Chapter Five: Just Shut Up and Drink Your Tea

      “A motorcycle?”

      “Please don’t tell me that you’re one of those loser girls who’s going to refuse to get on it because you’re scared or some shit like that,” Luke groaned, already hopping onto the vehicle.

      “I’m not,” I said, not yet mounting the bike, for I was still admiring it. It was such an interesting object. In my book, motorcycles were the epitome of cool. There was something about them that drew me in. Maybe it was the aspects of danger and elicitation that came along with them that made them so alluring. In my dismal world, however, they were forbidden, and it sucked. “I like motorcycles. I bought one a few months back, actually.”

      “So, you have one?” he questioned, his interest materializing.

      “No,” I shook my head, the melancholy memory filling me. “When my parents got the bill for it, they made me return it.” A sigh escaped my lips as I thought back to my mother’s overreaction. One would’ve thought that I had announced to the world that I was moving away to Spain (boring country—too much Spanish) to become a hobo with the type of response she gave. It was amusing, but I got my bike taken away, so nothing good really resulted except for getting a rise out of Elle. I laughed lightly, continuing to speak, “But, on the bright side, I did learn a very important lesson from the whole experience.”

      “And what would that be?” he intersected his arms across his chest.

      “Always pay in cash,” I smirked, “it’s less traceable.”

      “Very true,” he nodded, matching my expression. “So, are you going to get on, or are you going to break down, crying, and admit that you’re truly terrified?”

      “It’s a motorcycle, not my maternal grandmother—there’s no reason for me to be scared of it,” I rolled my eyes, moving closer over to the motorized machine. Swinging a leg over the base, I situated myself rightly on the seat, so that I was behind Luke, though not yet making contact with him.

      “I don’t feel like getting into a disagreement about you not wanting to hold onto me, because, believe me, it’s a lie, and if you don’t hold onto me, you’ll fall off, and possibly die,” he stated, his case rather valid. It wasn’t the type of thing that was going to win an argument on a debate team, but it was still pretty damn persuasive, nonetheless.

      “I wasn’t planning on initiating an dispute of the sort,” I returned, cautiously placing my arms so that they circled around his leather-clad torso. My grip was snug enough so that I wouldn’t fall off, but loose enough so that my basic mentality of my personal boundaries was still marginally met.

      “Ready?” he called, starting the engine so that it revved, my body vibrating along with everything else to which I was connected.

      “Do you know where you’re going?” I asked anxiously.

      “Yeah, that café—I pass it every day on the way to school. Never gone it, though,” he remarked.

      “Well, then I suppose this will be a new experience for the both of us,” I mused.

      “How? You’ve been there before,” he grunted.

      “Yeah, but never with a poser…like you,” I smirked at my words. In response, Luke decided to do the mature thing and jet out of the school’s parking lot as fast as he could, causing me to hold on tighter to him, so that I didn’t fall off. What a sweetheart …in an alternate universe, of course.

      The ride to the café wasn’t a long one—on the contrary, really. It was about a thirty minute walk from the school on most days, and only took about a seven minute drive. On the motorcycle, however, it amounted to around twelve agonizingly long minutes, for Luke decided to take only back roads, as if he actually knew where we were going. He could’ve taken the more direct route, but, no, he had to do things the hard way.

      When we finally did reach the small café, however, I felt like I was home. Well, sort of. Whenever I returned to my house, I didn’t get this warm feeling of familiarity, but rather sentiments of angst in regards to having to interact with my parents (more my mother). In a sense, it was my home, but there was something about it that didn’t feel homey. People were barely there, and the place was always so sanitary that one could probably lick the floor, only to fear infecting it with their uncleanliness. It was just a large building in which I felt safe, unlike the café.

      The café was a place I had discovered as a freshman, almost three years ago. I was walking “home” from school one day (my mom was supposed to pick me up, but something came up—as always), and got a little sidetracked. It wasn’t intended to be a long journey, for the distance between the two places amounted to less than a mile, almost twenty minutes if one was walking—as I had been. Somehow, I took a wrong turn somewhere and ended up on this street full of boutiques and other forms of civilization. That was when I saw the café.

      It was amidst the collected chaos that was the strip of shops, and something about it stood out to me. Maybe it was the name, or the way the afternoon light projected on the striped awning overhead. There was a large, wooden sign above it that read “Placidi-Tea.” The name was clever, for the correctly spelled word, “placidity”, was one of an obscure nature. It wasn’t the type of thing people went around saying on a regular basis. Having somehow acquired a love of words over the years, I knew that it was along the lines of “calm” and “serene.” It wasn’t your average Starbucks, of that, I was sure.

      Something possessed me to take a detour into the small café with the promise of tea, temporarily postponing my attempt in getting home. I crossed the quiet street in no time, and then came to the transparent entrance of the place on which I had set my mind. A light jingling met my ears as I pulled open the door. I glanced up and saw bells, most likely to alert the counter staff of new customers. As I took my first few steps inside the cozy café, I knew that I was going to like it.

      There was the soft sound of indie music drifting about, barely above a gentle hum, but still discernable. The only types of tables that were deployed within were of a circular nature, which I liked. Squares and rectangles always gave me a bad vibe, for they had corners and were simply too precise and rigid for me. With circles, they had no end and went on in a round loop for what appeared to be eternity. Set up at each table were two stools that would probably cause back problems if one were to sit in them enough, but they still managed to work with the calm, spherical ambiance.

      Near the back wall was an L-shaped counter of sorts with a long row of the backless chairs running beneath it. It too had curved edges, and a metallic cash register positioned on top. Behind the counter was everything one would expect to find in a teashop. It had machines and kettles and a window of edible-looking pastries. On the wall behind was a black chalkboard—which served as a menu—with everything that was offered, scribbled in legible, pastel writing. A coat of earthy-green paint encompassed all four walls of the place, the ceiling a contrasting peachy tone with overhead lamps that were dimmed slightly. It looked like the type of place that lived for rainy weather, for it had the same soothing effect that water droplets of precipitation did.

      Behind the back counter was a girl in a muted brown apron with a book in her hand and a beanie on her head. She had pallid blonde hair and equally as pale skin. Her stature was small, and her brows were scrunched as she stared deeply down at the bound papers in her hand. She looked to be about a junior or senior in high school. As I approached, her head instantly snapped up and she placed on a rehearsed yet real smile, uttering words I was more than sure she had said over a hundred times. “Hey, welcome to Placidi-Tea, how can I help you?”

      “Can I have a cup of green tea, please?” I had requested after briefly glimpsing at my other options.

      “Anything else?” she asked as I glanced at her nametag: Keren. Not Karen, but Keren—with an “E.” It was pretty.

      I shook my head no, and then, as I withdrew my money from my backpack, I decided to be rather sociable and ask a question that I knew would nagging me if I didn’t. “Um, what’s your name mean?”

      A light grin floated to her edges of her mouth as the words departed from my lips. “Keren. It means ‘ray.’ What does your name mean?” she shot back, beginning to pour my beverage.

      “I don’t know,” I had replied truthfully.

      “And what would that name with an unknown meaning be?” she inquired, handing me a warm paper cup.

      “Olivia,” I said, blowing on the top of the vessel.

      “Well, Olivia, I haven’t seen you around before. Is this your first time here?” I nodded, signifying the affirmative. “Put your bag down, stay a while.”

      Tentatively, I dropped my backpack to the ground, and sat down on one of the stools, placing my tea on the counter as I extracted my notebook and a pencil. The girl observed me warily for a moment, before shaking her head and returning to the original task she had been doing before our encounter: reading. I didn’t recognize the title of the story that she was reading, and my spurt of amiability had vanished, so didn’t bother asking.

      There were a few other patrons seated about the café, all quiet except for the occasional conversation via a phone. As everything around me began to soak in, I took a leisurely sip of my tea, and began to draw. Everything about the atmosphere felt suspended—as if the outside world was temporarily taking a break. As the name of the place had implied, it was definitely placid, and also happened to be liked by one Olivia Ross.

      “So, are we going to go in, or are you just going to stand there, staring off into space?” Luke asked, steering me away from reminiscent thoughts. Without a word, I merely went over to the door, gradually jerking it open to generate a familiar chiming noise I had heard countless times before. Luke caught it, following me into the shop shortly after.

      A strong smell of herbs and spices to which I was accustomed wafted into my nostrils, and I smiled at the customary scene that came into sight. Nothing substantial about the appearance of the café had changed since the first time I had ventured in as an innocent freshman. The furniture had aged slightly, and coffee had made more of a presence, but, otherwise, it had remained virtually the same.

      “Hey, welcome to Placiti—oh, it’s you again,” Keren said playfully as Luke and I advanced towards the counter. The girl who now attended a community college in the area and was working towards a creative writing degree did a quick once-over of Luke, a small grin meeting her lips as she then looked over to me in an accusing manner. “Well, you’re certainly not Piper or Preston.”

      “Uh, I’m Luke,” Luke introduced himself.

      “Well, welcome to Placidi-Tea,” she smiled at him. “So, what can I get for you two, today?”

      “Two green teas,” I said, not even bothering to ask what Luke wanted. It was his choice to come with me, so he pretty much lost all rights when deciding to do so.

      “Coming right up,” Keren said, taking one last, lingering look at Luke before dispersing to get our drinks.

      “I don’t drink tea,” Luke said flatly, his eyes trained on Keren the entire time.

      “I don’t like talking to people,” I stated, equally as impassively.

      “What’s your point?” he grunted as Keren reappeared, handing each of us a steaming cup of the herbal decoction.

      “We all have to do thinks that we don’t like,” I told him, reaching into my back pocket and extracting a cotton and paper blend of currency. I handed the bill over to Keren, and she accepted it, giving me back the correct amount of change.

      “Did you just pay for mine?” Luke questioned guardedly.

      “Yeah,” I nodded, waving to Keren as I led him over to a corner table, not near any other consumer.

      “Here, I’ll pay you back,” he started to get what I assumed to be his wallet.

      I put up my free hand, signifying that he should stop. “Chill, it’s fine. It was two dollars, and it’s fake money, anyways,” I told him, sitting myself down on a round seat.

      Warily, he copied my actions, gazing at me hesitantly. “How is it ‘fake’ money?”

      “You’re kidding, right?” I scoffed. “It’s not my money, it’s my parents, therefor proving to be fake.”

      “Then I’ll pay them back,” he muttered with an eye roll.

      “Knock yourself out,” I returned sarcastically, beginning to reach for my notebook that was within my backpack, but, this time, he was the one to prevent me from doing so.

      “Don’t you dare get that book out,” he threatened with a dark laugh.

      “And why not?” I crossed my arms over my chest, not having yet taken a sip of my tea.

      “Because you’re going to act like a ‘normal’ person and talk to me, that’s why,” he shot back.

      “I don’t want to.”

      “We all have to do thinks that we don’t like,” he mocked with a reiteration of my own words. He leaned in, cautiously taking a large gulp of his beverage that had been brewed not even five minutes prior, so was still scorching. I tried to conceal my laughter as he immediately spit out the flavored water, a torrent of colorful words not generally welcome in public gushing from his mouth after doing so. “What the hell is this?”

      “Green tea,” I said with a smirk, blowing on my own liquid before slowly swallowing some of it. “It’s an acquired taste.”

      “Damn right, it is!” he wiped his mouth, sticking out his tongue to show his evident aversion. “It tastes like crap!”

      “To you, maybe,” I shrugged, taking another gradual mouthful. Personally, I loved tea. Green tea was one of my favorites. Tea, in a way, was almost like music. Some people liked pop, while others preferred rap or country. It was all an individual matter. To me, tea—green tea especially—was one of my go-to drinks. I wasn’t a fan of coffee, for it was simply too strong for me, but there was something about tea that had a palliative effect, while still tasting palatable. I liked tea.

      “To me, definitely,” he corrected, pushing his paper cup as far away from him as possible on the small surface area of the tabletop.

      “You wanted to come with me, and I told you that we’d be drinking tea—you could’ve walked away,” I noted.

      “You’re right,” he nodded, “it was poor judgment on my part.”

      “That it was,” I agreed. “Why did you even want to come me in the first place?”

      “I’ve said it before, and I’ll it again: I want to get to know you, Olivia Ross,” he said earnestly, his steely eyes transfixed on my own irises of a deep brown.

      “I don’t understand why, though!” I exclaimed, throwing my hands up to add emphasis as I broke the intensity of the gaze.

      “Neither do I,” he mumbled. “So, let’s talk. Why do you come here?”

      “Are you planning on asking me more questions than in a job interview?” I fired back calmly.

      “We’ll take turns, does that work?” he proposed.

      “Whatever,” I shrugged indifferently. “I come here because I like it, I won’t run into people from school, and I feel emotionally secure here. My turn,” I finished, racking my brain for something that I could ask him. “When did you get your motorcycle?”

      “The second I turned sixteen,” he answered easily. “What are you doing Saturday?”

      “Why do you care?” I snorted.

      “Why won’t you answer?” he smirked back confidently.

      “Because you don’t need to know,” I replied, aware of how defensive my voice was growing.

      “What, are you going to the country club to have brunch with your mommy and daddy?” he teased, though I didn’t find his guess even remotely humorous.

      “Did you, by chance, happen to steal my mom’s planner to gain that classified information?” I inquired, only somewhat serious.

      “Wait, what?” his face grew confused.

      “How’d you know that I was going to the country club to have brunch with my family on Saturday?” I asked, taking a different stance. “Oh, and it’s not just with my parents, by the way.”

      “You’re seriously spending your Saturday at a country club, eating sandwiches and drinking champagne, with your family?” his expression was amused.

      “Unfortunately, yes,” I admitted grudgingly. “My grandparents are in town, and in order to see them, I’m being forced into the place that breeds preps like they’re puppies.”

      Though my mom had claimed on many an occasion to detest the institutions that were considered to be “country clubs”, my father and his parents quite liked the places made to show off money and conduct business dealings. Thus, my parents were somehow members of a club as old as dirt, at my grandparents’ request, of course. Every time the elderly couple was in town, they liked having a nice, conservative meal in which I wanted to hammer my brains out due to the environment in which it was served.

      Now, my grandparents, on the other hand, I actually liked. Despite being old, they were cool. My grandma used to be an interior designer, and still dressed like she was forty, while my grandpa was witty, though on the insanely traditional side. Danni and Dean. They refused that I call them anything but their first names when talking to them—the reason I had adopted calling my parents by their first names, as well. For grandparents, and people in general, Danni and Dean were pretty epic. They were the type of people that I wouldn’t mind getting trapped in a room with for an undetermined amount of time.

      “Are you going to wear a dress?” Luke inquired smugly.

      “Yep,” I snapped, his smirk only growing wider as my mood turned bitter. I determined that it was my turn to ask him something, so chose my query in the hopes to cause him irritation. “Why do you want people to think that you’re a ‘bad boy’?”

      “Because I am,” he snorted as if it was obvious. “So, if you’re busy on Saturday sipping martinis with the rich folk, what are you doing on Sunday? Flying to Paris for the day?”

      “Wow! You’re really good at this whole guessing game!” I remarked with a hint of cynicism seeping through to my vocal chords.

      “Wait, really?” his eyes grew wide.

      “No,” I laughed. “If you’re so persistent on being a ‘bad boy’, how many cars have you stolen?”

      “Five.”

      “Really?”

      “No,” he laughed in a jeering manner.

      “Just shut up and drink your tea,” I muttered, wondering how I had landed myself in this particular situation. I was at my favorite café, with a poser, verbally communicating, as I sipped green tea. Well, this certainly wasn’t what I had expected to be doing when I woke this morning…