A Finger Trap
By Martha “Cati” Pudner, 2nd Year ETA
There are not enough chairs in our cafeteria, but two are always left empty. They sit loyally to either side of a certain student, leaving a thick, telling slice of space in a sea of crammed bodies. I tap her while passing to wave, and she doesn’t look up. I carry on to the teachers’ table, scolding myself for drawing attention to her. Maybe she likes to believe it goes unnoticed.
Soon after I sit down, a group of my peers approaches in a single file. A-line dresses flow like blooming petals in the breeze behind them. They sit a couple of chairs away. I steal quick glances as their remaining food diminishes, trying to correctly time a gap between our leaving. I believe I’m successful until I reach a nearby coffee shop and find them inside. The group faces each other in a lively circle and their conversation bounces against the coffee shop’s walls. They acknowledge me with a bow, but the circle stays shut. When the barista calls our drinks, mine is placed conspicuously to the side.
As I pass them to approach the counter, my skin grows hot. I imagine pairs of eyes studying me. Has the tray I’m holding suddenly become slippery? I try to gaze coolly in front of me as I head to my table. The teachers’ laughter swirls around the room and twists to avoid the air around me. I feel as if I’m throwing off the carefully curated aesthetic of the cafe, as if I’m an unmatched piece of furniture sticking out sorely.
I can feel the self-consciousness slowly rise in my body, and I know it will make my movements unnatural and my steps clumsy. I hold my breath, seizing myself into stillness as if against a beast waiting to pounce. I’m hoping it loses interest, forgets I exist and saunters away on its own. It remains persistent. Frustrated, I push against it with all my force. It latches on like a kitten being pulled from where it is laying, sinking its claws into my chest. It does not give.
The familiarness of this process makes it all the more frustrating. It has the acute feeling of trying to lift your feet off the ground by your ankles, tugging ferociously against a law of physics. With agitation, I stare out the window. A vague image rises dimly in my mind: a memory of an old childhood prop. It holds a suggestion to me, and I tentatively reach out to it.
I drop the resistance and fall into the emotion. I invite it to swell up with its strength and course through my blood without restraint. Gradually, its demeanor changes and it welcomes me with open arms, like a wave sweeping me up and pulling me to its chest. All at once, I am swallowed and dissolve into the streams of light coming in the window, filling the space between me and the others. My vision is crisp, and my feet dance a couple inches from the ground. But habit hung on my arms like a jealous child, and as quickly as I rose, it pulls me back to earth.
The next day at lunch, I see my student sitting alone again. Something has changed: either she or the world around her has transformed. Her face is perfectly calm; her skin breathes fully. Her hair fans out around her, and her feet are inches from the floor. She is still and strong as the water that towers on either side of her. It is as if she has parted this sea on her own. Her silence rings louder than all the surrounding chatter; it clings to my ears.
I watch all this for a moment in newfound recognition. How did I not see it before? Then, suddenly afraid someone is watching, I drop my eyes to the ground and hasten away.
[Featured photo by Tansica Sunkamaneevongse]
