Lost But Found

Chapter Eight: You're Not Hungry?

"So, how well can you drive?" Bronx asks, before taking a sip from her water bottle.

A few minutes ago, I had handed over the precious ring that I once wore on a silver chain around my neck, to Cove. The negotiation I made with the outcasts is now set in stone; I will be street racing illegally for money.

I'm shocked myself that I chose to go through with this; never in a million years would I have thought of doing something this felonious. Not only that, but I can't seem to shake this gut feeling that something horrendous might happen during a street race. Perhaps, I'm just nervous about driving at an ultra fast speed like in the movie Fast and Furious.

After thinking over the presented offer yesterday, I texted Bronx my answer this morning, with the number she gave me, to let her know my decision. Now here I am with all three outcasts on a Saturday afternoon, in a café, to "bond" with them. Well, somewhat. After this, I have to go work my shift at Pita Pan.

"I'd say that I'm a decent driver, I suppose. The last time I drove a car was about a year ago," I say flatly.

"A year? As in twelve months?" Cove says astounded.

"Do you not know what a year is?" Easton says to his friend with a frown. "Ugh, you're one of the reasons why this country needs to put directions on shampoo."

Cove rolls his eyes. "Well I could agree with you, but then we'd both be wrong." He then leans over to Easton and stage whispers, "By the way, if you're going to be a smart-ass first you have to be smart. Otherwise you're just an ass."

"Why you—"

I ignore the boys' childish brawl from across the table and turn to Bronx, who is seated next to me.

"I recall the last time being in a car was when I had to take my road driving test for my license."

Living in the city doesn't require me to have a car. I can easily just use public transportation to take me places. It would be nice though, to have a car of my own someday.

"I think we should hold off for about a week or so, before we let you enter a race," Bronx says, tightening the cap of her water bottle.

The two boys stop their antics and turn their attention back to me.

"I agree, you'll definitely need practice before hitting the tracks," Easton says, scooting his chair away from Cove.

"Guys," I start, "I know how to drive a car, there's nothing much to it."

"Can you drive a stick-shift?" Cove asks.

"No, I only learned on an automatic."

"I'll have to teach you." Cove says, playing with the ring around his middle finger.

"Why? What's wrong with driving an automatic?" I always thought that it would be easier to race using an automatic transmission.

The outcasts all share a look with one another.

"Um, we'll get to that a bit later, when there's not too many people around," Easton says, looking around the café he had suggested to meet at. Today it's quite busy, given that it's a weekend.

I take a moment myself to gaze around the joint. The whole café gives off a hipster vibe from vinyl records hanging on the exposed brick wall to plants dangling from the ceiling giving a whimsical ambience.

A young man strolls up to our table, he looks to be around our age, maybe a few years older. He has on a blue short-sleeve shirt with tattoos running down his arms, black pants, converse shoes, and a grey beanie under his wavy black hair.