Wednesday, August 24
(Kate)
I sleep until nine o'clock and Maddie is already at work when I emerge from my hibernation chamber. Damn, do lawyers pump pure oxygen into their homes? Because I sleep like the dead here. I feel like such a lazy ass. I know that Dr. Ridley said I need to get more sleep, but I've had more sleep these past two days than I usually get in a week. I decide to take Princess for a walk and then go downstairs to the gym and pound out a few miles on the treadmill before I quit. I can't surf, so I run. I remind myself the pain in my exhausted muscles isn't pain, it's life. And life feels divine. Every day, every minute, every second.
I shower and run a comb through my wet hair and brush my teeth. I'm dressed and ready to go in ten minutes. Gus has never been able to figure how a girl can shower and be out-the-door ready in that short amount of time. It takes his primping ass forty-five minutes to get ready to go anywhere. I guess society does dictate certain expectations where woman are concerned, I've just never bothered with them. Time is precious. And I don't waste it. Growing up, mornings were always rushed and I had to learn to fine-tune my routine. I've never worn makeup, and I don't own a blow dryer or straightening iron. Truth be told, I wouldn't even know what to do with any of it even if I did. Junior year in high school a friend decided I needed a makeover and put makeup on me and straightened my hair. It felt like I was wearing a mask with that shit all over my face. I don't like looking in the mirror and seeing someone else. I like looking in the mirror and seeing plain old Kate. The only thing I'm picky about is my clothes. I hate anything unoriginal. I mean, I wear jeans most of the time, but as far as tops go, I don't wear anything straight off the rack. I scour thrift shops, always looking for shirts with interesting patterns. I cut them up and salvage the best parts to combine with T-shirts Gus is always buying me. Gus calls it "rocker-bohemian." Whatever. I like it. As I zip up my duffle bag, I unfold the I heart San Diego T-shirt Gus gave me before I left. My fingers are itching to make something unique out of it.
I grab my sunglasses and head out to my car wearing my Surf or Die modified tank top. It's warm and humid today. It reminds me of home, so I dress for it. I'm happy as hell. And I need to check out my future home, so I'm ready to make the fifteen mile drive to Grant and the college campus. I have no idea what to expect. I've only seen the campus in pamphlet photos and online.
Maddie's apartment is on the western edge of the Minneapolis city limits, just off the highway. Grant is due west of her place. I find the on-ramp and pull onto the highway, and within seconds, I've passed every car in sight. Ten of them. I counted. With that few cars on the highway, it feels eerie as hell. Is the apocalypse coming and no one told me? Where is everyone? I'm used to traffic jams and honking horns or people driving ninety miles an hour on the highway. What the hell? People actually drive the speed limit here? I feel like some sort of criminal as I blaze past them, speeding through fifteen miles and rolling into Grant in only ten minutes. I slow down along the residential streets, and soon Grant College comes into view.
Grant is pretty, picturesque even. The campus is small, and the buildings are old, but not old like shitty and rundown, they're old like grand and well cared for. The dorms are old too. Four stories of brick, mortar, and ivy, but they've got character and look inviting. I sigh in relief. In a few days, that building will be home, and it looks like a home. It hits me that this is happening. I'm a college student in Minnesota. I'm also alone for the first time in my life. And even though alone is going to take some getting used to, at this moment it isn't as scary as I thought it would be.
Just beyond the dorms is Main Street in the actual town of Grant. I pull up to the stoplight and look around. It's a cute street lined with a flower shop, a liquor store, a deli, a small grocery/pharmacy, and a hair salon. And then I see it—a coffee shop. And not some obnoxious chain coffee shop, but a real live, down to earth, unassuming coffee shop nestled at the end of the block in a brick building with big windows facing the street. And even though I've already had three cups of coffee this morning that I brewed in the Holy Grail at Maddie's, I can't resist checking it out. I tell myself I'll just stop in and introduce myself, but as I pull to the curb out front, I'm already debating whether I need a small or my usual large. Coffee is crack, I swear. I can't resist it. I can't say no. I begin to rationalize the visit by telling myself that they may be hiring. And I need a job, like yesterday.
The door is huge and intricately carved and looks like it must weigh a ton, so I grip the handle and push with all my might. I practically fall on my ass when the damn thing flies open, light as a feather. A bell clangs against the door. And it's thunderous. Wide-eyed, I look around the shop. There's a guy with his nose in a book sitting on the loveseat on one side of the room, a couple sitting at a small table on the other side of the room, and a guy behind the counter and they all look up at the ruckus I've created. It's instinct to try to quiet the bell and take the attention away from myself, but when I stretch my hand high above my head, I can't reach it. I'm five feet tall, and the bell is suspended at least a foot out of my reach. I smile sheepishly, and when the bell dies itself out, I announce, "I'm here," in little more than a whisper.
The dark, smiling man behind the counter confirms it. "Yes, you certainly are." He speaks with an accent, but I can't place it yet. He's probably around forty, with hair as black as coal; deep, toffee colored skin; and huge, dark, smiling eyes. And his tone isn't mocking, it's kind and welcoming. I like him already. "You are new here, no?" He motions for me to come closer. "I'm Romero. Welcome to Grounds on Main, my friend." He salutes at me and instead of being silly, it's endearing.
I awkwardly salute back. "Um, yeah, and I'm Kate." When did I transform into a bumbling, socially inept fool? I clear my throat and extend my hand to Romero. "I'm Kate Sedgwick, and you're right, I am new here." I laugh. "Is it that obvious? Well hell, I've completely blown my cover. I was kind of trying to keep a low profile, but then I went and woke the dead with your bell."
He laughs warmly. "No worries. This is a small community. I know everyone. But you, you I have never seen, Kate Sedgwick. You are from California?" When he says California, it's like five separate words: CALL EE FOR NEE UH.
My eyebrows pinch together as I try to figure out how in the hell he knew that. "Yeah, that's right."
He sees my confusion and points out the front window at my car. "Your license plate. Where in California?"
The crease in my forehead relaxes. "Oh right, of course. I'm from San Diego, born and raised."
His face looks truly pained. "Oh, Kate my dear, I wish you luck this winter. I am from El Salvador, and I can assure you that Minnesota winters are not for the faint of heart." Minnesota sounds like four separate words: MINN EE SO TAH.
I huff; he's touched on my one true fear about moving here...the cold. "Yeah, I hear they're a bitch."
He chuckles and his eyes sparkle.
The guy sitting on the loveseat reading a book chimes in. "They are a bitch." I look over, and his nose is still in his book, but he's smiling. He has red hair and a thick beard. I can't help but think he must be suffocating in this humid heat. His smile is innocent, youthful even. He has hipster written all over him. He doesn't say any more, so I return to Romero.
"So, Kate, what can I make for you?" Romero asks.
I glance up at the menu board behind him. I know I'll be a regular here, and I don't want to insult him right out of the gate by not following protocol. I'm relieved when all the items are arranged by price according to small, medium, and large sizes.
"Maybe I can recommend something? Do you like light, medium, dark roast? Espresso? Cappuccino? Perhaps a frozen drink to cool you off?"
I've never been a coffee snob. Coffee is coffee. I don't concern myself with the semantics. "Um, all I really want is a large cup of strong coffee."
Apparently, that was the right answer because he raps on the counter twice with his knuckles, a light tap. It's a happy gesture that says, I agree with you one hundred percent and I know just what you need. "Ah, you must try the house blend then."
Yes, I must. Right now. "Sounds perfect."
Romero tilts his head inquisitively. "Anything in the large cup of house blend aside from coffee?"
"No, thanks, just black."
His smile widens and he looks to the bearded guy on the loveseat again while pointing at me. "You hear that, Duncan? Just black coffee."
Duncan smiles and raises the ceramic cup in his hand toward me like a toast. "I heard that, Rome. Welcome to the club, new girl."
Romero's wide smile is still shining, but he lowers his voice. "No one ever wants just the coffee black." His accent is thick and I have to concentrate on every word to make sure I don't miss anything. "They ruin it with extras." He winks at me. "Very few of us know to enjoy the coffee black."
As Romero is pouring my coffee, I feel like I've broken the ice and we're friends, after all, I'm apparently in the club, so I gather my courage and ask, "You wouldn't happen to be hiring, would you? I just got into town, and I start school on Monday and I kind of need to generate some cash flow pronto."
Romero sighs as he hands me a giant paper cup. "Ah, Kate, sadly we are not. I own the shop with my partner, Dan. We only have one employee who helps out most mornings." He taps his chin with his pointer finger and his smile lights up again. "But, you can try the flower shop, Three Petunias, down on the corner. Mary told me yesterday she needs someone."
I slide two bills across the counter to cover the coffee and tip. "Awesome, you're the best. Thanks." I blow on the coffee and take a sip as I turn and walk toward the door. The coffee tastes rich and bold, just the way I like it. With my hand on the doorknob, I turn and raise my cup to Romero. "Coffee's epic, Romero. Have a great Tuesday."
He salutes. "You too, Kate Sedgwick."
The heat is stifling as I cross the street to head down toward Three Petunias. And then I realize that it's like ninety-five degrees with one-hundred-and-ten percent humidity, and I'm the dumbass drinking a large cup of steaming coffee. But then I smile at the cup in my hand because I can feel the caffeine kicking in, and I've got a job prospect two blocks away.
I push open the door to Three Petunias gently and damn it if it doesn't have a bell on it too. I involuntarily let out an exasperated, "Dude!" in disbelief. What is it with small town Minnesotans and their obsession with bells? This one is just a small tinkling variety, though. I get the distinct impression that I will become a connoisseur of bells while I'm living here.
The woman behind the counter is a dominating presence. She looks a little older than me, tall and curvy in all the right places. Some girls are cute, some are beautiful, and some are sexy. This girl is sexy. She's got black hair cut into a severe shoulder length bob with bangs, and her dark eyes are lined in black, smoky liner. Her appearance is dark, but not in a gothic, depressing way. More like, in a take-no-prisoners way. I'm not easily intimidated by anyone or anything, but she's...intimidating.
"And hello to you," she says, in answer to my outburst. Her voice is gruff like she's smoked ten packs of cigarettes a day since birth and she's been getting over a cold for the past year. I have a feeling her voice could single-handedly kick my ass. It's like her superpower.
Don't let her smell the fear, I tell myself. "Oh, hey," I say nonchalantly. "Sorry, that was rude. But what is it with the bells in this town?"
She takes in my appearance, but she's not looking down her nose at me the way Maddie does, she's curious, or amused. I can't tell which. "Bells?"
"Yeah, on the doors." I point to the door behind me.
She's still got that look on her face, but she answers matter-of-factly. "They let us know when someone's here."
"Well, no shit, Sherlock." I realize too late that my comment may have been inappropriate. Things aren't as casual here as they are back home, and I've only just met this woman—this intense, intimidating woman.
She lets out a stunned bark. I don't know if she's humored or insulted. "Yup, no shit," she confirms. "And I'm Shelly, not Sherlock."
I think I like this girl, even though she kind of scares me. She's direct, and I like direct; it takes out the guesswork. I approach her and offer my hand, though after glancing at her hands I realize that they're weaved intricately amongst the flowers in the vase in front of her. Instead, I say simply, "I'm Kate."
"Well Kate, what brings you in?" She looks back down at the arrangement in front of her again, like she's lost interest.
"I was just down at Grounds," I hold up my cup of coffee like some sort proof, "and Romero said that Mary might be looking to hire some help."
Shelly blows her bangs out of her eyes and looks back up at me, almost like she's trying to decide if I'm worthy of consideration. "Mary's my mother; she owns the place."
"So, are you hiring?" I ask hopefully, my cheeks suddenly feeling hot.
"You ever worked in a flower shop before?"
I shake my head. "Nope." That probably kills my chances, but I'm sure as hell not going to lie to her.
"You have any experience with gardening?" I feel like I'm being interrogated on some sort of crime show, and surely her partner is watching from the other side of a one-way mirror.
I shrug. "My last landlord, Mr. Yamashita, was a gardener. I suppose that doesn't count? Too many degrees of separation?"
She huffs. Yes. She's a huffer. I love her now. "Can you tell a carnation from a rose?"
"Sure."
The hard-ass façade remains, but to my surprise she says, "Get your butt behind this counter and help me out. I'm buried this afternoon. We'll see how you do."
I put on the apron she hands me. "Dude, that was one hell of an interview. You had me sweating."
She rolls her eyes at my sarcasm. "Whatever. Dude."
The shop is small and old-fashioned. And by old-fashioned I don't mean outdated, I mean charming. There are several antique tables on the customer side of the counter that display plant and flower arrangements. It's cute. And the smell...oh, the smell, it's heaven in here.
Behind the counter, I notice that everything has its place. It's organized, obsessively orderly. Shelly works like a tornado. She's all over the room working on four arrangements simultaneously. I watch and listen, trying to pitch in where I can. Mostly, I fake it.
We work in silence for an hour, which is hurting my ears. "Don't you have a radio or something?" I ask.
She points to the shelf on the other side of the room without looking at me.
I feel like I should ask because I don't know if she just gave me permission or not, "Do you mind if I turn it on? This place could use some background noise. The silence is deafening."
She shakes her head.
I march over and turn it on because I need music when I work. Hell, I need music all the time, but especially when I work. Music grounds me. It's pure emotion, and I need that extension.
I fiddle with the tuner for a minute until I find a station. Shelly perks up at the sound. "This is a good song. They just started playing it last week. The guitar is fierce. Have you heard it?"
I nod my head as I return to our workstation. I know the song, and she's right about the guitar. I heard this song for the first time four or five months ago when this album was released, but I don't want to come off as some sort of know-it-all asshole, so I don't let on. "Yeah. It's good. Is this a local station?"
Shelly grunts out her response bitterly. "Yeah, this is the college station. It's all we have. All the other local stations are shit."
I elbow Shelly in the side. "Don't tell me you're one of those music snobs, Shelly?"
She raises an eyebrow like she knows she's been caught. "Guilty. I love music, and it's so hard to find the good stuff." Her face softens a little. "I sound like a damn junkie, don't I?"
I know how she feels. Gus and I scour the internet all the time in search of the newest musical diversion, like a couple of addicts looking for their next fix. We've shared our music collection for years, and it's beyond extensive. My iPod is maxed out, and the rest fills the hard drive on my laptop. "Maybe you just haven't found the right dealer. I'll bring in my iPod sometime. Do you have a dock or a speaker I can hook up to?" I love connecting with people about music, especially when I can turn someone on to new music they haven't heard before. Discovering something new is like magic. Music is out there to be heard, and I am of the opinion that as many people as possible should hear it. All of it. Because music is powerful. It connects people.
She hesitates, then nods. "Okay, yeah I have a dock I can bring in. What do you listen to?"
"Oh, I'm all over the board. I listen to just about everything, though I can't bring myself to get on board with country. It sounds artificial. I don't know how to explain it, but it makes my teeth hurt it's so sweet. And it's kind of depressing, even the happy stuff." She nods in agreement. "Generally, I tend to gravitate toward lesser-known bands. I like to see the little guys make it, you know. And I have to support California bands. It's like this guilty, loyalty thing. Good thing they can bring it."
Her eyes widen infinitesimally like she's just figured out some sort of puzzle. "Of course. You're from California. I've been trying to figure it out all afternoon. I figured somewhere sunny since you're so tan, but I thought the Surf or Die T-shirt was too obvious. So are you a poser or do you really surf?"
I laugh at the blunt accusation. "I surf, sure."
"Really?" She doubts me.
"Yeah."
She nods. "That shirt is pretty sick by the way. Where'd you get it?"
I shrug. "I made it."
Again, the doubt. "Really?"
The scrutiny doesn't bother me. "Yeah. I make all my shirts."
"Huh," is all she says, and although she looks mildly impressed, I have a feeling it would kill her to admit it. She doesn't hide her emotions very well. They peek through the stern mask if you're paying attention.
We continue listening to the college station, and it turns out to be pretty good. Almost all indie and alt rock, it makes me think of Gus. He would love this station. I half expect to hear a Rook song start blasting through the speakers.
Shelly slaps me on the back when we're done. "You did all right for someone who has no idea what she's doing."
I frown. "Thanks...I think." And then I smile so she knows I'm teasing.
Her eyes allude to a smile, but they never fully commit. "Whatever. Can you work afternoons on Mondays, Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and the occasional Saturday?"
"Absolutely."
"You're hired."
I'm doing cartwheels inside, but I'm outwardly calm. "Thanks."
"I assume you're a student, too, though I never asked. I'm a senior this year at Grant. Music major, classical piano."
"No shit? Classical piano? Righteous, Shelly." I know I sound a little surprised, but I am. She's hard as nails, and I never would've pegged her for classical piano. "I'm a few credits short of a sophomore, so yeah, I'm a freshman." I cringe, thinking about my unusual path to college.
I graduated a year and a half ago with a full ride music scholarship to play violin here, but then life happened...so I stayed in San Diego. I worked in the mailroom with Gus at his mom's advertising firm part-time and took classes at the local community college. I was happy. Everything was looking up. And then three months ago, in June, another bomb dropped. This one turned my fucking world upside down. I needed to get out of San Diego. So, even though the fall semester was quickly approaching, I applied to Grant again, minus the violin. I figured I didn't have anything to lose. I sweated it until mid-July when the letter arrived announcing that not only did they accept me, but that they were awarding me an academic scholarship that pays my tuition and room and board. You could have knocked me over with a feather. I gave notice to Mr. Yamashita and moved out of his garage the last day of July and moved into Audrey Hawthorne's spare bedroom where I stayed until I moved here a few days ago. Gus's mom is one of my favorite people on the planet. I've known her my whole life. When I think of the word "mother," I think of Janice Sedgwick, but when I think of the word "mom," I think of Audrey. Gus still lives with her too. He's such a mama's boy.
Shelly gives me this sad look. "So, you're in the dorms?"
"Yeah, all freshmen have to live in the dorms, right?"
The sad look remains. "Right," she confirms.
"I drove past them today. They look great. I'm kind of stoked about it." I really am.
She pats me on the shoulder. "You just stay stoked." She's having fun mocking my vocabulary. "But a word of warning, this is a small school and very cliquish, if you know what I mean. There are a lot of entitled, trust-fund, spoiled brats here. Don't let them bust your balls is all I'm sayin'."
I nod, thankful for her concern. "Point taken. Good thing my balls are virtually bust-proof."
I swear she almost smiles.
We part ways, and I poke my head in at Grounds to thank Romero for the job lead before I head back to Maddie's. I make the trip in nine minutes this time and can't help but feel optimistic about my first day in Grant. I knew it was the right choice.
It's still early in Cali and Gus is at work, so I text him my good news.
Me: Got a job at a flower shop today.
Gus: Sweet! Gotta jet to a band meeting after work. Talk to you tomorrow? Love you.
Me: OK. Good luck. Tell everyone hi. Love you.