost forgot to breathe.

Speaking of the Devil, I thought, as I beheld the familiar presence of Martina Elizabeth Reynaud, considered by many to be one of the prettiest girls in the Class of 1983.

Even dressed as she was – denim jeans and a matching jacket, with a plaid button-down blouse, scuffed girls’ Keds sneakers, and her long chestnut hair pulled up into a simple ponytail that bobbed up and down when she walked – Marty was simply, heart-achingly gorgeous. Wherever and whenever she was in a room – even a busy cafeteria – she almost always got looks of admiration and/or envy from her fellow students. Most of the guys in our school wanted to be with her, while many of the girls wanted to be like her.

She was tall, lithe, and naturally sexy; these physical attributes drew a lot of attention to her. Most guys, including me, paid particular attention to them, mainly on the rare occasions when she wore her athletic shorts and T-shirt on the way to change in the girls' locker room after her fourth-period PE class. She was also one of the nicest, sweetest people who went to South Miami. She almost always had a pleasant smile or a cheery "Hello, there!" –  especially early in the morning, when most of us were either grumpy or still groggy from waking up early to get to school.

Marty was the kind of girl who always lent a sympathetic ear to anyone who needed it. Whether it was a failed test, a death in the family, or a bad grade in chemistry or English 3, she was there for you. She would walk up to you, flash that warm, genuine smile she had, and say in that lilting British accent that no one else at South Miami had, "C'mon, chin up. Everything will be okay."

Now she stood before Mark and me, her hazel eyes sparkling with joy and anticipation. She looked as if she had just won $25,000 on Wheel of Fortune.

"Hi, Jim," she said in an almost breathless tone. "You won't believe what I just did, and I owe it all to you."

Mark and I exchanged curious glances. I was tongue-tied as usual around Marty, so my best friend spoke first. "What did you do?" he asked.

She glanced at me with a grateful smile, then turned to Mark. "Well," she began, "I decided to ask Mrs. Quincy if I could do a solo, too."

As Marty finished her sentence, Mark's right eyebrow rose slightly in surprise. "You weren't going to?" he asked.

A flush crept across Marty's rosy cheeks, and the tips of her ears turned red. "Erm, no. I wasn't keen on it, not really. But when I saw that Jim volunteered – "

"I didn't volunteer," I cut in. "I was drafted."

She covered her mouth with her hand and giggled. Maybe she was nervous or found the situation comical, but her embarrassment started to dissipate just as mine threatened to manifest itself.

"Aye!" she said, trying – but failing –  to hold an amused laugh. "Mrs. Quincy got the better of you this morning." Then she smiled reassuringly at me, as if to say, "You've got this."

Her smile was as warm and inviting as a cozy fireplace. That's one of the reasons why I was so drawn to her; she was the kind of person who could coax you out of a bad mood or make you return a smile to someone else. Even more than her outward appearance, I loved that about her.

She hurried on, "So I decided to ask Mrs. Quincy if I could do a solo, too. I figured that if you were going to do one - drafted or not - I might as well give it a shot." Her voice was urgent now; the first lunch period only had about 10 minutes left, and our teachers didn't like it when we students straggled late into our fourth-period class. “That’s awesome,” Mark said. "That’s great!”

“What song did you pick? I’m sure you picked a beautiful one.” As beautiful as you, I didn’t add.

A pink hue spread across her cheeks again, and I had to fight an impulse to get up from my plastic and metal cafeteria chair and give her a reassuring hug. "Are you familiar with Schubert, Jim?" she asked.

"A little. He was a German composer back in the early Romantic era, wasn't he?"

"Austrian, actually," Marty corrected.

"Ah, Austrian. Sorry, but I'm not that knowledgeable about classical music. I like it, but I don't study about it much."

Marty said lightly, "I'm not an expert on any topic, but my big sister plays the piano; her dream is to play for the London Symphony Orchestra, and she's taught me some things about composers and compositions. She's utterly brilliant. I'll tell you more about her sometime." She turned her head toward the righthand wall of the cafeteria, where a round clock marked the time in hours, minutes and seconds. With even more urgency than before, she added, "For that reason, I picked Schubert's 'Ave Maria.' It's a Christmas concert, so I thought I'd sing it."

I got up from my chair and picked up my Jansport backpack with my textbooks for periods four, five and six from the cold tiled floor. "That's a beautiful song," I smiled and said. "I can't wait to hear it."

"It's a good thing that I know it pretty much by heart, considering that the concert is less than one week away," Marty said.

Mark rose from his chair too, picked up his lunch tray, and with a hasty "See you guys later," he took it to the designated drop-off point at the rear of the cafeteria. As he merged into the crowd of students doing the same thing - we students couldn't just leave our dirty trays and discarded plastic utensils for the custodial staff to pick up - I felt Marty tap me gently on the shoulder.

I spun around, and before I had a chance to react, she gave me a quick hug and an even quicker peck on the cheek. "Thank you, Jimmy, for making me feel that I can do a solo," she said. Without giving me a chance to reply, she ran off to join the last stragglers of South Miami High's first lunch crowd.

I stood there, rooted to the ground in surprise and unexpected joy.