The Espressologist (12 page)

Or then again, maybe Melissa is still the same big-mouth idiot she always has been.

“That is not what I do,” I say angrily. “There is an actual science to it.”

“Didn't you get D's in science?” She laughs.

How did she know that? What, did she get a hold of my transcripts?

“Tell you what,” I offer, “come in Friday and I'll show you. I'll match you with someone.”

“Me?” she asks. “You want to match me? Ha! No thanks. I can certainly find my own dates.”

“Fine.” I shrug. “Suit yourself. Looks like your drinks are up.”

Brenda calls out, “Small nonfat lattes.”

Melissa grabs her drink and Ginny looks at me like she's going to add something.

“C'mon, Gin,” Melissa says, and Ginny follows her out the door.

This is a
nice surprise. What did I do to earn an escort to class?” I ask.

Em and I are powerwalking up West Jackson Boulevard on the way to my English class at the college.

“I have a pass to go to the college library and do some research for a paper, so I thought I'd just keep you company for a few,” Em replies.

Ha. Yeah, right. She knows Cam is in my English class. I'm sure she just wants to “bump” into him.

“Thanks. You're a sweetie. So, did I tell you the latest with Will?” I can barely keep the excitement out of my voice.

“No, you didn't. Tell me, tell me,” she says.

“He came in last night and was totally flirting.”

“Obviously.”

“No, really, I didn't know what to expect. I know he
explained away the whole Thanksgiving thing, but I wasn't sure if I believed him or not. But now I do. He's so cute,” I say.

“And cute boys never lie. Kidding!” she exclaims when I scowl at her.

“Like everyone else who came in yesterday, he wanted to talk to me about the whole Espressology thing.”

“Of course,” she says, grabbing my arm and steering me around a homeless guy sitting in front of a building and yelling at people to give him money.

“He looked deep into my eyes and told me he was lonely and really hoped he could find love, too. He totally had me in a trance. I could hardly talk,” I tell her.

“No way. What did you do?”

“I told him to stop in on Friday night and I'd see what I could do,” I say.

“Cool! I work this Friday night, too. So is he coming?”

“Uh, no.”

“Why not?”

“Some fraternity thing. But he promised to come in next Friday. I told him we are only doing this for four weeks,” I say.

“You are going to match him with you, right?”

“Duh. Of course. But I feel kind of bad about it.”

“Why in the world would you feel bad about it?”

“Because I checked my notebook and we are not exactly a match.”

“Rough,” Em says.

“I know, but he
has
to be mine. I'll just have to fudge this one.”

“Definitely,” Em agrees as we approach the door to my school.

“This is me.”

“Um, okay.” She looks up and down the sidewalk. I can tell she's looking for Cam. “Are you working tonight?”

“You already asked me that,” I reply. “Are you okay?”

Just then Cam turns the corner and heads straight for us.

“Hi, Cam,” Em says dreamily.

Cam opens his mouth to respond.

“I'll leave you two to talk,” I announce before he can say anything. I really don't need to hear any lovey-dovey gush between those two. I head into the school and toward my classroom.

I take my seat and shrug off my jacket. Although I don't want to, I'm thinking about Cam and Em and wondering what they are talking about outside. I don't have long to think, though, because Cam comes in only a minute or so later and slides into his seat behind me.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey.” I briefly glance back at him.

“How's it going?”

“Not bad,” I answer, still facing forward.

“Can you turn around?” he asks.

I want to stay mad at him for what he wrote in his biography of me, but it is hard. I turn around.

“Yes?” I ask.

“Hey,” he says again.

“Hey,” I say again.

“I just wanted to see you smile,” he tells me, and my heart defrosts like thirty degrees. “Last day of class, huh?”

“I know,” I reply. “Did you get your final paper done?”

“Yeah, you?” he asks.

“Barely. It's been a crazy week.”

“So I hear.”

What exactly did he hear? I wonder. Does Em talk about me to him? Oh god, they have this whole separate relationship and they talk about me!

It's silent for a moment, and we are just looking at each other. A tuft of his shaggy blond hair is almost over his right eye, and I suddenly have the urge to brush it back for him. But I resist. It's not nice to brush back other people's boyfriends' hair. Especially not your best friend's boyfriend.

“Do you remember what I said you could do on the last day?” he asks.

I sit for a moment thinking. “No . . .”

He reaches into his folder and pulls out some stapled sheets. “I said you could read the paper I wrote on you.”

“Oh, no thanks,” I say, suddenly feeling a little angry again.

“Aren't you curious?” He looks at me with a puzzled expression.

“No. Why would I be?” I lie.

Cam lays the paper faceup on his desk and shrugs. “Okay. That's fine.” He scribbles something in the corner of the paper and his pencil breaks. “Shoot. Be right back.” He stands and walks to the pencil sharpener near the door.

I can't help it. I grab the paper and flip to the last page, last paragraph, and read as fast as possible.

If there was one thing Jane could use more of, it's confidence. Because everyone else can see what Jane doesn't see—she's much smarter, stronger, and more beautiful than she realizes. And that is just a matter of time, because when she does, the Melissas of the world had better watch out.

Huh? Cam thinks I'm beautiful? Leave it to me to jump right to that. He said I was other stuff, too. Out of the corner of my eye I see Cam begin to turn away from the pencil sharpener and I quickly shut his paper. I can feel my face flush.

Cam sits down at his desk and cocks his head. “Everything all right?”

“Um, yeah. Sure.” I glance down at the paper. Oh, crap. It's turned a good forty-five degrees farther to the left than how Cam had it. Does he notice?

“You look like you want to say something.”

“No, not really.” Except do you really think the things you wrote in your paper about me being strong and smart and stuff? But I can't exactly say that.

I turn around as Professor Monroe comes in and tosses her briefcase on her desk. I look at Cam once more. “I just wanted to say that I'm really happy for you and Em. I'm glad you guys found each other. It must be nice to have such a special connection with someone.”

Cam's eyebrows scrunch up, and he's got that weird, wounded look on his face again, like that day we were at Wired Joe's working on our papers.

“I hope I find love someday, too,” I add.

Nice. Now I'm just babbling. Somebody turn me off! I quickly face the front and close my eyes. Darn. That love thing was going too far, wasn't it? What if he and Em haven't exchanged the three big words yet? She'll be pissed. I can feel Cam staring at the back of my head, but there is no way I'm turning around again for the rest of class.

Oh. My. God!”
I say, gripping the door handle of Katie's car. Katie said she wanted to see the whole Espressology thing in action and offered to pick me up and bring me to work. She lets out a low whistle next to me.

“Holy crap,” she utters in a quiet voice.

We are both staring at the line of people wrapped around the corner at Wired Joe's.

“Is this . . . do you think . . . I mean . . .” I babble. My butt is suddenly glued to her passenger seat. Heck no am I getting out of this car.

“Jane!” Katie breathes. “Oh wow, Jane! Is this all for you?”

I look from one person to the next down the line of waiting customers. There are teenagers through senior citizens of all races and both genders standing in line, wearing their thick
winter coats, scarves, and gloves. I try to say something, but my mouth is suddenly really, really dry.

“I . . .” I start, intending to tell Katie to take me right home, but I can't finish my sentence because I'm distracted by Katie's shocked expression.

Katie is still staring at the line. “There's got to be at least fifty people standing out here,” she says. “It's like they are waiting for concert tickets or something.”

I press my forehead against the window and stare. Suddenly I feel myself fall out of the car as Derek yanks the door open.

“Do you believe this? Do you believe this?” he says, excitedly pulling me out of the car like a mother lifting a toddler out of a car seat. Derek reaches in, grabs my backpack, and slings it over his shoulder. Katie yells something about going to find parking and pulls away from the curb.

Just then I spot the Channel 7 news van up on the curb and a reporter talking into his microphone. “What do coffee and love have in common?” he says. “Everything, if you ask these people lined up outside this local Wired Joe's.”

“No, no,” I moan. “Is this really just for me? I mean for Espressology night?”

Derek nods enthusiastically and puts his arm around me. He leads me away from the line and to the back entrance of the store, right next to the Dumpster. I can faintly hear the reporter interviewing a woman in line.

“This is freaking nuts, Derek. I can't do this!” I protest, shaking my head.

Derek pulls me into his office and helps me out of my jacket.

“Yes, you can, Jane. You are a pro at this. Look at all of the people who came to get matched. I've never seen anything like it!”

“Me neither,” I say, slumping against his desk.

“Relax, Jane.” He slips the red Espressologist apron over my neck. “Forget about the news. I told them you'd be too busy for an interview right now.”

“An interview?” I squeak out. The closest I've ever gotten to television was when I was nine years old and the ABC weather anchor showed my crayon drawing of a rainy day that my mom had sent in. I glance down at my hands—they are red and shaking a bit.

“Ignore the line. Don't even think about it. Concentrate on one person at a time and remember how much fun you had last week.” Derek starts to rub my hands in an effort to warm them up.

“You are freaking me out with all of this touching, Derek.”

“Sorry, sorry,” he says. “I'm just pumped.”

I am relaxing slightly and actually feeling a bit of excitement in my belly. Either that or I am going to throw up all over the first person in line. But no, I can do this. I mean, I have done it. I'm going to march myself out there and I'm
going to make love happen for a lot of people. I'm going to . . . but before I can complete this thought Derek pulls me out of his office and pushes me right to the front of the store. Right in the middle of my pep talk to myself.

“HOORAY!” A huge cheer breaks out in the store.

People are clapping and hooting and it is all for me. There have got to be at least another thirty people standing in line inside the store. Sarah, Daisy, Brenda, Frankie, and Em are behind the counter ready to take orders and make drinks. And even Seth, aka the Macchiato Maniac, is here, and he has never worked a night shift before. He's a coffee master and extremely fast and precise at making drinks. Em is looking at me and shaking her head with an “I can't freakin' believe this” look on her face. I give her my “I can't freakin' believe it either” face.

“All right, all right, everyone,” Derek's voice booms. “Everyone calm down and we'll get started right away. Let's let her through, people.” He pushes into the crowd, making me a path. I give my best homecoming-queen-riding-atop-afloat wave. The clapping slowly dies down and I'm in a room full of super-jazzed-up people. I take my seat behind my table and set up my laptop and notes.

Deep breath.

“Okay, who's first?” I ask.

“I am.”

A woman in a bright pink tracksuit with shiny silver stripes pushes her way to the front of my table.

“Honey, I'm Darla. Darla Davenport from Oak Brook. You matched my very best friend in the whole world, Debbie Archer, last week, and she is so blissfully happy. You've got to pass some of your magic coffee love my way.”

I can't help but laugh at this woman's enthusiasm.

“No problem,” I say. “Give the barista behind the register your drink order and then we'll chat.”

“I'd like a medium cinnamon mocha,” she says to Em, snapping her gum in her mouth. She twirls around to face me. “You get that, hon? That's my favorite drink—a medium cinnamon mocha.”