The Espressologist (5 page)

“You've GOT to be kidding me,” Derek says as he steps around the corner, staring directly at my notebook.

Ah, crap. Man, I'm just batting a thousand today with him.

“What do you think you are doing?” he asks, just as two older women with Tammy Faye Bakker makeup jobs walk in and head straight for the counter. “Sarah? Sarah?” he calls out. I stuff my notebook back under the counter.

“She's in the bathroom,” I say.

Sarah comes walking quickly toward us, smoothing down her apron. “Sorry about that.” She gives us one of those “you know how it is when you have to go” smiles.

“Sarah, cover Jane. Jane, let's go back in my office and talk.”

Ugh. This is so not cool. I give Sarah an “it's no big deal” look and follow Derek to his office. I have to think quickly before we get there. I know he is going to yell at me about my notebook, so I need a logical reason for having it up at the counter.

Derek stomps into his office, points to a seat to indicate that I should sit down, and shuts the door behind me.

“What's up?” I ask, playing stupid.

He sighs, sitting heavily into his chair opposite me. “Jane, you understand that you're the assistant manager now, right?”

“Yeah, of course.” Duh, Derek, I was totally here last week when you gave me the job.

“Well, then, that means you have to start acting like one. You need to be setting an example for the other employees. You need to be backing me up whenever I need you to do something. First you screw up the inventory, and then I catch you doing your homework while you are working. You've had the job for what, four days now? Maybe I made a mistake in promoting you. Maybe it is too much for you to handle . . .”

“No!” I protest loudly, interrupting his tirade. “I'm totally perfect for this job. And I wasn't doing my homework.” Please, I've been back at school for all of eight hours. I haven't reached the point of doing homework yet.

“You weren't?” His eyebrows shoot up and he tightens his lips.

“No. I was working. I was . . .” Hmm . . . what was I doing? “I was coming up with new specialty drinks. I thought maybe we could do an ‘Assistant Manager's Specialty Drink of the Week' and feature what I come up with. I was being inventive. Creative. I was being a go-getter. I was ‘thinking outside the box.' ” Ooh . . . that's a good one.

“Hmm.” He seems to consider this.
Believe me, believe me, believe me,
I beam at him with my eyes. “Well, that's not a
bad
idea,” he says. I relax into my seat. “But it would have to be a ‘Manager's Specialty Drink of the Week.' ” He straightens up and gets a little attitude in his voice. “I mean, I think people
would want to know what the manager suggests since I AM the highest-ranking person here.”

I nod. “Of course.”

“And it might raise sales,” Derek says. He glances off to the side of his desk where his computer monitor sits and runs his index finger horizontally across his chin. Yeah, I'm sure he's thinking more sales than Todd Stone. “Your idea isn't half bad.”

“Thank you!” I beam. Wow, three pats on the back for me for flipping this situation around so quickly.

“So, what did you come up with?” he asks.

Oh, crap.

“Well . . .” I stall for time. “I don't have my notebook with me, but . . .”

“Yes?” he prods.

“What about a soy raspberry mocha with a swirl of caramel?” I suggest, crossing my fingers behind my chair.

“That's gross,” he says flatly.

Ah, well, they can't all be winners.

“I'm still working on it,” I tell him. “Give me some time.”

“You lost me at caramel. But it wasn't a bad try. How about this? Come up with a month's worth of specialty drinks and get back to me with them. Your idea is okay.” He gives me an approving nod. Derek actually looks almost happy.

“Thanks, Derek!” I say, and head out of his office.

“Did he demote you?” Sarah asks when I join her in the front.

“Not at all,” I respond. “We were just talking about some ways to increase profits.”

“Wow,” Sarah says, looking impressed.

“Yeah, there really is a lot that comes with being assistant manager,” I say in my hoity-toity voice.

“Sounds like it,” she replies as she straightens up the straws and picks up wrappers off the counter. “By the way, your friends were just in here.”

“Which friends?” I ask.

“Two girls,” Sarah answers. “Both thin and blond, but the taller one was really beautiful. I couldn't really tell if she was being sincere or snarky, though. They ordered small nonfat lattes.”

“Ugh . . . say no more!” I immediately know whom she is talking about. “They aren't my friends. Not even close. I'm glad I missed them.”

“Really?” Sarah questions. “They asked about you.”

“What did they say?” I'm not sure I really want to know.

“Well, the taller one specifically said, ‘What? My friend Jane isn't here today? Oh shoot, she makes the BEST drinks.' ”

“Yeah,” I conclude, “she was being snarky.”

“Who were they?”

“Just some stupid girls from school last year. They were seniors when I was a junior and not exactly nice to me.”

“Oh, how lame are they? I guess they haven't matured at all since high school.”

“Nope,” I declare, starting to make two small vanilla crème frappycaps a couple of preteens just ordered.

“So, what kind of mood is Derek in now?” Sarah asks.

“Almost decent,” I tell her. “I would talk to him now if you need anything.”

“I actually do,” she says. “I'm hoping he'll let me have the day after Thanksgiving off. I want to hit the Black Friday sales.”

“Sounds like fun! But that is one of our busiest days. Everybody wants coffee while they shop. He might not go for it. I would definitely ask him now before he gets on his next tirade.” I am so jealous. I'd love to go to the Black Friday sales, but I know for sure he'll have me work that day.

“Okay, be right back,” she says, and heads toward Derek's office.

The front door swings open and five police officers walk in. They aren't in the standard-issue police uniform, though. They are wearing faded blue jeans, dark sweatshirts, and black bulletproof jackets with the word POLICE embroidered across the back in white capital letters. I recognize Officer Jake right away. He's been in here a couple of times before and he is definitely hard to miss. In his early twenties, and built like a baseball player, Officer Jake is tall, Italian, and gorgeous. The muscles busting out of his forearms are incredible. You just want to touch them. The other guys with him are decent-looking enough, though maybe a bit older. Officer Jake is definitely the cutie of the group. And single.

“Hey, how's it going?” he bellows out as he approaches the
counter, confidence radiating from him. This guy is definitely comfortable in his own skin.

“Great. What can I get you all?” They each give me their order, but I concentrate on Officer Jake's—a large extra-bold Sumatra with room for cream. Hmm . . . confident, daring, fun, and, well, incredibly hot. He's perfect for Sarah! Now how to get them together?

I make all the officers their drinks and call them out. They take them to one of the bigger tables near the windows. It looks like they are going to sit and talk for a while, so I have a few minutes to devise a hookup plan. I grab a napkin and walk over to the employee bulletin board in the hallway outside the break room.

“Sarah, Sarah, Sarah,” I say, scanning the employee call list tacked up on it. Bingo. I scribble Sarah's phone number onto the napkin with a short cute note and hustle back up to the front. Okay, now I have to get it to him. I glance over to the dessert tray in the display case, and a plan forms in my mind. I take out a slice of our signature coffee cake and place it on the napkin, careful not to cover the phone number so it doesn't leave any grease marks and smudge a number. Just then, Sarah returns.

“You were right, Jane. He was in a pretty good mood. He let me take the day off.”

“Great. Hey, do me a favor,” I say as I start finger-combing Sarah's long black curls and wipe some mascara smudges from under her eyes.

“Um . . . what are you doing?” she asks. “You better not wipe spit on me next.”

“I won't. Just take this cake out to that magnificent-looking policeman sitting over by the window.” Sarah looks up and sees Officer Jake.

“YUUUUUUMMMMMMMY!” she exclaims, and starts to help me fix her hair. “Here.” She holds out her hand and I place the cake in it. I watch Sarah walk up to the table and hand Officer Jake his cake. He grins, looking a little puzzled, but accepts the cake. Sarah tells him something and throws back her head, shaking her curls a bit. She's definitely flirting. She says something else and returns to the counter. I can see that she's hiked up her tight long-sleeve cotton shirt so that a strip of her stomach and back peeks out. She's a pro. He's totally watching her walk away.

Officer Jake and his friends talk for another moment and Sarah and I drool from afar as we watch him take a few bites of the cake. We're drooling over him, of course, though the cake looks pretty good today, too. A call comes over their radios and they all jump up and head for the door. Officer Jake comes by the counter first and waves the napkin at Sarah.

“Thanks for the cake,” he says with a wink. “I'll give you a call.”

Sarah beams and nods and we both watch him leave. She turns to me, “What the . . . ?”

“There's your hookup.”

Is it just
me, or does this project seem a bit lame to you?” I ask, scooting my chair and desk around so that I can sit face-to-face with Cameron White. Professor Monroe, our English instructor, said our next assignment is a five-to-eight-page biography on someone else in the class. Because of our seating vicinity, Cam and I decided to partner up on this one.

“I don't know,” he says with a straight face. “It might be fun to learn about all your deep dark secrets.”

I stare at him for a moment, not sure what to say.

“You don't really expect me to tell you my secrets, do you?” I whisper.

“Well, you'll have to give me something good to write about. I want an A.” Cam grins at my worried look.

“No way!” I exclaim with a nervous laugh, relieved. “Besides, I'm going first with the questions.” I tap my pen on
my notebook, purse my lips, and study Cam. He's really not bad-looking at all. He's a little more rugged than the typical guys I see around the city. More like he should be hiking a trail somewhere instead of riding the El train. But he's got really nice blue eyes and he laughs a lot, which makes his face light up.

“You are taking too long to come up with a question. You're kind of scaring me.”

“Okay, okay, I'm just trying to come up with some good ones. I think I'm going to start from the present and work my way back, if you don't mind,” I say.

“I don't mind. Shoot.”

“Okay. Number one, how did you decide to attend Anthony Carter Community College?” I ask.

“That's a good question,” Cam says, and I relax a little and prepare to take notes. “I actually got into Indiana University—it's one of the Big Ten schools. They have a decent finance program—that's my major, by the way—and I'd always planned on going there.”

“What happened?”

“Well,” he says, taking a long pause. “My mom was diagnosed with breast cancer in August.”

“Wow,” I say, dropping my pen. “I'm really sorry.”

“She's doing okay so far,” he tells me, “but she's all alone and, well, she needs me right now. The chemo has been rough on her. For the time being, I'm staying home to help her and going to school locally.”

“You are, like, the best son ever.” I have a sudden respect for Cam. He shrugs.

“My turn. What's your favorite coffee drink?”

“What?” I chuckle. “Are you kidding me? Is this going in my biography?”

“Definitely,” he says, with his pen on his paper waiting to write down my answer. “I'm very interested. You already told me you're the assistant manager at the Wired Joe's around the corner, so I'm sure you're an expert on the best drinks.”

“That is kind of true.” I try to sound modest. “But just because I know a lot about coffee doesn't mean my favorite would be everybody's favorite. It's such an individual thing.”

“Still waiting . . .” He feigns impatience.

“Large iced nonfat mocha, no whip,” I tell him, and he actually writes it down.

“Hmm . . . interesting.” Cam stares at what he just wrote.

“Oh, stop it,” I say, shaking my head. I've been analyzing people and their drinks for so long that it's kind of weird having someone analyze me. Just then Professor Monroe interrupts and tells us that class is over for today. I check my watch. Fifteen minutes to get to work.

“I don't have nearly enough here to write a paper on you, so it looks like we're going to have to work on this outside of class. Do you want to meet sometime?”

“Sure,” I say, writing my e-mail address down in the upper corner of his notebook. “Gimme your e-mail, too.” He writes his in my notebook. “When is this due, anyway?” I ask.

“Next Wednesday. We only have a week, so we'll have to get together soon,” he says.

“Let's shoot for Sunday afternoon,” I suggest. “I work until four. You can meet me at Wired Joe's and we can work at a table there.”

“Cool.” He tosses his books in his backpack and walks with me out the classroom door. “See you then.”

“See you,” I say, buttoning up my tan designer-knockoff jacket (who can afford a real one?) and slipping my backpack over one shoulder. As I head out the door I hear the signal on my phone indicating I have a text message. It says, “J, come over. 911. E.”