Chapter Eight: You Look Like Just Another Meth Addict
Wisps of hair hit my eyes as an onslaught of wind was thrown at me due to the rate at which we were going. A continuous torrent of frigid air hit my body as we rushed down the aged road. The feeling that I was receiving was unlike any rush I had ever encountered. I had ridden on motorcycles before, but something about this time was different.
My arms clutched tighter to the individual in front of me, for he possessed the one thing that I currently eluded: body heat. I was freezing, while he looked to be almost warm. He most certainly wasn’t cold, like me—that was for sure.
Though my eyes were forced into slim slits, barely able to see anything so that my eyeballs wouldn’t pop out of their sockets because of the more than heavy breeze, I could still make out the basic area to which we had come. We weren’t exactly in Kansas anymore. In fact, we weren’t in Kansas, because Kansas was in the middle of nowhere, while the city in which we were currently located happened to be in the middle of somewhere. Filled with a rich history of revolutionary tales and killing the native inhabitants with disease and guns, Boston wasn’t only a tourist destination to bore kids out of their goddamn minds, but also the city in which I lived.
Anyways, I knew that we were still in Boston—we hadn’t been driving long enough to leave—but it wasn’t the Boston that I knew. There weren’t any sidewalks, leading me to the brilliant conclusion that though the area may have been residential, it wasn’t exactly hospitable. There were barely any signs of vegetation, and we were currently passing through an uncovered passageway made up of dilapidated apartment buildings. They soared at rivaling heights to some of the skyscrapers of corporate means, but had qualities of a lesser value. Everything was going by so quickly.
Suddenly, everything around me had paused seeping through my vision, and came to a halt. We had stopped. I took the stationary opportunity to better analyze where were. The tall buildings were still everywhere, but we were in front of a place that was on the corner of a street, and was more than half the stature of the other structures around. There was a sign above the building that read: “S per Mart.” It looked as though there had previously been a “u” between “S” and “per,” resulting to a title that really was: “Super Mart.”
When Luke had said that we were going for ice cream, I assumed that he was taking me to a cute place built for unicorns and bunnies. It would’ve been the type of place with a striped awning of pastels hanging under a sign that had a name ending in “y” or “ie” with the possessive “s” next to it, and “ice cream” tacked on somewhere. Presently, there wasn’t a bunny or unicorn in sight, and not a single hue of powdery blue or pink. It wasn’t what I had been anticipating.
“Why are we here?” I questioned, shedding my arms from Luke’s torso.
We both got off the bike, and Luke began to walk towards the entrance of the “S per Mart” as his answer was called over his shoulder. “To get ice cream.”
“Here?” I demanded, having to sprint in order to keep up with him.
“No, in Antarctica,” he quipped sarcastically. “Where else would we go?”
“Oh, I don’t know, a real ice cream place and not this shifty-ass place?” I mused, as Luke neglected to hold the manual door open for me, causing me to hurry to catch it before it fully closed.
“What, are you scared, Princess?” he teased, as I stepped into store right behind him.
“I’m not a princess, and no, I’m not scared,” I huffed, as my eyes began to scan around the scene before me.
It wasn’t exactly the fluorescently lit Whole Foods filled with organic crap to which I was accustomed. In fact, it was quite the opposite. For my qualifications, there was barely any light, making the entire space feel like a set from a nineties TV show. The ceiling wasn’t high, in order to give off a buoyant and free atmosphere, but rather short, causing the customers to feel cramped and pressured by the limited amount of space. Rows stocked with food—that was most definitely not grown on a nonchemical farm—were placed in the center of the market, taking up most of the floor space. The shelves were about as tall as me, though that wasn’t saying much. It all felt very confined.
“Then let’s go,” Luke said as I felt his fingers curl around my wrist and begin got tug me, leading me through a maze that was the floor plan.
We passed by an aisle of jars containing anything from peanut butter to possibly human eyeballs, judging by the sketchiness that this site possessed. I came to an abrupt cessation with Luke as we finally came to the back wall, which happened to be covered in cooling instillations that were a mixture of rusted metal and murky glass. Yeah, this wasn’t exactly the type of place that housewives came to interact with one another while doing their daily shopping.
“So, what type of ice cream do you want?” Luke questioned, opening one of the opaque doors that was really supposed to be of a translucent state. An incessant gush of frost hit my already frozen body, as Luke numbly stared at the contents that the cabinet for refrigeration contained.
There was an assortment of frosted boxes, some with curved edges, others without. A range of colors were found, but were muted due to the ice that covered the majority of them. Obviously, it was what we had apparently come here in the first place for: the frozen blend of pasteurized milk, artificial flavoring, and sugar. Lots and lots of sugar.
“Not mint,” I said after thinking about it for a while. I would’ve mentioned something about how confused I was as to why we were buying a miniature crate of the frozen dessert instead of just going to a normal ice cream place and getting the unicorn and bunnies experience, but thought against it.
“Okay…” Luke dragged out the “a” sound, sticking his head into the case for a better view of the selection. “I’m going to assume that you don’t like chocolate, right?”
“That’s correct, but how would you even begin to come to that type of conclusion?” I asked, staring at the abnormal (it was neither a good nor bad characteristic in my world, but rather neutral) boy before me who was crouched down on his knees, his head not visible to the bulk of limited spectators.
Suddenly, a new being of the male gender was added to a five foot radius of me, but subtracted from my comfort zone. They stretched over Luke, grabbing a tub of coffee ice cream—a flavor that had always perplexed me. I didn’t like coffee in the first place, so, to me, it made absolutely no sense as to why one would want to consume the strong taste in such a pleasant form of calories.
After the person was done popping Luke’s personal bubble (not that I was entirely sure he had one), instead of going on with his life like predicted, he remained and took a long stare at me, giving me the chance to cautiously do the same to him.
The guy in front of me pretty much looked like he had survived a nuclear explosion and then been stranded in the Sahara for a month. He wore a pair of slack sweats and a T-shirt covered in stains and dirt. Flip-flops were his chosen footwear, his feet completely exposed. Lightly colored facial hair that was not a side effect of fashion scruffily embedded his cheeks, and his sandy hair was of a floppy mess on the top of his head. Unlike with most, I didn’t like his eyes. They were bloodshot and of a deep brown color, but somehow different from my own. Essentially, he was the average inhabitant of this neighborhood, or your typical college student.
The guy opened his mouth, as if words were about to escape it, but then closed it, opening it once more as an afterthought. “You should try rehab,” the individual told me, “it really helps. I promise, it gets better.” And with that, the stranger walked away, leaving me dumbfounded and bewildered.
“Why did that homeless dude just recommend rehab to me?” I inquired with a gulp, the question aimed at Luke.
“Because,” he temporarily stuck his head out to speak to me, “you look like just another meth addict to him.”
“I look like a meth addict?” I reiterated his words.
“Well, I’m still a firm believer in the asylum escapee, but, yeah, a meth addict works to,” he shrugged as if it was nothing, setting his head back into the congested area. Mentally, I went over in what state I had left my house, and then clicked: Preston’s jersey, THE sweats, Converse, and frizzy hair. Eh. So maybe meth addict wasn’t too far off… Luke emerged a few seconds later, a chest of the chosen ice cream in his hand. “Oh, and to answer you from before, you’re just not the type of girl who would like chocolate.”
“And why am I not?” I was now slightly more intrigued by his analysis.
“Because chocolate is a lot to take in,” he stated, dropping the carton of ice cream that he had previously handled into my possession. “It’s thick, heavy, kinda cocky, and bold. You’re not bold, Liv. Don’t take that in a bad way, it’s who you are. Sure, you have a temper, but you’re not into making a whole big deal of yourself and all that crap. You’re not chocolate.”
“Then what am I?” I glanced down at the elected ice cream: cookie dough.
“You’re quiet, Liv,” he finally decided to stand from the ground that probably could’ve gotten the store shut down if a health inspector had seen it, “and chill. You don’t like people, I’ve figured that much out by now in the short time that I’ve been bothering you, and you like keeping to yourself. Even though you’re calm as hell and pretty damn composed, you’re kinda badass,” he said, tilting his head to better look at me. “Like, not me badass, but badass in your own way. You’re different, Liv.”
“What ice cream flavor am I?” I pressed, genuinely curious.
“Well, you’re not quite vanilla,” he determined. “Nah, that’d be too plain and easy. Besides, everyone likes vanilla—it’s what the majority likes. You’re an individual, Liv. You’re kinda like vanilla, because it’s light, quiet, and normal—but that’s the thing, Liv, you’re not exactly, well, normal,” he laughed as he articulated the affable analogy. “You’re cookie dough.”
I glimpsed back down at the object in my hand that would probably give my fingers frostbite if I held it any longer. Cookie dough. “Care to elaborate?” I offered.
He smirked, rolling his eyes mockingly. “Cookie dough has vanilla in it, but it also has, well, ya know, cookie dough in it. It’s not the same as vanilla. It’s unique and its own. Just like you, Olivia Ross.”
“And is that your professional opinion?”
“Yes, yes it is,” he nodded.
“Well, thank you very much, Luke Daniels, for that wonderful ice cream therapy evaluation. I’ll be sure to tell my regular therapist your thoughts during my next session,” I promised him, dumping my way to hypothermia back into his custody. “Now, how do you intend on paying for this?”
“Me?” He looked almost offended by my inquiry. “You’re the rich kid, Princess. How do you intend on paying for this?”
“You rushed me out of my house, so, if you didn’t notice, I don’t exactly have cash, credit, or even debit on me right now,” I said flatly.
“Don’t you, like, store a thousand dollar bill or something in your shoe or whatever?” I shook my head, not having even the faintest hint as to what he had been referencing. “No? Huh. I thought all rich kids did that. Must be a myth, or you’re just an outlier.”
“Nice math terminology,” I snorted. “Oh, and I am most definitely an outlier.”
“Thanks, and I know you are,” he started with addressing what I had said. “Now, if you don’t have any money, and I don’t have any money, then there’s only one thing to do!”
“Actually, there’s two,” I corrected.
“Oh, and what would those be, Little Miss I Forgot All My Benjamins At Home?”
“Well, we could go to an ATM, or just not get the ice cream,” I expressed logically.
He contemplated my theories for a moment, before adding his own to the mix. “Make that three things, then. We could also just steal it.”
“That’s illegal,” was my immediate response.
“God, you’re so innocent!” He shook his head. “It’s refreshing, really, Liv.”
“How the hell do you even expect to do something like that?” I screamed in a hushed tone.
“It’s not Mission Impossible, Liv—more like Mission Very Plausible,” he assessed. “Look, here’s how it’s gonna work: I’m gonna go walk over to the door and hold it open like the gentleman that I’m not, and then, on my signal, you’re going to sprint over with the ice cream. Got it?”
“Excuse me?” I blinked blankly at him.
“I’ll go over to the door and open it, and you’ll run out with the ice cream when I start waving, okay?” His speech was slow and precise.
“No,” I denied.
“Great!” he disregarded my response. “Let’s get this show on the road!”
“I hate that saying,” I commented.
“I’ll make sure to use it more often,” Luke laughed, walking away from me and heading over to the front entrance. Then, what I had sorta, kinda, maybe agreed to hit me: I was about to commit my first crime that could possibly land me in jail or send me down a deep spiral of kleptomania. I wasn’t thinking rationally, and it was a pretty big deal what Luke expected me to do. It was as if the situation was regular to him. Ridiculous.
I saw Luke’s hand begin to roughly sway from the front of the store, and took a deep intake of air, preparing myself, as I was about to step through the threshold of corruption. This wasn’t skipping a class or cursing out a teacher. No, this was the real thing. I, Olivia Ross, was about to steal a tub of cookie dough ice cream. Great.
“I’m such an idiot,” I muttered to myself as I began to speed walk in Luke’s direction. My heart was racing, and my stomach found its way into a familiar bunch of knots that I knew all too well. Anxiety. I wasn’t quite in the territory of having a full-on anxiety attack, but I was on my way. Shit was getting real.
Conjuring up all the bravery that I didn’t have, I forced myself to flee from the refrigerators and make the petrifying journey over to Luke. My legs muscles were caught off guard by their sudden use, as my shoes that possessed a great lack of arch support and cleanliness hit against the cracked tiles. I wasn’t entirely sure why I was running when the same feat most likely could’ve been accomplished with the simple means of transportation that was walking, but my mind frame wasn’t exactly the best at the moment.
As my body bolted to the already open door, the frozen cube in my hands, I could feel the adrenalin coursing through my veins. I was going to crash later. The sentiment, however, wasn’t quite the one that I usually associated with angst, but more of the thrill variety. It was somewhere on the spectrum between hanging upside down in the middle of the track on a rollercoaster and wanting to puke my guts out due to pressure and built-up apprehension. It wasn’t a good medium, but it wasn’t really a bad one, per se, either.
The desolate ambiance immediately hit me as I felt a sense of freedom, stepping onto the pavement outside. I had made it. Bodyguards hadn’t magically popped up and detained me, and a laser grid like the ones in the movies didn’t appear, any movement setting off a bomb or something. I had done it.
An arm made its way around my shoulder, as Luke quickly hauled me away from the not so super “S per Mart.” He brought me back over to his motorcycle, and we rapidly boarded, zooming off in a haze as my heart beat faster than beneficial to my health. All I could think was that I had successfully stolen ice cream from a place sketchier than one of my drawings.
After about a minute, Luke came to a stop, the area in which we were in still the same deserted segment of Boston that I didn’t know. For some less than intelligent reason, Luke had driven to an abandoned alley, as if asking for someone to mug, rape, and then kill us. I got the sense that one didn’t exactly desire to be in this particular backstreet on a dark night.
“C’mon,” Luke called, disembarking from his bike as I warily did the same. With the ice cream in hand, I somehow allowed myself to follow him a few yards into the tunnel without a roof. Luke slumped down against a brick wall of a building, patting on the slightly wet ground beside him, indicating that I too should sit.
I dropped down beside him, trying to ignore that my stomach was exploding with emotions and that there was a slight seeping of wetness coming from beneath my thin pants. Note to self: don’t go out in public in THE sweats—they’re cheaply made and prone to leakage. Giving the shoplifted dessert over to Luke, I waited expectantly for further actions.
Gingerly, Luke lifted the lid off of the container, exposing a somewhat thawed mess of semi-solid white with light brown chunks in it. He smiled as he gazed at it, and then took his finger, smearing it in the perfectly flat surface, creating unevenness. Bringing his digit up to his mouth, he then proceeded to lick off the dollop of sugar and cow byproduct, digesting it.
“What are you doing?” I questioned with scrunched brows.
“Eating ice cream, what does it look like?” he scoffed. He then repeated the process over again, but instead of consuming the nourishment, he brought it right up to my lips. “Want some?”
“No, not really,” I rejected in repulsion. “I’m not hungry anymore.”
“So, you’re telling me that after you did all the hard work in physically running out of a store—rather well, might I add—that you don’t want to freaking eat the ice cream?” he asked in shock. I nodded. “I’m sorry, but that’s not okay. You will eat this ice cream, even if I have to shove it down your throat. Got it?”
“That sounds like a threat—ahhhh!” I broke off as Luke wiped the lingering portion of melting ice cream onto the middle of my forehead. Maybe someone was actually about the get murdered—that someone being Luke, of course, Olivia Ross acting as the pissed off executioner.
“Just eat the damn ice cream!” he whined, placing the cubic vessel in my lap.
I stared down at the marred plane, taking a deep breath. Just as Luke had done, I daintily dipped my pinky into the chilled matter, bringing it up to the realms of my taste buds. I stuck my tongue out, allowing the food to make its way into my mouth. The sugar hit me like a bullet, shooting through everything. It was so good. Luke’s rundown had been fairly correct, for cookie dough was, indeed, my favorite when it came to ice cream.
“Is it good?” Luke questioned. “Actually, don’t answer that. I know it’s good.”
Instead of replying, I merely plunged my finger back into the pit of deliciousness, eating more. Yum. Now, I could have still been sleeping right now if it wasn’t for a boy by the name of Luke Daniels. Instead, I was outside, in a sports jersey and an expression of school spirit sweats, sitting in an alley, eating cookie dough ice cream that I stole with that same boy who I barely knew: Luke Daniels.