"How I Picked Up a Penny"
A Modern Tale in Parts
First Installment
Two large pumpkin pies leave the heat of the oven and are placed on the counter. Already, the scent draws the entire family into the dining area. Everyone takes their seats around the rectangular wooden table that seats over twenty people. Framed by fancy plates, nice silverware, and napkins folded like tulips, is a feast to feed our family and the other families in the neighborhood.
My hungry eyes scan the table for the open seat that would be mine this year. For the first time, in my eighteen years of life, I would finally be allowed to sit up at the “grown-up” table. Part of this is due to the fact that my mom will always see me as her little baby, and will do anything in her power to keep me from growing up. But this year, I finally met her asinine requirements to sit at the “grown-up” table: I had to be eighteen and in college.
Every plate has an owner. There is no open space for me. My eyes narrow as I search for my Aunt Millicent, who was in charge of the seating arrangement. She is seated at the far end of the table, right next to her fourth husband. (She hasn’t been the best at maintaining a marriage. Of course, she always blames it on the men, and of course, we go along with it since it is the family thing. But we all know she is the problem.)
I rush over to her, tapping her on the shoulder until she notices me. Her blonde hair tosses over her shoulder as she looks back at me. At first, she smiles, then notes my aggravated look, instantly sending her blue eyes into a fearful state.
“Beck,” she says, picking up her fork.
“Aunt Millicent, where is my place card?” I examine the table again, to see if I might have missed it.
“Place card?”
“The fancy labels you create that have themes for each holiday, just so it can be less chaotic,” I remind.
She nods, then smiles widely at me. Her eyes go to my hand that is resting on her shoulder. Increasing her smile, to the point where it looks like it is painted on, she removes my hand and goes back to her empty plate. Her now-husband---Cyle pronounced like Kyle but spelled with a ‘C’ since my aunt is always looking for men with different and inventive names---passes her the stuffing.
“Aunt Millicent! Where am I supposed to sit?” I yell. Of all moments for me to yell, of course I choose the one where every member of my family just so happens to be simultaneously quiet. All eyes are on me, and only me, until I apologize.
“Sorry,” I remark.
Everyone goes back to passing the turkey and conversing until they partially lose their voices. Purposely, Aunt Millicent is saying anything that will keep her mouth running, to avoid anything related to a conversation with me. She plops two helpings of stuffing onto her plate. She passes it along with a nervous hum.
“Aunt Millicent,” I sing-song to remind her that I am here.
“Oh, Beck! Did you need something?” she turns around with her mouth full.
Under my breath, I slowly count to ten to prevent myself from exploding all over the Thanksgiving feast. Through my gritted teeth, “Aunt Millicent, you know exactly what I am here for. I need to know---”
“Beck, if you’re hungry, why didn’t you just say so? Grab a seat and stuff some turkey into that belly!” she cackles at the end.
“I don’t know where to sit!” I snap.
Everyone looks over at us. Aunt Millicent exchanges a look with my mother. It doesn’t take long for her to come to my Aunt’s rescue. Already, I know that she will choose my Aunt Millicent’s side since they are extremely close. As she travels to us, her eyes pierce into me.
“Beck, what is the problem?” she asks arriving at her sister’s side.
“Aunt Millicent was supposed to seat me at this table this year since I finally met your requirements and---”
“I told her to seat you at the table with the younger kids. I didn’t want you seated over here because I’m still not ready to accept the fact that my baby is in college now,” she whimpers.
Releasing an irritated breath, I agree to sit at the ‘baby table’ that is on the opposite side of the room, closest to where my grandparents are sitting. To avoid making another scene, my mom sends me off while she heads off into the other direction. I knew that if I argued, I would not only receive a speech from her, but from every one of my family members on how thankful I should be that I’m just here with my family.
Uncle Spencer would shout, “It’s just a seat! Nothing to throw a hissy fit over.”
My cousin Alayna, who is only a week older than me, would add, “Yeah, sit at the ‘baby table’ where you belong.” My family has a tendency to run their mouths.
When I arrive at the ‘baby table’, or how my mom would say to make me feel better ‘the table of mixed youths,’ I can’t even form a smile. The cast of the table consists of my younger cousins: Mitch, Meredith, Chloe, Tyler, and the one who only goes by Dinosaur, since apparently he is one.
There at the end of the table, on a paper plate, is the place card I was looking for. Only, it’s in crayon with half the letters of my name backward. They all cheer my name and tell me take a seat. They already have their plates filled with their turkey intricately cut into bite-sized pieces. They prompt me to sit in the seat at the end of the table.
I remove my place card from my paper plate that has autumn leaves around the rim. To make matters worse, my mom comes over and slides bits of turkey from her plate onto mine. More than irritated, I groan, “I could have done that myself.”
“Sure you could Beckers.” She rubs my head, then proceeds to put other food on my plate.
On the last piece of food that she piles on my plate, she whispers, “Make sure to keep your cousins occupied, we don’t want them to run up to the table and interrupt our conversations.” She warmly smiles at me then scurries back to the table. Not only do I have to sit here and eat with them, but I have to interact with them. How am I supposed to keep them occupied and not to run to their mothers?
Already they have begun a mini food fight. Dinosaur’s celery stick lands in my stuffing; he’s an herbivore. This is going to be the best Thanksgiving ever.
They all continue with their childish games, purposely speaking in their made-up language so I wouldn’t understand them. What gave them the impression that I wanted to? After I place two bite-sized bits into my mouth, I look over at the glorious “grown-up table.” My mother is glaring at me, angry over the fact that I am not keeping them in line.
Rolling my eyes, I take her hint, and looking at each of them as I state their names, suggest, “Mitch, Meredith, Chloe, Tyler, and Dinosaur, why don’t we play a game?”
“A game?” they ask with their eyes lighting up.
“Yes! Let’s play the Quiet Game,” I say in an elated tone that will hopefully trick their young minds.
“Boring!!!!!!!” they complain.
Each of them “brings” a game to the table. Tyler’s game is to find a way under the table and tie people’s shoelaces together. Meredith and Mitch want to have a talent show to show off their twin telepathy powers. Chloe wants to have an eating contest. As for Dinosaur, he wants to play a trivia game about his kind. A game wasn’t going to do the trick.
“Alright . . . does anyone have any other ideas?” I ask, relieved that they are calmer when they think.
They all set their forks down and put their thinking faces on.
After a minute, they all exchange looks then stare at me simultaneously. Chloe questions, “Do we have to sit at this table or are we allowed to get up?”
“No, we are sitting down and enjoying our Thanksgiving meal during the game,” I conclude only to earn groans from them.
“There is no game on Earth that allows us to eat and play at the same time!” Tyler overexaggerates.
“Alright! Why don’t we just have a casual meal and make small talk,” I suggest.
“You do realize we are in elementary school, right? We aren’t adults,” Meredith reminds in her I-know-everything tone.
“Plus that’s boring!” Chloe whines.
I then say without acknowledging my own words, “Fine, how would you all like to hear a story?”
Surprisingly, their eyes light up, and they encourage me to tell a story. However, they want to add their own ideas to the story I am going to tell. Due to them all spitting out ideas at once, I only pick out pieces. I hear something about magic, dinosaurs, dancing food, and a fairytale.
I talk over them, “I’m going to pick the story.” After a roll of their eyes, and unsynced groans, they agree to let me tell the story as long as it is interesting. They stare at me wide-eyed anticipating for me to begin. Staring at my turkey, I think of a story that will occupy their minds.
“How about a story about picking up a penny?” I say without realizing I said it out loud.
They all bust out laughing. Tyler pulls out a penny from his pocket, and tosses it off to the side. He tells me to watch closely as he thoroughly explains each step as he goes to pick up the penny. Once he returns to the table, he cackles at me, and says I need to think of a new story. The rest of my cousins join in on taunting me with their laughter.
“My story wouldn’t be anything like that,” I mimic in my best impression of a little kid.
Dinosaur remarks, “Sure it wouldn’t.”
I interrupt their laughter, “Alright, short stacks, put your lips together. I’m going to tell you a story; the story of how I picked up a penny.”
