Laura at the coffee shop
It's the end of another school day, and I dread going home. If I step on that bus, I am trapped. Whether I like it or not, I will be at the end of my block within a half hour.
So I deliberately allow the bus to leave without me. It is nicer here after they are gone.
There is a chill in the air but I am wearing my coat. Winter is my favorite season. Only the silliest of girls still refuse to cover their arms and legs. I dress to hide any part of my body that could attract notice, but my unusual desire to hide myself is less evident during the winter.
My coat will be useful to me today. Night will have fallen before I return home.
It occurs to me that a warm drink would also be useful. I know there is a cafe down the street from the ice cream place, that is popular with the other students. I have heard about it on the Internet. I know my mother likes to go there.
I am curious. I don't like the coffee my mother makes at home, but this could be different, if all teenagers like it. I don't always like everything they like, but perhaps this is worth a try. Perhaps there is something for me there. Perhaps there are people there - for me to watch - people - besides all of the students who are only there to be hip. Maybe there are writers . . . artists . . . even business men or college students.
So, with caution, I set off. I don't take the direct route to the cafe. First I go to the park, to see if any ducks are on the lake. None are, so I pick a cattail, nearly soaking my feet, and tear it to pieces. Then, I feel ready for the cafe.
I wonder as I open the door, if the two girls will be there. It seems like an appropriate place for a date. But as I go in, I understand why they are not here. I can identify five or six students from the school, four of which comprise prominent heterosexual couples. Another three students come in behind me. I allow them to go ahead of me, because I'm having difficulty understanding the menu.
What is the difference between a cappuccino and a frappecino? And what is a java bean? And whose idea was it to put syrup in the coffee? I know latte means milk in some language or another, but at places such as these, could you really be sure that was what they would give you? Places where small things are called tall can't be trusted to name things.
The tea looks like it could be a safe purchase, but I'm still unsure, since I've never had black tea or green tea. The tea I have had has always been light brown in color. But there is no light brown tea here. If there was, I don't know if I would want it, since none of the light brown tea I have had has been any good.
I wonder what espresso is, if it is expressive. Or perhaps it is something that is pressed. That it comes in shots makes me wonder if it is alcoholic.
A plain coffee seems like the safest thing to order. It is, after all, a cafe.
Then it comes time to tell the man what I want. I don't usually think much about ordering things. Most people become automatons when placed behind a counter. Smiling or scowling, it's all the same.
But I recognize this boy. He graduated from my school a year ago. He was one of Agnes's friends. He used to bring rabbits to school and set them loose in the gym, where they would breed.
So I have difficulty approaching him. I turn around and leave, without the coffee.
As I walk past the ice cream place on the way home, I glance through the glass window. The two girls are there, with their ice creams, shivering and holding hands beneath the table.
co-written, Lo and Nadia