Pancakes and Paper Planes || ✔ || Under Revision

11|Parlors and Persicutors

I continue my wandering stroll through Beverly Hills, guided by the ominous moonlight, past the familiar buildings to a part of town I've never seen before. This may sound funny but I've barely ever traveled out of Beverly Hills. One might say I'm an introvert.

I click on my phone to display the time. It's almost 8:30. Had I really been walking for one whole hour? My legs are getting sore and I haven't eaten yet. I shuffle my hands around in my pockets and find the twenty dollar bill I had grabbed.

I glance around for some kind of restaurant, and my eyes land on a sparkly pink sign labeled The Pancake Parlor. To my surprise, a shining neon sign that reads OPEN hangs in the window, and the lights are still on. I shrug, then continue toward it. Pancakes for dinner. Yum.

As I swing open the door, I breathe in the sweet fumes of flapjacks wafting from the kitchen. A fully dolled-up teenager is leaning against the cash register, reapplying her pink nail polish. I walk slowly over to the counter, clearing my throat to get the girl's attention.

She immediately glances up, then, noticing me, resumes her manicuring.

"What do you want?" she grumbles, obviously agreeing with the absurdness of having a pancake shop open at eight-o'clock at night.

I don't answer at first, staring up at the menu. There are rows and rows of holiday specials and end-of-the-school-year surprises and shit like that. I decide to settle for the classic buttermilk pancakes with maple syrup. Call me a purist.

The clerk asks for ten dollars, so I hand over the crumpled bill. She opens the cash register with a satisfying ding, then hands me ten dollars back. It's all in ones. Shoving the door of the cash register closed, she levels a glare at me. "Your order will be ready soon."

Stuffing the money back into my pocket, I meander over to an empty booth in the corner near the bathroom, sitting my self down. I twiddle my fingers until the chef calls my name. Collecting my pancakes, I turn to head back to the booth, but then I notice a group of young women beckoning me over. I stand awkwardly in the center of the parlor, considering it.

Sure, I think to myself. I reroute to head over to the table at which they are seated, carrying my steaming pancakes with me.

As soon as I sit down, a pretty redhead asks me what my name is.

"Micah," I reply, feeling a little uneasy with their invitation. In my neighborhood, people are always to huddled up in their own fame that they don't give a damn about anyone else, let alone a self-conscious teenager such as myself.

"That's a lovely name," the girl says, smiling kindly. "I'm Lizzie. And these are my roommates Alta, Stella and Eden." She gestures to three women seated around the table, one a brunette and the other two blondes, though one doesn't look very authentic. All three wave and giggle.

"How old are you, Micah?" one of the blondes asks. I think she's Stella.

"Fifteen," I reply.

Lizzie giggles. "We're all sophomores at UCLA. And aspiring thespians."

"I'm a sophomore at Beverly Hills High school," I say, feeling as though it is appropriate. "Lauren Tanner is my mom." I wait for the 'oh my god can I have her autograph' or the 'so that's why you looked familiar' or the slightly less common 'the Lauren Tanner?', but it never comes.

"Truly? You don't look at all alike," Alta, the brunette says. The look on her face is not amazement or shock, it's just a normal face someone has when they meet a new person.

That shocks me. I'm a bit hesitant to tell people who I am because they always act differently and treat me in ways that make me uncomfortable. I'm also surprised that I haven't had an anxiety attack yet. I usually despise talking to people in general, especially once they fare aware of who I am. For some reason, it's incredibly easy and comfortable for me to talk to these ladies.