The Right and the Real (15 page)

There was one other morning employee at the Coffee Klatch besides us, but she handled the food. Mishka, whom I hadn’t officially met yet, hid out in the back washing dishes and making soup and baguette sandwiches for lunch.

Both Trent and Amanda were kind of young to be managers, and when I’d asked him about it while we prepped to open, he said, “Nepotism. At least for me. Amanda’s just hot.” He saw me grin and raise my eyebrows like,
oh, really?
and he realized what he’d said. “Not that
I
think she’s hot. I meant I got the job because my uncle owns the place and my cousin Ian manages it. Amanda got the job because
Ian
thinks she’s hot.”

“Oh, right,” I said, nodding, but I’d actually been thinking,
God, why does his hair have to look so silky and fall in his face like that?

After the decaf guy left with his complimentary five-dollar drink, Trent filled the milk and cream carafes, and I rinsed out the empty jugs for recycling.

“Okay,” Trent said. “Time for speed training.”

“What’s that?”

“Like speed dating. You ask me as many questions during this lull as you can, and I will train you into Super Barista Chick.”

I actually had a lot of things I wanted to ask Trent, but none of them had to do with my job. I wanted to know if he ever made any
short films. And did he use local actresses in them? And was he really moving to New York next fall? I settled on the third one.

“I heard you’re going to NYU,” I said.

“Okay, first of all—not a question.” He handed me a container of cream to stick back in the fridge. “Second—doesn’t have anything to do with your job,” he said. “But, hey, I’m always willing to talk about me.”

“So, are you going to film school?”

He let out a defeated sigh. “We’ll see. I already deferred it one year for lack of cash, and I don’t know if I’ll have it this fall or not.”

He told me a little about the scholarships he’d gotten and how they weren’t enough, and then he showed me how to make a few drinks, but both of our moods had sunk. I didn’t mention my New York dreams. We were pretty much in the same boat. No money. And it depressed me too much to talk about it.

I was still thinking about how unfair it all was while I scrubbed the tables and Trent made the drinks for the next rush of customers. As soon as I finished clearing, I went back and checked on the coffee. I decided to empty the steaming grounds so we’d be ready to make more, but they were way hotter than I expected.

“Ow! Ow! Ow!” I dropped the basket, dumping the grounds on the floor in a soggy pile.

“You okay?” Trent asked. “Did you burn yourself?”

My fingertips felt like I’d dipped them in hot oil, but I didn’t want to admit it. “Sorry. I’ll clean it up.”

“Hang on.” He took my right hand in his and wiped the grounds off with a rag. He held it up and examined it, then started kissing the tips and making loud smacking noises. “That’ll make it better.”

“Ooohh, yuck, boy germs,” I said to hide my embarrassment, and tugged my hand away. After that, while I was scooping up the mess, I had a stupid grin on my face, which seemed to be a permanent fixture around Trent.

“Oh, crap,” I said. “I accidentally threw the grounds in the garbage instead of the blue bin. Should I scoop them out?”

“Definitely,” he said, nodding, making a very serious face. “I need you to pick them out one ground at a time. Otherwise I’ll probably have to fire you.” He laughed, and I shoved his shoulder.

“Excuse me. Hello?” said a woman at the counter. “I’ll have a double skinny latte.” She was so thin I wanted to slip her a full-fat drink.

“Coming right up.” Trent waved me over to his side. “Watch and learn, Jamie.”

I made a big deal over his technique with the foam, pretending to take notes. “If I’m going to be Super Barista Chick, I need to know what I’m doing,” I said, and he rolled his eyes.

I actually did try to concentrate on the drink and how he made it, but I kept sneaking looks at Trent the whole time too. It sounds pretty cliché, considering where we worked, but his eyes really were the color of dark, rich coffee. Or maybe melted chocolate.

After the woman was gone, Trent said, “You think you can handle the counter? I have to check in with Mishka about the lunch menu.”

“Sure.” I hoped I sounded confident.

“Yell if you need me. And could you fill the straws and napkins while I’m gone?”

“Will do, boss.”

He was totally nice, but I still felt kind of dumb because he had to tell me everything. Maybe I wasn’t cut out for a restaurant. I put more napkins in the basket and got out a fresh box of straws. I was thinking
I was pretty smart for refilling the brown sugar all on my own when LaVon walked in and the strangest thing happened.

The Coffee Klatch is not that big of a place. About a dozen people were sitting around, and a low hum filled the room. But when LaVon stepped through the doors, everyone looked up and the conversation totally died. Only for a beat, though. Then it started right up again. Except for two girls who gave each other frightened looks and grabbed their cups and scooted out as soon as he had passed them.

Their reaction kind of pissed me off because it was so obvious they thought he was here to rob us or something. He
was
big and scary- looking, though. I’d have to give them that. Also, it was overcast and raining outside, but he had on his wraparound shades to cover his eye, which probably looked suspicious if you didn’t know him.

“Hey, LaVon,” Trent said from behind me.

“Trent.” LaVon lifted his chin hello. If he’d noticed everyone’s reactions, he didn’t let it show. “I came to check out the new girl.”

“We only hire the finest,” Trent said.

“Hi, LaVon.” I hoped I wasn’t blushing over Trent’s comment. “You came to see me? How did you know I worked here? Did I tell you? The muffins are really good. Whole grain with blueberries.”

LaVon laughed. “Girl, you had too much coffee this morning.”

He was probably right. “What can I get you? I think I can make a mocha now, and probably a latte too.”

“Load me up with organic hot chocolate,” he said, handing me a stainless steel travel mug.

“Sure. With whipped cream?” I chirped.

“Hell, yeah, I want whipped cream,” he said. “Do I look like I’m on a diet?”

That totally cracked me up. We joked around while I steamed the milk and then LaVon took his drink to go.

“How do you know that guy?” Trent asked after he was gone.

“Lives in my neighborhood. Why?” I heard something challenging in my voice.

“No reason,” Trent said. “He comes in here every day. Usually later, though. He seems okay, but still…he makes me nervous. He’s one scary-looking dude.”

I shrugged. “He’s a great guy.”

“If you say so.”

“I do,” I said.

But I wasn’t totally sure. I couldn’t really argue with the fact that the way LaVon carried himself and wore sunglasses inside made him intimidating. And he’d been nice to me, but he’d also been to jail for something. I couldn’t remember his last name, but once I found out what it was, I intended to look him up on the Internet, because my curiosity was killing me.

As I wiped down the counter, I asked myself,
Would I have been as afraid of LaVon if he’d been as big and worn those shades, but was white?
I liked to think so, but…the truth was, and it seemed so…weird and…I don’t know…embarrassing, I guess…to admit it even to myself, but I was worried those two girls were more like me than I wanted anyone to know. Maybe they
were
afraid of him because he was black, and maybe…maybe I was too. Or African American. I wasn’t even sure what words to use, which made me acutely aware of the whole race thing too.

Trent snapped me out of my contemplations by asking me to mop behind the counter before I left for school. I rolled the yellow bucket out of the storage closet and gave the floor a quick swipe.

“Ummm…Cinderella?” he said.

“Yeah?”

“Not to be critical…” He was smiling, but my stomach sank. I knew I’d done something wrong. Again. “Next time, maybe sweep before you mop, okay?”

I looked at all the dirt, crumbs, and coffee grounds floating in the water, which had been clean when I started. “Oh, man. I am never going to reach Super Barista Chick status,” I said. I glanced up at the clock. “Should I change the water?”

Trent took the mop from me and leaned on it, grinning. “I’ll do it, but you’ll owe me. You better get going, or you’ll be late for school.”

“Yes, Dad,” I said.

We were laughing as I left, but when I’d jokingly called him
Dad,
it sent a little ping into my heart like I’d been shot by a BB gun.

I’d called Krista from the pay phone and told her she’d have to get her own ride today because I’d overslept, which of course was a lie. I didn’t want her to know about my job—she’d say I wouldn’t have time to work and be in
West Side Story
too, and I didn’t want to think about that until I had to.

She came running up to me before first period for a hug. “Ooohh! You smell like coffee.” She stepped back and checked out my stained sweater, jeans, and boots. “My God, Jamie. What happened to you? You look like you got in a fight at Starbucks.”

“Something like that,” I said.

My first two classes went by in a blur, and when I got to English, Mr. Lazby told me to stop by the office after class because I had a message. I needed to change for dance and didn’t want to be late, but I was hoping maybe my dad had finally dropped off my mail. The
balls of my feet ached with every step, and my arms felt rubber bandy from lifting milk, and mops, and coffee, but in my pocket was a wad of ones. Trent had given me my first tips before I left.

“This is for you, hon,” Mrs. Monroe said, handing me a large manila envelope when I got to the office. Her bright orange fingernails looked like carrot sticks stuck to the ends of her fingers. “Your dad left it for you.”

“Thanks.”

The envelope was filled with mail. Unfortunately, the bulk of it was all the letters I’d been sending to my dad. And none of them were opened. As I walked toward the locker room, I searched through the rest, looking for my letter from RAC, but it wasn’t there. Instead, I found two drama school flyers for programs I hadn’t applied to, a letter from
Seventeen
magazine asking me to renew, the new issue of
Dramatics,
and a change of address form with a sticky note stuck to it that said in my father’s handwriting,
Please use this.
Yeah, well…it wasn’t like he had a mailbox anymore anyway. I couldn’t help grinning a little.

I guessed the letter hadn’t come yet, but at least it seemed likely he’d drop it off when it did. That was something. The warning bell rang, and I headed for the locker room. I had shoved almost everything back into the envelope when a letter fell out of
Dramatics.
I stopped, staring at the New York postmark. Around me I heard running footsteps of kids hurrying to class, and I picked it up and moved out of the way, leaning against a block of lockers. Carefully, slowly, afraid of what I’d find, I tore open the thin letter from the Redgrave Actors Conservatory.

“YES!” I screamed.

I was going to New York City to be an actress. Nothing could
stop me now. I had to find Krista and Mr. Lazby. I was on my way to the Big Apple, baby. And if I could make it there, I could make it anywhere.

The halls were almost empty now, but a few stragglers turned and looked at me. I waved the letter as I ran past them toward the art room.
I got in! I got in!
thumped my feet as I ran. I skidded to a stop in front of the open door to Mrs. Steen’s art room and peered in. Krista was sitting at a drafting table, a piece of charcoal in one hand, her tongue sticking out just a little between her bright purple lips.

This period was Advanced Independent Study, so there were only four other kids in the room. Mrs. Steen was standing on a chair stapling drawings to a bulletin board. As usual, she had four pencils stuck in her graying bun, plus a pair of glasses on top of her head and another pair dangling around her neck on a chain.

Krista looked at me as I sidled up next to her with a huge grin on my face. “You got in!” she said, before I could tell her. She dropped the charcoal and threw her arms around me.

“Come with me to tell Mr. Lazby?” I asked.

“Definitely!” she said. “Mrs. Steen? I need to run over to the costume shop for a few minutes.”

Krista’s independent study project was designing the costumes for
West Side Story,
so Mrs. Steen told her it was fine to go. When we got to the theater, we found Liz sitting at Mr. Lazby’s desk downstairs in the drama room, working on her English essay. She’d taken dance with me for the first half of the school year, but after a while, the lameness of most of the other students got to her, so she’d begged her guidance counselor to let her be Mr. Lazby’s teacher’s assistant, and now she babysat his beginning drama class for him.

“Hey,” I said. “Mr. Lazby in the costume shop?”

“Of course,” she said.

Around the drama room, the first-year students were paired up, studying scripts and practicing lines for some scene they were probably going to do in class. Liz’s sister, Megan, was in the corner with a tall, skinny boy. She waved at us, and we waved back.

“Come on,” I told Liz.

“What’s up?”

Krista grabbed her arm and pulled her along. “You’ll see.”

“You must have good gossip.”

“Better than that,” I said.

She followed us down the dim hallway to find Mr. Lazby. He was sitting at his sewing machine, leaning back in the swivel chair and talking on the phone. “Hang on a sec.” He covered the receiver with his hand. “You got in, didn’t you?”

I nodded, a grin splitting my face. He murmured something into the phone and hung up. Then he heaved his large body out of the chair, sending it flying back on its wheels, and scooped me up into a big hug.

“Wait? What happened?” Liz asked.

“I got into the Redgrave Actors Conservatory,” I said, although I think it sounded more like “mmhhmlphl…” because Mr. Lazby was squishing me with his hug.