The Tabletop Talk

Sugar, artificial sweetener, or nothing at all?

The thought momentarily vanished at the sound of my best friend jabbering through my cell phone.

“Marcy, are you even listening to what I’m saying? Let me repeat: Sam Karnack, you know, the Sam Karnack, freaking talked to me.”

Christina groaned in pleasure and I couldn’t stop myself from rolling my eyes.

“Really,” I murmured with a hint of amusement.

“Well, it was either a miracle or a dream,” she said, “and from the lack of flying sheep and naked men, I’m guessing miracle.”

“So what did you get out of this talk with Sam Karnack? A new Twitter follower? A Facebook friend?”

There was a grand pause in the phone. I could feel the tension building on the other line. Whatever Christina was going to say was big, at least from her perspective.

“No, Marcy, I got something even better. He asked me on a date! A date! A real, in your freaking face date! You better hold your phone back, because I’m ‘bout to go girly girl!”

Knowing from experience what going girly girl meant, I followed her instruction instantly, holding my phone out at elbow’s length. But whether she screamed or not, and I didn’t doubt that she did, I couldn’t hear it over the earth shattering rock music pulsating through the speakers in Lulu’s Lemonade.

Glancing over at the cat shaped clock hanging crookedly on the wall, I noted that fifteen minutes had gone by. It wasn’t too difficult to judge how much I’d moved in that amount of time. Like nowhere. I knew I should have gotten here earlier to beat the after school rush, but my 1993 Honda Accord and all of its old, rusty glory decided it would take over a dozen tries to start the ignition. After that nuisance of an experience, my taste buds burned even more agonizingly with the desire of Lulu’s world famous lemonade.

I’d taken Christina here once. I still remembered what she said.

“They sell lemonade here? Marcy, this is retro rocker meets crazy old lady with a million cats. Drugs? Maybe. Lemonade? Hell no.”

She was right in some ways. The lady who owned the place, and who surprisingly was not named Lulu, did have an abnormal fascination with cats. Cat pictures and ornaments decorated every square inch of wall and there was even a cat named Mimi who prowled around the backs of booths and hissed at customers. Dark purple walls and pitch black furniture created a mysterious, almost eerie atmosphere. Heavy rock music screamed out through the speakers.

This wasn’t the typical place I’d be seen around. Actually, public appearances were something I tried to avoid, if I could help it. But the memories laced within this building, some of the best memories I could recollect, beat out any reason to stay away. Not to mention the lemonade was delicious, a sin all in its own.

A singer let out his final note and the room fell silent for a moment, awaiting the next song. Pulling my phone back up to my ear, the same silence came through from the other line.

“Christina?” I said. It wasn’t like her to hang up on me.

“Hmm? Oh, sorry, I was… Wait, wait, wait, why does Sam’s relationship status on Facebook say it’s complicated with Jessica Turner?!”

Leave it to Christina to resort to stalking. A career questionnaire she’d once taken said she would make for a good detective and I believed it.

“Who’s Jessica Turner?” I asked, pretending to be interested.

“It’s the Jessica Turner who needs to realize that it’s complicated usually means it ain’t gonna work out and who needs to move on with her life.”

An exasperated sigh escaped Christina’s lips. I could picture her curled up on her pink bedspread, eyes glued to her laptop screen, her blond, frizzy hair giving way from its daily dose of hairspray. If there was one thing I didn’t envy about Christina, aside from her drama queen tendencies, it was her hair. It was like a mountain of fluff, uncooperative and unforgiving.

“Maybe it’s Sam who’s trying to hold onto the relationship,” I offered, surprised to find the fifteen or so people ahead of me were suddenly moving a few feet closer to the cash registers. Craning my neck, I saw a girl with afro hair was opening up another register. Finally we were making some progress.

“Then why would he ask me on a date? That makes no sense.”

“Didn’t you just say he won biggest flirt last year?”

“Yes, flirt, not womanizer or man whore,” Christina corrected me quickly.

I laughed lightly. “Same thing, Chris.”

“Um, no way Marcy. I work at Walmart, biggest contributor of condoms in Sallen City, and I’ve never seen him purchase-“

“That would explain the strange increase of pregnant girls at school,” I interrupted, smiling.

“Marcy, just shut up. Look outside would you? See that rain? It’s because of you, raining on my parade.”

I smiled into the phone amusingly. Highly doubting that it was actually raining outside, I turned around. And what I saw behind me was far more anxiety inducing than the weather.

It was his eyes that made me do a double take. They were the color of the ocean, pure blue and endless in depth, but most of all they were the color that never ceased to amaze all girls who had the privilege to glimpse his soft, angelic irises.

My breath caught in my throat at the sight of Sam Karnack in the flesh. Scrutinizing him more, my heart rate relaxed slightly as I realized it was really his brother, Stephan.

He was looking down, either at his shoes or my butt, neither of which could have been interesting. I knew it was him and not his flirtatious counterpart by his permanent scar that ran from the right side of his chin to his earlobe. I’d heard he got it from a knife fight with a kid from another school. I’d heard said kid was put up in the hospital for a week with a severe concussion. I’d heard there’d been a court hearing. But like many things rumored about Stephan Karnack, it was just that- rumors. Stephan was a walking mystery.

There was no denying that he and Sam were brothers. Same delicately layered dark brown hair, same small button nose, and same athletic built with muscles to match. Attractiveness coursed through their veins. The same couldn’t be said for the cruel reality of high school popularity.

Turning away quickly, I scrambled to remember all that’d been said in the past two minutes. Did he realize we were talking about his brother? Did he hear anything he shouldn’t have? Would he tell? I prayed the music had drowned out the gist of our conversation, but I decided to be safe and end the call. Anyway, after a twenty minute wait, I could see the finish line in sight.

“Hey, Chris, I gotta go,” I told her. “You can call me later if you want.”

She heaved another sigh. “Typical Marcy choosing lemonade over her best friend,” she replied bitterly. “I think I’ll go to the mall and pick out a date outfit. If I can’t decide on one, expect a call from me. Don’t get raped in there. Goodbye, love.”

I shut my phone when I met afro girl’s impenetrable glare. Already, beads of sweat were forming on her brow, glistening from the dim light fixtures stationed above her head. She seemed upset with the large crowd. That being said, she must always be that way; I’d never been to Lulu’s and not seen a line out the door.

“What cha want?” she demanded in a weird accent. Well, it was weird for an Iowan.

“A small raspberry lemonade,” I replied, quickly opening my purse to pull out money. Running my hand around in the miscellaneous objects that had found their home in my purse, I discovered I’d been stupid enough to not bring cash.

Afro girl outwardly grimaced when I pulled out my checkbook.

“Who writes checks now days?” she said impatiently, her nails tapping on the black table.

Trying to ignore her lack of customer service, I quickly wrote out the check. I frowned when I realized I’d have to ask her what day it was. Then remembering there was a cat calendar posted directly behind the cash registers, I looked up to have a chilling numbness freeze up my entire body.

It felt like a punch to the stomach.

All of a sudden, my knees were buckling from under me. I scrambled desperately to grasp the table’s edge, afraid I might land in a heap on the floor. Breathing felt impossibly difficult; pain erupted in my lungs as if they were about to burst. Gasping for air, I began choking. I was on the verge of sobbing.

April 14. No, no. It had to have been a different day. It couldn’t be right. They must’ve forgotten to switch the day, they must have.

But as I stared at it more, this horror filled vision of undeniable truth, I knew it was right. I’d forgotten. How could I have possible forgotten today?!

Afro girl cocked her head sideways. Her eyes narrowed. “You having a heart attack of somethin’?”

It she meant the kind of heart attack made from painful, inevitable heartbreak, then yes.

I tried to regain my bearings. I pushed the check towards her, leaving the date blank, grasped the raspberry lemonade, and staggeringly walked away. My eyes sought out a booth, afraid the trembling in my legs might give way. The only empty one was way in the back, almost cast in shadows by how dim the flickering light bulb was above it.

Falling into the booth, I breathed deeply. It felt like I’d just run ten miles without stopping. My heart was racing inside my chest. My hands felt clammy as I padded my cheeks, trying to stop tears from falling. Closing my eyes, the stupid cat calendar displaying April 14 came back to haunt me. It was imprinted in my mind. Tattooed on my heart.

Had a year already gone by? It felt like it was only a week ago, or yesterday, or an hour since flashing red and blue lights lit up the night sky in hopes of rescue. And even after a year, a sheering pain still squeezed tightly inside my chest. My hurt was fresh, the memory terrifyingly vivid.

After several minutes of deep breathing, I allowed myself to look around. No one appeared to be paying much attention, a sight I was glad of, especially since the majority of Lulu’s customers were classmates. As if the violent rock music had been tuned out of my mind, the space around me seemed unusually and depressingly quiet. I could hear the small, quick sobs escape from my throat. I tried telling myself to calm down, but the only thing I could think of that would relive my tension was my lemonade sitting untouched on the table.

It wasn’t until my fingers slid across the table’s surface when I realized what booth I’d selected.

The table was known by a couple names. The Bitching Booth. The Tabletop Talk. Covering nearly all the black table’s surface was silver Sharpie written conversations. Some of the writing dated back to 2001, the year Lulu’s Lemonade was opened. Others could only be traced back to yesterday or a couple hours ago. Specific conversations were followed by arrows, some of which twisted and turned to nearly the other end of where the discussion had begun. Rumors, secrets, hopes, dreams, thoughts, memories all swam together in a jumble of silver squiggles.

I sipped my raspberry lemonade, deciding on adding no sugar. The bitterness of the lemonade mixed with the tangy sweetness of the raspberry lingered heavenly in my mouth.

My eyes followed random conversations. It felt very similar to eavesdropping; only these people knew the risk of putting their writing on the table. Nothing was safe here. But then again, there was no possible way of knowing specifically whose secrets you were reading.

My eyes roamed to Catching Fall Out Boy’s next gig- psyched! to You’re pulling on my heartstrings. Do I tell you I like you or not? I remembered once reading a chilling shouting match (written in all capital letters) between a couple who discovered they were both cheating on each other with the same person (as weird as that sounded), but it seemed unlikely that I’d find it again.

I was in my last few sips of lemonade when I found writing not connected to arrows. It was difficult to see, squeezed on the edge of the table and trapped between a jumble of other words. I wasn’t even sure how I’d managed to catch it. Maybe it was fate; maybe it was for some purpose. Or maybe it was just a coincidence that I’d discovered it on the one year anniversary of the worst day of my life.

In the darkness, death offers me his hand. Should I take it?