The Espressologist (2 page)

The dance started out just fine. I could totally tell that people were impressed with my date. But then stupid, selfish Nathan couldn't keep with the plan. I went into the bathroom to fix my makeup and when I came out I saw Nathan totally
hitting on Melissa in front of the soda machine. I ran over to him, looped his arm with mine, and tried to yank him away but he wasn't budging. Melissa said, “Is this your date?” and Nathan replied, “Not really, I'm just doing a favor for my mom. This is my cousin Jane.” Well, that was that. Melissa nicknamed me “Cousin Dater” and made sure that everyone in attendance at the Lincoln High homecoming dance knew that I was there with my cousin. I was MORTIFIED. Nathan left with Melissa and I had to find a ride home.

The nickname, unfortunately, caught on. Soon people I had never even met were calling me “Cousin Dater.” My mom said, “Don't worry. It'll blow over. There will be a new drama with someone else next week and they'll forget all about you.” Yeah. I inadvertently ticked Melissa off a week later and my destiny was sealed. We were in the same Spanish class and the teacher told me to ask Melissa for a pen in
español
. I somehow mistranslated and ended up calling her a pig. The whole class laughed and I knew I was doomed. Never piss off the pretty people.

“It IS you, isn't it?” Melissa asks again.

I hand her back her credit card. “I don't know what you are talking about.”

“Oh, come on, you're the girl who took her hottie cousin to the Lincoln High homecoming last year. What was his name again?” She looks at Ginny. “Ethan or something, right? I went on a date with him. Terrible kisser.” She flares her nostrils in disgust at the memory. I busy myself making the two
lattes. Where are Sarah and Em? Why couldn't one of them make Melissa's blasted coffees? I stare straight ahead at the espresso machine and draw the first shot. I can feel tears starting to sting my eyes. Do NOT cry! The two girls move over to the counter to get in a better position to taunt me.

“So, Jane Turner, isn't it?” Melissa asks. “Still dating family members, Jane?” Both girls laugh.

I grab the cream instead of the skim milk and pour it into the foaming pitcher. There we go—we'll see who's laughing when she gets on the scale later.

“Ah, seriously, all kidding aside. What are you doing with yourself, Jane? You are a senior this year, right? Or did you drop out of high school to be a coffee girl?” Melissa smiles.

“I'm a barista,” I nearly whisper.

“I'm sorry, what's that?” she says.

“A barista,” I reply louder, “not a ‘coffee girl.' ” Melissa and Ginny both laugh even harder. Just then Em comes up behind me.

“What's so funny?” she asks, immediately recognizing both girls.

“Jane . . .” Melissa sputters. “She's . . . just so funny.”

“Well, it looks like your drinks are ready,” Em says curtly.

“Yeah, yeah, keep your apron on.” Melissa glares at Em before turning to address me. “Looks like we'll be seeing you often, Jane. Ginny and I are going to the School of the Art Institute of Chicago just up the street. It's a top fashion school.”

“I know.” I try to act unimpressed when secretly I totally am. That's the school I'm waiting to hear from. I've wanted to study fashion there for as long as I can remember, way before all of the fashion reality TV shows made it supercool for everyone and their sister to study fashion. And Melissa's at
my
DC. I feel sick.

“Where did you say you want to go to school again?” Melissa asks.

“I didn't. Have a nice day,” I tell her. I grab a rag and begin to clean the back counter. I hear the girls giggle as they leave the store. I pull out my notebook from underneath the espresso machine and quickly write:

Small Nonfat Latte

Bitch.

“What was that about?” Em asks once the girls are gone. “And what's with your hair?”

“Oh.” I let down my hair and then pin it back up again, neatly this time, with the clip. “It was my disguise. Not like it worked or anything. As for Melissa and Ginny—I don't know. I guess they didn't have enough time torturing me last year, so they thought they'd follow me throughout life.”

“You shouldn't put up with their crap, Jane.”

“I know. But forget about them. What happened with Derek? You aren't in trouble, are you?”

“In trouble? Why would you think that?”

“Sarah thought you looked scared when you came in,” I tell her.

Em laughs. “Scared, no. Irritated, yes. I hate coming in early. Especially when I'm not getting paid for it. And I had wanted to get some studying done before work.” Em is taking advanced everything. She wants to be prelaw at DePaul University next year and she's very serious about keeping up her 3.8 GPA. I pull out a box of whipped cream lids from a cabinet to restock up front.

“So what did Derek want, then?” I ask.

“Oh, you're not going to believe this. He wants me to be the assistant manager! Like I have any bloody time to be the assistant manager!” Em is not British, but adopts a British accent whenever she gets really mad. It started shortly after we saw
Bridget Jones's Diary
.

“Really? That's kind of neat.” I wonder why he didn't ask me. I have nothing but time. Not to mention I've been working here longer than Em.

“Well, I told him no,” she says. “The extra two dollars an hour is not worth the headaches.”

Raise? I could use a raise. “Hey, are you okay up here for a minute?”

“Sure. Where are you going?”

“To talk to Derek,” I say, and give her a wink. Time to make things happen.

All right, ladies
, stop your yapping and listen up,” Derek says as he approaches the coffee counter. Ever the charmer, that one is. Sarah and Em both glare at Derek, arms folded across their chests. Derek is a mid-thirties
American Rock Star
contestant wannabe (seriously . . . he tried out and didn't make it on the show), with a shaved head, tat sleeves, and the beginnings of a beer belly. “I'd like you to meet your new assistant manager.” I step out from behind Derek and give the girls jazz hands. Ta da!

“Omigod Jane! That is so cool!” Sarah squeals.

“Totally!” Em agrees. I'm so glad she's not mad that I went and talked to Derek right after she turned down the job.

“Yeah, yeah, somebody's got to do it,” Derek interjects.

“Your faith in me is underwhelming, Derek,” I say, and pat
him on the back. He shoots me daggers with his eyes before heading to his office. Okay, the pat might have been a bit much. Just because we are both management now doesn't mean we should touch. As soon as Derek is out of earshot we all laugh.

“Seriously, that's great, Jane. I'm glad you took the job,” Em says as she hugs me.

Did I mention that she is the greatest best friend ever?

“What are we celebrating?” Gavin, my absolute favorite regular, approaches the counter.

“Hey, Gav! I've just been crowned assistant manager,” I tell him.

“That's great!” He reaches over the counter and hugs me, too. I'm getting all the love today. “Congrats!”

“Hey, I've got Gavin,” I say to Em and Sarah. “The usual, right?” Gavin comes in almost every day and orders the same thing, a medium iced vanilla latte.

He nods, already handing me the $3.89 in cash. I mark the plastic cup, slide it over to Sarah to make, and lean toward Gavin on my elbows.

“So, what's new with you?” I ask.

“Not too much,” he says with a slight hesitation. “Well, that isn't totally true. Anne and I broke up yesterday.”

“Ooh, I'm sorry. Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Actually I am pretty okay with it. Our relationship had run its course. I'm too young to be tied down anyway, right?” He laughs.

“Sure! That's a good attitude, Gav. I'm glad you aren't letting it bring you down.”

“Medium iced vanilla latte,” Sarah bellows, no more than three feet away from us.

“That's my call,” he says, picking up his drink and popping in the straw. “See you tomorrow.” He takes a sip and heads for the door.

“Later.” I smile. “Did you hear that?” I ask, stepping over to the girls, who have begun refilling the cookie and coffee cake trays in the glass showcase.

“Yeah, it's too bad,” Em says. “He's a good guy.”

“He is,” I agree, and wipe down the pick-up counter with a wet white rag. “We should totally set him up with someone.” I mentally list all the cool girls that I know.

Small Decaf Soy Sugar-free Hazelnut Caffe Latte

Yuppie, her-hubby-is-off-running-an-empire-while-she-is-teaching-the-baby-Latin-with-low-fat-wheat-alphabet-pretzels, yoga-doing-superwoman, stay-at-home-mommy drink. She's fit, in style, and toting a three-hundred-dollar designer diaper bag on her shoulder and a lackadaisical four-month-old in a BabyBjörn on her front. She's über-smart, probably has a master's in something but has given up her high-profile career to focus on the chosen one, who is already showing superior dexterity with the way he is grasping his Baby Einstein flash cards.

“That will be two ninety-five,” Sarah tells the customer as she marks the order on the paper cup and slides it my way. “Think you can stop writing in your notebook long enough to make this drink?”

“Already on it,” I say, and toss the notebook under the counter once again. I pour a shot of decaf espresso into the plastic cup, add three pumps of sugar-free hazelnut syrup, and begin foaming the soy milk to pour on top.

“Small decaf soy sugar-free hazelnut caffe latte,” I call out as I hand the woman her drink and make the expected cooing noises to the baby.

“So, are you ever really going to tell me what's in the notebook?” Sarah asks.

“It's work-related,” I respond. “It's part of my assistant-manager duties. Derek just didn't want me to talk about it before.” Okay, I'm totally lying now, but Sarah doesn't have to know that. How do I explain to her what I am doing? I don't think I can. About three months ago I was really bored at work and started doodling in my notebook. This woman came in and ordered a large caramel frappycap and it just sort of hit me that she SEEMED like the large-caramel-frappycap type. Not so current with fashion, kinda frumpy, no clue where the gym is, doesn't mind the five hundred calories in the drink. Like, I could see her somewhere else, outside of Wired Joe's, and know that was her drink. It's a “you are what you drink” philosophy. So I've been documenting people's
drinks—all kinds of people. Young and old, skinny and fat, blue-collar and white-collar. It's become my little project.

“Ohhhhhh!” Sarah says, and I can see a look of respect come over her face. God, I am so bad. I glance at Em and she has a “you are so full of crap” look on her face. The glass door opens and we are blasted with the cold air again.

“Hey,” I tell Sarah and Em, “I'll be right back. I have to grab a sweater.” I race to the break room and grab my faux-fur-trimmed hoodie vest. Doesn't exactly go with the Wired Joe's ensemb', but I'm freezing. I walk back up to the front and see Sarah engaged in conversation with a short (maybe five-three?) slim brunette in her early twenties. She's pretty cute. Smart and simple. Nice style—no thong peeking out of her pants or other fashion disasters. Maybe a medium cappuccino? I race back up to the espresso machine and ask Sarah, “Can I get a drink started?”

“Yeah, this is my friend Simone. She wants a medium dry cappuccino.”

Ooh, I was close! She just wants an extra foamy cup. I start to foam the milk for the drink. Friend, huh? Hmm . . . what goes well with a medium dry cappuccino? Maybe a medium iced vanilla latte? I smile, and a plan forms in my mind.

“Hey, girls!” Two of my good friends from elementary school, Ava and Katie, walk into Wired Joe's. Now they both
go to St. Pat's, a private high school. “Quitting time,” I yell to Em, who is already gathering her things. Ava is really into drama and is the lead in the community theater's rendition of
Mame
. Not only is she drop-dead gorgeous, she can sing circles around anyone I know. Katie wants to be an astronaut one day and already plans on doing an internship at NASA next summer. She is way, way smart.