The Bad Egg

I must have been six, with pig tails, saddle shoes, knee socks and a hunter green plaid uniform jumper. I had two friends - Mary Catherine and Sarah. They were nice girls, like me, though they did not always save me a seat at the lunch table.

We ate in the auditorium, with its penitentiary-like windows and lingering Lenten fish fry smell. On rare occasions, narrow beams of palest light invaded to expose the dust mites swirling overhead. The auditorium roared with restraint at lunchtime, a buzzing cacophony of indoor voices and folding chairs scraping endlessly over wide planked wooden floors.

I had not managed to secure a safe seat among my friends that day. To my right sat Dominic DiNunzo and on my left was Kristie Fini. Between the two of them they had a smorgasbord of delectable middle class American lunch fare: bologna sandwiches on white, chocolate milk, chips, Ho-Hos.

I opened my metal Hollie Hobby lunchbox and rooted around. There was no sandwich, but a piece of European rye, an orange, and a hard-boiled egg. On the egg was a message from my mother, written carefully in number two pencil: "I love you very much." It was adorned with hearts and my mother's trademark signature, a swoopy capital "M."

Though I would have preferred an All-American spread (and an easily pronounceable, non-ethnic name) I liked hard-boiled eggs, and this one in particular heralded a sudden rush of love for Mama, at home in our kitchen doing motherly things.

Kristie Fini was first to notice it.

"What. is. THAT?"

All heads within earshot turned towards me and my hard-boiled egg, which I now clutched tightly in a sweaty little hand.

Dominic Di Nunzio chanted, "Rima has an egg! Rima has an egg!"

It was true; I could not hide it. I could only stare intently at the pock-marked table edge, trying to control a wildly quivering lip and a sudden desperate longing for my Mama, who was still the center of a world now shimmering unsteadily behind a salty fog of tears.

I wanted nothing more than to be ensconced safely with her at that moment, despite - and because of - that stupid hard-boiled egg.

This post was my contribution to this week's {W}rite of Passage Challenge, which was to describe an elementary school lunch. You can read posts from the other participants here:

A Mid-Semester Afternoon's Nightmare

During my sophomore year in college, I started pining away for a scruffy little poet who had pursued me during the previous semester’s production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. While we were in the play together, I'd been flattered by his attention, but it was kind of freaking me out, so I let him know in no uncertain terms that Snug the Carpenter and Mote the Fairy were not meant to be.

But a year after the production, I was boyfriendless, spending Saturday nights holed up in my dorm room playing Tetris and eating powdered Tang. The poet and I had an English class together, and he was growing more and more attractive. How could I have failed to notice his smashing good looks, humor, sensitivity, and wit?

I decided that he was The One.

My love was all consuming - I could think of nothing other than the day when we would finally be together. To this end, I positioned myself in all the right places at all the right times, the better for him to notice me on his way to class.

Nothing happened.

I made made sure to eat my cafeteria dinner at the same time my soul mate would be there with his friends.

Nada, except the occasional friendly nod in my direction.

I attended his poetry reading at the local coffee shop, but still my love did not approach me.

I did not wish to postpone our union any longer. Fate was fate, but I would have to give it a little nudge.

My best friend and I were sitting in our French for Business class, waiting for the perpetually late Madame Le Fevre to make her appearance when I decided that the time was ripe to make my move.

I donned my thrift store army coat, applied some lipstick, gathered my books and, with my best friend’s words of encouragement still ringing in my ears (“Are you sure you want to do this, Rim?”), vacated my desk and made for my beloved's dorm, carpe diem style. In this state of mind, could anyone be expected to compose, en francais, a letter inquiring as to the availability of the rental property in Cannes?

His window faced the quad and movement could be seen within. Without a moment’s hesitation, I launched a barrage of ill-constructed snowballs towards it and shouted my beloved's name until he popped his head outside.

“Oh, hey Rima. What’s up?”

“Can I come up for a second? I need to talk to you.”

My love threw down his keys and five minutes later, I arrived panting and sweating at his door with no use for small talk.

”So, I’ve been thinking a lot about last year, Midsummer Night’s Dream, all that stuff? And I think it was really stupid of me not to go out with you then, you know what I mean? So I was actually wondering, you know, if there's, like, any way you would give me a second chance?”

No sooner had the words escaped my lips than I realized the enormity of my mistake. My beloved stood before me wearing a look that was at once uncomfortable and unmistakably amused.

"Wow, that's, um . . . really sweet, Rima, but I . . . uh . . . have a girlfriend now."

"Oh! Shit. . . . .So, it's a "no," then?"

"Sorry things never worked out between us."

"Me too. Shit."

"I guess I'll see you around" he said to my quickly retreating back.

In retrospect, I'm not sure just what kind of response it was that I expected. It seems obvious that even if he wasn't already taken, no self-respecting guy would have played out the script I had written in my head. ("So glad you stopped by! I was just thinking about how I've never stopped loving you.")

But whether it's a testament to my healthy ego and spectacular naïveté or a cautionary tale about the futility of impromptu declarations of undying love, it ranks pretty high on the list of my most embarrassing moments.


"Mote, the Stalker Fairy"

This post was my contribution to Mrs. Flinger's Write-Of-Passage challenge. Today's assignment was to write about your most embarassing moment. You can read the other entries here: