Alfie's Gut

“Go with my gut. Go with my gut.”

Alfie stands at the entrance to the cafeteria, repeating the words like a mantra. Though she’s not quite sure she understands, exactly, what it means to go with her gut.

She takes a deep breath, staring down at her bright yellow Converse. They aren’t new, but she washed them for this occasion. Even took the laces out and washed those. She didn’t want to take any chances on her first day in a new school.

And yet, she would have to. She doesn’t know anyone. You can work around that in the classroom - just sit where the teacher shows you and talk to your assigned neighbor. But the cafeteria is a different game.

“Go with my gut. Go with my gut,” Alfie whispers to herself. Still looking at her shoes, she squeezes the strap of the lunch bag in her hands and takes another deep breath.

Even her lunch was thought through, planned out. No hot lunch: too risky. Navigating the trays and the lines and all that? Not on her first day. No thank you. No brown paper bag: not her style. Though her reusable lunch tote with mermaids floating alongside walruses and narwhals may not be the coolest option for a 6th grader, she just couldn’t part ways with it.

And inside the bag, something simple. Not smelly leftovers or anything to make her stand out any more than she already would as the new kid. It was a tough negotiation with her mom, but they agreed on a thermos of chili, an apple, a granola bar and a pack of fruit snacks, with her refillable water bottle, of course. Average leaning toward boring. The chili was different, but not too crazy.

One more deep breath and she looks up, taking in all the action and noise of the Lakeside Middle School cafeteria.

It wasn’t like in the movies. She couldn’t tell which table held the sports kids or where the drama club sat. 

She knew couldn’t stand at the entry way any longer. Three deep breaths was long enough. She just had to dive in and find a place to sit.

Only in her head now: Go with my gut. Go with my gut.

As she slowly walks into the cafeteria, her mind flashes back to the night before, talking through this moment with her mom at bedtime.

“What about lunchtime?” Alfie is sitting in her bed, comforter pulled up over her legs, her favorite penguin stuffed animal in her arms. She’s had Puffy Penguin for as long as she can remember. It’s the kind of thing only your really best friends know about. The fluff has rubbed off in some places, the once white belly is gray now. But she loves Puffy and he’s her comfort in moments like this.

“I thought we already agreed on what you’ll pack for lunch,” Mom said. Alfie could hear she was tired. Tired of trying to keep her daughter positive and excited about her first day at a new school, but also exhausted from moving and getting everyone settled into the new house.

“No, I mean, yeah we did,” Alfie’s not sure how to explain herself. “What I mean is, where will I sit? How will I know where to sit?”

Mom scooched closer and stroked Alfie’s short dark hair gently. “I’m sure you’ll find a place to sit.”

Alfie sighed. That wasn’t helpful. She looked down at Puffy with her shoulders slumped.

Mom paused, knowing she had to do more to reassure Alfie. “That’s a tough one,” she conceded. “I guess, just go with your gut?”

“Go with my gut?” Mom nodded, still stroking Alfie’s hair. “But how do I know? How do I know what my gut wants?”

Mom brought her hands to her lap. “I can’t really explain it, sweetie. You just get this feeling inside you. Like you somehow just know when something is right. Or when something is wrong.”

“Like when I sneak a cookie after you tell me no more desserts for the night?” Alfie asks, only half in jest.

“After you what?” Mom feints surprise at this well-known act of late night thievery. Mom smiles and sighs at the same time. “No, it’s different. In that case, you know something is wrong because it’s clearly wrong. Because I told you it was. With your gut, there’s usually not a clear answer.”

“Right. Like where I should sit at lunch.” Alfie felt like she was back at square one. No closer to figuring out where she would sit at lunch the next day.

“Right,” Mom agreed. 

Alfie waited for her to say more. To give some real motherly advice. But it became clear none was coming.

“Go with my gut?” Alfie asked, looking back up at her mom.

Mom gave a firm nod. “Go with your gut. You’ll know. You’ll just… know.” She gave Alfie a kiss and left the room.

Alfie’s mind zips back to her present situation as she approaches the first table in the cafeteria. All boys and totally full. Easy enough to pass that one up.

“Go with my gut,” she continues to think.

At the next table, she can see kids huddled around some kind of game. Alfie tries to see what it is, craning her next, walking on her tiptoes. She can’t tell. That doesn’t feel like the table for her. Is that her gut?

She keeps walking. The next table looks promising: not too crowded, a mix of girls and boys, she even sees one girl wearing a sweater she also has. This table feels promising.

Alfie approaches the table with a smile. A few of the kids turn to look at her. None smile back.

“Hi, I’m Alfie,” she says tentatively.

The kids who had looked at Alfie now turn to look at a girl with long brown hair, sitting near the middle of the table. There’s a small braid on one side of her hair that bounces as she flips her hair to look at Alfie. Her blue eyes narrow as she looks quickly at Alfie and her mermaid lunch bag before turning back to her own lunch and resuming her only briefly paused conversation, braid bouncing again as she flips her hair back.

Alfie looks down to her shoes and walks away. “Where were you there, gut?” she mutters to herself.

She takes another deep breath and does her best to gather her courage. She has to sit somewhere. She has to eat lunch. “Alright, gut, one more chance,” she thinks. 

Alfie cuts between tables to another aisle and scans the area. Her lips are moving, sound barely escaping as she whispers, “Go with my gut. Go with my gut.”

Then she feels it. She feels it in her gut because she sees it, too. A table with mostly girls and a few boys. Plenty of kids, but some open spots. She can see two kids at the table wearing Converse. Then, the clincher: one girl has a lunch box just like hers but with unicorns prancing alongside foxes and chipmunks.

Alfie approaches the table and says in a clear, confident voice, “Hi. Mind if I sit here?”

She’s greeted with smiles and a chorus of yeah’s and definitely’s. Alfie smiles back and takes a seat next to the girl with the unicorn lunch bag. Alfie places her mermaid lunch bag right next to it.

“Whoa, love your lunch bag!” the girl says.

“Thanks. Yours is great, too,” Alfie says. “I’m Alfie.”

The kids go around introducing themselves. Alfie can barely pay attention. All she can do is smile and think, “Way to go, gut.”