(That’s a lie. I know exactly where it started. The Museum of the American Revolution in Philadelphia. Pretty cool museum, to be honest. I thought it was going to be like the same old crap we’ve been learning about the Revolutionary War since we were like six years old or whatever, but it wasn’t. I learned a lot there.
Honestly, why do they even bother teaching us the Rev War in school? Just shred the textbooks and send every kid to the museum. Museums tell stories so much better than textbooks do. And that’s what history is, isn’t it? It’s just a really big story. That’s what makes it important. And museums get that. Textbooks don’t.
I have feelings about museums. And history. Apparently.
Anyway. That’s where it started.)
I saw this teapot.
No Stamp Act.
I laughed, aloud, right there in the museum, at this little teapot with those words.
Like, I get it. You throw out the tea, but also you still want tea, but you want to be subversive and edgy, so you put what was the equivalent of an anarchist bumper sticker on your teapot. It was like the eighteenth-century version of keyboard activism. Cheeky, but not really productive. Still buying the tea with all that tax from England, right?
I don’t know why—maybe it’s the part where I got it—the throwing out the tea, but needing the tea, but wanting to subvert the whole shebang—but I needed the teapot. They didn’t have it in their gift shop so I bought it online.
My mom stared at me, and then at my teapot when it arrived.
“I didn’t even know you liked tea,” she said at last.
“You don’t know a lot of things about me,” I said. I meant it to sound mysterious but mostly it sounded super defensive.
There’s something about my mom that always makes me sound super defensive.
She opened her mouth to say something, and then shut it. She tried again. “I’ll buy you some good loose leaf tomorrow.”
I had no idea what she was talking about but said, “Thanks,” because it seemed like the right thing. She was trying and I was trying and we were both failing, but it was the thought that counted, right? That’s what I was told for years. I’d be pissed if it turned out it wasn’t true. A for effort and all of that.
Anyway.
That was just the first teapot.
Then I bought one online that had an anarchist A slashed over it, but on a teapot made in China.
I’m not even sure the maker had any idea how ironic that was.
The third teapot got a little macabre. My mom made a face when I unpacked it. It had one of those old-timey paintings of a dutiful housewife, and she’s smiling as she slides a plate onto the table. Only on the plate is a man’s head. He’s smiling too, like everything’s great. The text says Serving the Patriarchy with a Smile.
“Rory,” Mom started.
I stared at her.
She stared back at me.
She sighed. “It’s a little violent, don’t you think? For a teapot?”
I did not say, That’s the point, even though that was in fact the entire point. What I said was, “It’s just a teapot.”
(It’s not just a teapot. You know that. I know that. My mom knows that.)
Anyway.
It turns out that “loose leaf” was tea not in those little bags. It never really occurred to me that you could buy tea that wasn’t already pre-portioned out for you. It made sense once I thought about it—I mean, obviously the people dumping the tea in the Boston Harbor weren’t dumping little satchels of tea—but it just wasn’t one of those things I thought about, you know?
The one Mom got me was good, so I asked her where she got it and she said, “That little tea shop in town.”
I did not know we had a little tea shop, but of course we did. Sometime between freshman and senior year, I realized that the little run-down “too far off the main highway for city folk” town I’d grown up in had become chic. Trendy. Instagrammable. So I should have guessed we had a TEA SHOP now. Like a proper tea shop with little teacups, and little tasting cups, and flavors with names like Vanilla Sunrise.
Vanilla Sunrise. These things don’t go together!
But when I taste it, it’s not so bad.
I’m getting ahead of myself.
I went because I wanted more tea, even though I didn’t know if I liked tea, or wanted to like tea, or just liked the act of making tea. When I stepped up the small marble step into the shop, the doorbell tinkled behind me and it was weird, because it was such a cheerful noise and I wasn’t feeling cheerful. I was feeling—apprehensive?
I don’t know what I expected but I guess something that felt like it was from a Pride & Prejudice set, or something? I don’t know! I’ve never been in a tea shop before! How do you form expectations about something with which you are completely unfamiliar?
A girl with glossy red hair—natural, I think—cut into a bob with a black bedazzled headband and a soft little black feather looks up from the register where she’s stickering teapot boxes and chirps at me, “Welcome to Indy Tea Shop! Revolutions in a cup!”
I consider walking back out. No one should be this cheerful. Or pretty.
I can’t make eye contact with her.
“Can I help you with anything?” she asks, like she doesn’t notice how awkward I am.
“No,” I mumble. “I’m good.”
“Okay!” She is practically bouncing with every word. “Let me know if you have any questions!”
Each tea is in a little tin, silver with a dusty rose-pink ribbon around it, and pretty matte silver labels. In front of each tin, tea leaves sit in a little glass dish. I’m not sure what the purpose of that is, but I sniff a few and they smell good. Maybe I should do that in my room. It does smell funky. And laundry’s a drag. I don’t know if tea can help with it, but maybe.
There’s a collection of teacups in the corner and I examine them, but they’re mostly really pretty flower patterns and gold edges. There are a few that say, “Tea is the most important thing,” but none of them are really connecting with me. I keep wandering until I reach a back room where there are more gift ideas. Another employee’s back there, rearranging oven mitts and tea towels and—teapots. And teapots. Shelves and shelves of teapots.
“Oh,” I breathe out before I can stop myself.
The employee jumps, turning around to look at me. A bright blue name tag says LANE. I look at Lane. Lane looks back at me. We stand there, frozen in this weird time warp, staring at each other. Lane’s tall with medium brown skin, short dark hair, a chiseled jaw, a full mouth, and big brown eyes. Taller than me by at least two inches. Maybe six.
I am bad at guessing height and we’re across the room from each other, but I’m pretty sure that Lane could drape an arm over my shoulders comfortably. I don’t know why I’m thinking about that but it’s the first thought that pops into my head. That Lane looks comfortable. Standing there, looking at me. Just existing there, like it’s easy.
I blink again, and Lane scowls. “Can I help you?”
I look away, like a coward. “Just looking at teapots.”
“Lane,” hisses the perky girl at the counter, and the way she says it, I know it’s a rebuke for Lane’s tone.
They, I assign Lane in my head. It feels...strange. Uncomfortable. Like it makes my tongue thick in my mouth. I can’t swallow. How can they just stand there, like this, without wanting to crawl out of their skin? Without wondering what the chipper girl thinks of them?
“They were staring,” Lane mutters as they pass me back into the main room of the tea shop.
My head jerks up and I stare, wide-eyed, at a teapot depicting Amelia Earhart riding a dinosaur. THEY. They used they for me.
“What?” I say, before I can stop myself.
I turn, and so does Lane. They frown, tilt their head, and then soften, their whole body slumping down. “O
h. You—ah. I see.” They consider me for another brief moment, then nod. “I get it. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you.”
What do they see? I try to make the words form in my mouth, but my head’s buzzing too much for me to find the sounds. I make myself swallow and clear my throat. “Okay.”
It’s a little pitying, the look Lane’s giving me, and in the back of my mind, I think I know why, but I also don’t know why. All I know is that I need to get out of there, right now, immediately, as fast as I can. So I grab the Amelia Earhart teapot and shove it in front of me, a barrier between me and the look on Lane’s face.
“I’ll get this one.”
Lane looks amused now. “Okay. Emily will ring you up. Em, I’m taking my break.”
Emily looks helplessly after them as they head for the front door. “We’ve only been open an hour...”
But Lane’s already out the front door, the bell twinkling behind them.
Emily fixes a cheerful smile on her face and rings me up. I pay an absurd amount for the teapot, and I don’t even mind. With a hand-stamped paper bag filled with golden tissue paper and the teapot, I step back out onto the street and the bright sunlight.
Lane’s leaning against a brick wall, scrolling through their phone. They glance up at me and slip their phone into their pocket. “Hey.”
“I have to go,” I say automatically.
They nod, like they knew I’d say this. “You go to Pleasant View?”
“Yeah,” I say warily. “Why?”
“I graduated last year. You looked a little familiar.” Lane’s lying. I can see it on their face. They just want to talk to me. About—nothing. Teapots, probably. Tea, maybe. Nothing. They hesitate and step a little closer to me. They smell like the store. I take a step back and Lane’s face scrunches up a bit. Their voice drops low. “I hang out at Grounds for Change. Around the corner? With some friends. On Friday nights. You should join us.”
I don’t know why they’re offering this. “Okay. I’ll think about it. Thanks. Bye.”
I can hear their sigh as I turn away, and I can feel their gaze on my back as I hurry as fast as I can down the street and around the corner.
The teapot goes on the shelf, next to my other teapots, and I realize only when I’m home that I never bought more loose leaf. I tell myself it’s fine. It’s not like I really wanted the tea anyway.
I look up Lane online. It’s easy to find them since it turns out we do, in fact, have mutual friends. I guess that makes sense because we went to the same high school, but I didn’t recognize them at all. I don’t know if they were telling the truth about me, but I think it’s unlikely. I keep to myself at school. I have a handful of friends in band with me, but I’m the quiet nerdy one doodling on the edges of the music while the band director’s prattling on. I know Lane’s not a band person. I’d remember them if they were.
I feel a little more like myself now, like the distance from the teashop and elapsed time have let me breathe again. My tongue feels like a normal size and I inhale, then exhale, rinse, repeat.
I hesitate and send Lane a friend request.
They accept way too fast.
I shut my laptop.
Inhale, exhale. Stare at the teapots. Consider making a cup of tea.
I open my laptop again.
They sent me a message.
Rory, eh? How’s the teapot?
My fingers hover over the keys, and then I reply, joins the other teapots. I have a bit of a collection.
Really? Teapots?
It’s weird, I know, I type. Aloud, I say, “WHY AM I TALKING TO THEM?”
Mom pops her head in my room. “Why are you talking to who?”
“No one,” I say, which is a stupid answer because obviously I was talking to someone and now she’s just staring at me in that way she does, like she thinks we should have a conversation but we don’t, so I stare back until she shrugs and moves away from my room.
I turn back to my computer.
Lane’s replied. I mean, everyone has their thing. Why teapots? Do you use all of them?
I don’t use any of them. I mean. I guess, occasionally, that I use one or two? But it’s not like I’m that into tea. I think I want to be into tea, but I’m not even sure where to start. But it feels like if I have teapots, I ought to be into tea.
There’s a long, long pause.
I can see Lane typing but they haven’t hit enter.
I add quickly, never mind. Pretend I didn’t say that.
The dots pause.
Resume.
I should unfriend them right now. I should delete all of my social media right now.
But it’s too late.
Lane says, that’s a thing with you isn’t it.
Like the idiot I am, I reply, what’s a thing.
Thinking you need to be into something when you really don’t have to be.
Lol, it’s just teapots.
You totally know what I’m talking about.
My hands are sweaty.
WHO HAS SWEATY HANDS? I do.
I really don’t.
I can almost hear Lane’s sigh through the computer. It’s cool. I’m just saying. I looked at you, and I understood. I’ve been there. And I know school isn’t always the best place for people like us so if you ever want to talk or hang out, I’m here.
You don’t even know me, I type back.
There’s another long pause, and then Lane says, okay, it’s two things. One, I don’t, you’re right. But people were really really kind to me. People helped me figure my shit out. And it’s so much easier with people to talk to. I promise you. And second, I never want anyone to get into the same dark place I was in a few years ago.
It’s hard to swallow again.
I tap my fingers lightly over my keyboard. I don’t know how to reply. I know how I want to reply.
I’m not nearly as brave as I want to be. Cool. Thanks.
No problem. Lane lets me off the hook.
We both know it.
Tuesday crawls into Wednesday, Wednesday into Thursday, Thursday into Friday. I lay on my back and stare at the ceiling. Stare at the teapots. Stare at the laptop I haven’t opened today.
Here’s the thing about wanting things.
You have to know what you’re wanting.
That weird ache between your ribs? Indistinct and constant, unattached to any organ in particular but a part of your chest muscle, stretching painfully tight so you can feel it every time you breathe? That’s a want without words.
I am full of wants without words. It’s painful, all the time, I’ve just gotten so good at ignoring it. At buying teapots instead. At directing all of that aching at something I can hold in my own two hands.
I want to exist in all those spaces without names but the thought makes me explode with panic.
I open my laptop. The browser’s still open, and there’s a message from Lane.
Lunch? 12? Grounds for Change?
It’s 11:45. I reply back before I can stop to think, see you there. Might be a few minutes late.
I stare at my closet. I don’t know what to wear. This is the other thing. I’m making a choice here, aren’t I, in front of this closet. This is how Lane and their friends will see me forever now. I’m labeling myself in front of them, and everyone else who sees me, every single day with whatever I put on. And I hate that. I hate that feeling. I just want to wear my clothes.
So wear your clothes, I tell myself.
But I can’t. I overthink, check the time, quash the panic that rises like bile in my throat, and grab a Captain America shirt and my favorite pair of jeans. I don’t look in the mirror before I leave. I just grab my wallet and car keys and get out of the house. Otherwise, I might never leave again. That’s a little dramatic but I’m a little dramatic and I wouldn
’t put such drastic actions past me.
Lane’s in the corner with three others. They see me and wave me over and I approach, hesitantly. I shove my hands into my back pockets so no one will try to shake my sweaty, shaky hand.
“Hey,” Lane says easily, their dark eyes disappearing into their smile. “Margot, shove over.”
The girl on the bench scoots over, moving her coat next to her. “Hey. Lane told us you’d be joining. Want anything? My girlfriend’s working. She’ll make your drink for free.”
I blink. “Um. I—I don’t know.”
“Tea?” Lane asks.
I shake my head. “No. I think I’m good for now.”
If I get a drink, I might have to stay. This way I can leave if I need to.
Lane gestures to the guy across from me. “Ian. And this is Ari.”
I’m afraid I will ask Ian something stupid like DID ALL OF YOUR PIERCINGS HURT AND WHY DID YOU GET THAT PIERCED but Ari’s soft smile is safer. They ask me, “And you’re Rory right?”
“Yeah.”
“And you collect teapots?” Margot asks. “Why teapots? No offense, Lane. But this whole revival of tea seems like a hipster conspiracy to me.”
Lane laughs, and Ian says, “Hipsters are not organized enough for conspiracies, Margot.”
Ari adds, “Also, that’s rich, coming from you.”
“What does that mean?” Margot cries.
“You’re a hipster, Margot,” says Ari, in a tone that’s an almost pitch-perfect imitation of Hagrid’s yer a wizard, Harry moment.
I laugh, despite myself. Margot elbows me, like we’ve known each other our whole lives. “You can’t agree with Ari. That’s the first rule of hanging out in the queer corner on Fridays. Ari’s head is big enough, thanks.”
I freeze when she says queer corner, and Lane’s eyes leap from Margot to mine, but we’re the only two who stop moving. The other three continue on in their whirlwind of banter and fun. Lane’s watching me for my reaction. I don’t know what my reaction should be. My stomach feels tight, and the ache between my ribs spreads to my left arm. Maybe I’m having a heart attack.
Breathe, Lane mouths at me.
I exhale. I inhale. The pain eases.
Out Now Page 14
