Teen Idle

On our way home from daycare, Henry and I sometimes stop at the coffee shop in our neighborhood for a snack. The shop has recently changed ownership, and the new owners have hired two teenage boys to work in the afternoons. They are what we would have called alternative when I was in high school, but I don't know what they call it now. They go outside for smoke breaks, they wear tight jeans, they check Facebook during lulls. They should be surly, but inexplicably, they're very sweet boys.

Today, Henry and I had milk and pumpkin cake with cream cheese frosting, and watched two teenage girls flirt with the boys. The girls were stationed at a table in the corner, working on a laptop. One was outgoing and smiley, the other was awkward and engrossed in the laptop. Besides us, they were the only ones in the coffee shop at 5pm.

The smiley girl called out to the boys, "Name an Iron Maiden song!" I wondered what they were working on and silently named three. The cuter of the boys answered, "Breaking the Law!" and sang the most famous part of the chorus before correcting himself, "No, wait. That's Judas Priest." Henry got down from his chair and wandered over to the two girls, and the smiley one started talking to him. The boys went out to smoke cigarettes.

The radio was set on a 90s alternative station. I listened to the Red Hot Chili Peppers' "Breaking the Girl," which always makes me think of my first boyfriend and subsequent first time being dumped. Henry climbed back into his chair for more cake, and I wondered what he'll be like as a teenager. I watched the boys outside smoking and thought about how to talk to Henry about smoking. A Nirvana song came on and I remembered how much potential the music seemed to hold when I was a teenager. I thought about Kurt Cobain and how to someday explain suicide to Henry. He blew bubbles in his milk.

The boys came back in and the less cute one, who had the look of a kid that keeps a journal, grinned at me, asked Henry how he was enjoying his cake. I briefly wondered if the boys could tell I used to be a girl they would put on the guest list, a girl who would know all the lyrics to every Operation Ivy song, if they saw something familiar behind the mom. And then I realized that it didn't matter, thanked him, and turned back to my son.