Kiss Me Again (8 page)

“I’m a fast learner.”

“Okay. Well, let’s start at the beginning. How do you like your coffee?”

Wow, this was going well. I should just take off the apron and not waste her time. “I actually don’t drink coffee.”

“You don’t.” More of a statement than a question.

“Well, no. Not really.”

“But you want to work at a coffee bar.”

“Yes.”

“You like cleaning counters?”

“Love it,” I said.

She nodded, then pointed at the huge stainless steel machine beside us. “This is the Big Man. Penelope will show you how to use it, or you can ask Toby. He’ll be in later, and he’s a genius. Has a way with machines. There’s a surprising amount of machine work, in the café business.”

“Uh-oh,” I said.

“Problem?”

“No,” I said. “Though, I can barely staple.”

Anya laughed one
ha.
“Get tutored by Toby, then, for sure. You and Penelope are friends from school?”

“Well,” I said, “I was on newspaper. Briefly. Last year.”

“Ah, newspaper,” Anya replied, as if that foretold some fortune about me.

“I quit.”

“The hours are rough,” she empathized, handing me a sponge.

“Oh no,” I said. “I don’t mind long hours. That’s not—”

“It wasn’t a trap,” she said.

I followed her back into the storeroom.

“I quit in protest,” I told her, tilting my head to take in the sight of the high shelves, stacked with teetering boxes, all around us. It felt like we’d fallen into a deep, narrow trench.

“You know how to make tea?”

“Sure.” I shrugged. “Cup, tea bag, hot water?”

“No. Gross. Never say or do that again.”

“Okay.” I was obviously acing this tryout. Unless the other applicants actually murdered a customer during their audition, they had little to fear, clearly.

“I’ll teach you, and it will change your life.”

“Best offer I’ve had all year,” I said truthfully.

“What were you protesting?” Anya asked, handing me a bulky but surprisingly light cardboard box.

“Protesting?”

“When you quit newspaper.”

“Oh. Everything, I guess. First Amendment rights. Oppression. A blue-eyed boy going out with my best friend.”

“Ah.” She put another three boxes on top. “Good causes.”

“Just kidding,” I said, following her out through the swinging door despite not being able to see anything over the boxes. “About the boy. That was a joke. Penelope will tell you I have a bad sense of humor.”

“No worries.” Anya took the top box off the stack in my arms and plopped it onto the counter. “I will teach you to make a good pot of tea. And the blue-eyed boy stays our secret. You want to try taking your first order?”

She pointed with her thumb toward the counter, where Tess was standing with Darlene, Felicity, and Paige. They hadn’t mentioned to me that they were coming here after school. I hadn’t seen any of them after the last bell. But beyond that, it was all too freaking likely that they had just heard Anya tell me the blue-eyed boy would stay a secret.

As if there could be any mystery who the blue-eyed boy might be.

The stomach-clenching cramps I thought had healed up like an old paper cut were back in force.

“Hi,” Tess said. “You
work
here?”

“Probably not,” I said. “What can I get you?”

“Seriously?” Darlene asked. “Since when?”

“Now,” I said. “Five minutes ago. I just—”

“Cookies-and-cream mocha whip,” Tess said.

“Oooh, that sounds good,” Darlene said. “Me too. With extra whip?”

Paige frowned nervously at Felicity, her pouty lips curved disappointedly despite their glittery gloss, and whined, “Will you share one with me, Felicity? I’m obese.”

Felicity rolled her eyes at me, and I couldn’t help smiling in response. Paige is about as obese as a stick. Felicity planted a long-fingered hand on the hip of her dark jeans and considered.

“Okay,” Felicity told the anxiously panting Paige, who grinned like a good puppy. “Iced pomegranate green tea, though,” she added.

Paige’s face sank for a millisecond, then rebounded. You don’t say no to Felicity. “Great,” Paige squeaked. “Pomegranate green tea! Perfect! I love iced pomegranate green tea! Good idea! Yummy!”

Felicity shook her head microscopically at that, like,
You see what I have to deal with? Save me!
But what she said, in her low voice, was, “A skinny, extra-cold iced pomegranate green tea, and an extra cup.”

“Okay,” I said, and added perkily, “Coming right up!”

I think Tess may have swallowed a chuckle. But maybe not. She was mad I hadn’t told her about possibly getting a job, I knew. I had meant to. If she didn’t want me to have the job, that was fine with me, really. I’d rather hang out with her. I obviously was not going to get chosen for it anyway.

“So,” Felicity said, leaning across the counter toward me. “Is everything set for Saturday night?”

“Oh,” I said. “I haven’t asked yet.”

“Well, definitely text me later, okay?” Felicity asked. “That would just be so extreme.”

“Yeah,” Paige said. “Completely extreme.”

“Best sleepover ev-ah!” Darlene said, loud enough to make everybody in Cuppa look over at her.

“Okay,” I said as Anya handed back their change and then went to finish up their drinks. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Congratulations,” Tess said. “On your job.”

“Thank you,” I whispered, hoping nobody else heard the crack in my voice. “It isn’t—I don’t …”

The four of them sat, giggling, at the table Tess and I had picked out, until they finished and waved good-bye.

Meanwhile, I learned how not to wipe the counter, how not to clean the stainless steel, and how not to steam the milk. I burned myself twice on the frother and once with the espresso machine. I learned that most of the chain coffee places use about seven grams of coffee for a two-ounce shot, and those little espresso pods are filled with five grams—but at Cuppa, we tamp down twenty grams. Twenty. “So,” I said, showing off that fast-learning skill of mine. “Twenty is way more than seven. Like, thirteen more. Grams.”

“Mmm,” Anya said. “And we pull it short.”

“Obviously.”

“Less water. More concentrated.” She showed me. I managed to not say that it looked like mud or worse. I just handed the tiny cup to the skinny hipster across the counter, who was reading a thin paperback by Italo Calvino.

Penelope told me to take the trash out. When I lifted the bag, I must have scraped it against something sharp, because within a second, there was garbage all over everything, including my make-a-good-impression shirt. The skinny hipster peered at me condescendingly through his funky glasses as he sipped from that little thimble of poo while I cleaned up all the trash.

Penelope sighed, pointing at the stain my garbage fiasco had left on the wood floor. She gave me a rag to scrub it with. I was so mortified to have made such a mess I was almost happy to do the scrubbing, down there like Cinderella, so at least I could get away from Mr. Too-Cool-to-Not-Be-in-Brooklyn, and also when Anya emerged from the bathroom, I wouldn’t have to make eye contact.

“That’s enough of that,” Anya said. “Want to take one more order before you go?”

“Sure,” I said. “Why not.”

“Wash hands,” she whispered to me, then smiled at the waiting customer. “Just one moment, please.”

“We’re in a rush,” the customer answered.

I dried my hands and asked, “May I help you?”

A gym-hard mom wearing lululemon, a ponytail, and a weary expression stood waiting at the counter, her oversize Birkin bag looped over one arm and her dreary, slumpy daughter behind the other.

“Give me a small, skinny latte,” she ordered. “Cecile? Hurry up. Your math tutor will be there in half an hour.”

Behind me, Penelope started making the small, skinny latte. I smiled encouragingly at the girl. She had a band of pimples across her forehead and a mouth full of braces.

“Cecile, now,” her mother said, tapping away at her phone.

“Um, I’ll have a Coke?”

“A Coke?” the mom asked without lifting her eyes from the tiny screen in front of her. “Really, Cecile?”

Poor Cecile sank farther into her shoulders. She was becoming a tortoise right there in front of us.

“She’ll have a
Diet
Coke,” the mom said to me, still clicking away with her thumbs.

“I hate Diet Coke,” Cecile muttered.

Her mother, through gritted teeth, replied, “You have a muffin-top hanging over your jeans, Cecile. And we are not going up a size again. A Coke. She will have a Diet Coke. Quickly, please.”

I was on a trial at this job. The customer is always right—I knew that from the sign in the supermarket, for goodness’ sake. On the other hand, I had already pretty well blown it. So although Anya was watching me, evaluating me, there was no way I could serve that girl a Diet Coke. Even though I knew it was the right thing to do, I couldn’t.

As Penelope handed over the mom’s small, skinny latte, I took a large cup, scooped in some ice, and, under the counter, filled it with regular Coke. Filled it to the rim. Then I placed a top on it and handed it to the girl, with a straw. I kept my eyes down, waiting to be told to get my butt out of there, or maybe to be physically tossed out on it, as my dad would say I should be.

The mom was holding out her credit card impatiently. As Anya took it, thanking her, she said to the girl, “You know what? Give that Diet Coke a sip, will you? The machine has been acting up a bit. Make sure the Diet Coke came out okay?”

My face snapped up to Anya’s. She’d obviously seen what I’d done.

“I’m sure it’s fine,” the mom said. “Did it go through?”

Cecile unwrapped the straw, stuck it through the hole in her cup.

“Almost,” Anya said, taking her time with the credit card machine, her expression calmly neutral. “Is the Diet Coke fine?”

Cecile’s eyes lifted slowly as the sugary drink filled her mouth. She looked from me to Anya and back again. Without stopping her sipping, she nodded. She drained a quarter of the cup before Anya said, “Let Charlie here top that off for you. On the house.”

The mom groaned. I grabbed the cup and refilled it with real Coke. Only then did Anya hand over the receipt.

“Have a great day,” I said as they left.

“You’re hired,” Anya said to me after the door closed behind them.

I WAS LYING
awake in the dark of my room, pondering the eternal existential question that has tortured generations of philosophers: What is there to do at 3:47 a.m. other than go in search of cookies?

Nothing, I answered myself and the ghost-philosophers, honestly.

I tiptoed past the bedroom doors, noticing that Mom’s, uniquely, was closed all the way. I clenched my mind against that observation and skulked down the stairs.

She had said yes to my having a sleepover Saturday, at least. Even though she was disappointed I hadn’t told her about the job at Cuppa until I came home from my tryout, she said she was proud of me for taking it on. She added that if I found it was interfering with homework, I had to quit. And she suggested maybe I should call my father and discuss it with him, too, but she didn’t push it when I said,
Yeah, maybe later.
She was being so damn reasonable, I couldn’t even argue.

I got all my homework done before Joe finished quizzing his kids, and slipped into bed behind my closed door before Kevin even came upstairs. Tess hadn’t answered my texts all night. When I woke up with a jolt at 3:41, I thought maybe she’d just texted back, finally, but no.

My own fault, again. I know that she hates when I keep something from her, anything, and then there I was, behind the counter at Cuppa. Her supposed best friend. Urgh. Why am I such a bad best friend, when it’s the only thing I really even want to be good at? I broke up with George as soon as she told me I should; shouldn’t that count for something? I knew I should have told her about Cuppa, about my tryout. Was I scared she’d try out, too, and get the job instead of me? I didn’t think so. But how was I supposed to explain when she wasn’t even responding to my texts? Maybe she was just finally done with me now?

Ahh. A plastic bag full of leftover brunch cookies sat waiting for me on the counter. I grabbed it and then my fleece off the hook, and headed for the deck. I figured I could eat my cookies and not think while watching the lake emerge from the night as the sky brightened, all by my piranha self.

That is why I almost screamed when I stepped out onto the deck and saw Kevin sitting at the table.

“What are you, why, whoa,” I intelligently commented.

Kevin slammed his pad shut and stood up before I could get a good look at what was on it. All I saw was a lot of smudgy lines in weirdly psychedelic colors.

He looked pretty startled to see me, too.

We faced off there, him with his pad, me with my bag o’ cookies. Ready to … what? Duel?