RAVENS
LATER THAT DAY AT WORK I’m exhausted. Thankfully, it’s been a slow morning. Jackie’s had me detailing the espresso machine and the coffee grinders. She told me that today would be the day I’d learn more on the register; up until now she’s had me on menial, pointless tasks.
The bell dings. I hear Jackie call out across the shop, “Hey, Owen!”
They make small talk as he comes behind the counter and pulls an apron over his head, tying the straps behind his back, working his O charm on her, too. I do my best to make it seem as though I haven’t taken notice of any of this. And then I feel their eyes on me. I look up again only because I hear my name.
“What?” I ask.
“I was just telling Owen how you’re going to be picking up a few hours here and there.”
“Oh. Yeah,” I tell him. Stellar, Brooke.
“Sweet,” he says in this way that makes me feel like he thinks the idea of working with me is the exact opposite of sweet.
“Nice to meet you,” I offer.
He looks at me, a slow grin turning the corners of his mouth upward. “We’ve gone to the same school since kindergarten,” he tells me as he pulls on his JACKIE’S hat over his now-shoulder-length dreads. As he stands there in front of me, with his brown skin and deep eyes, I can see why all those other girls, even guys, are in love with him. I can’t help but think about how much simpler life would be if I could just have a crush on him too, like everyone else.
“Yeah, but . . .” All right, so I look stupid. That’s okay, I tell myself. It doesn’t matter. I pretty much always look stupid when it comes to my fellow Riverside students. “Well, anyway. Not anymore. I’m going to Jefferson this year.” I don’t know why I’m saying this; I realize how snotty it sounds the instant it’s out of my mouth. I am seriously socially impaired.
The phone rings behind the counter and Jackie goes to answer it. Then Owen and I are left standing there together.
“Why would you wanna do that?” he finally asks, as if going to Jefferson is the worst idea he’s ever heard.
I don’t know how to explain the million reasons why. “Well, they offer a lot more AP classes there,” I tell him.
“Maybe, but they got nothing on the Ravens, let me tell you,” he answers. “I guess you probably don’t care about football, though.”
“Not so much,” I admit. “Sorry.”
“It’s cool.” He shrugs. “To each their own, right?”
And this has officially become the longest conversation I’ve ever had with a fellow Riverside student since my lunch table of friends-by-proxy all graduated at the end of my freshman year, except for Aaron, who had dropped out by then. I open my mouth to answer, but the bell dings again, and as I turn to look, my stomach flips when I realize who it is.
Jackie whispers, holding her hand over the phone, “Owen, help Brooke with this one, will you?”
I walk up to the register, Owen so close behind me I can feel him breathing. I want to hide behind him. Because Monica B. is standing there, tapping on her phone, sunglasses still on, looking nothing like that awkward little girl who was my friend for a few hours in sixth grade.
“Hey, O!” she says, finally looking up from her phone, pushing her sunglasses up on top of her head. “Wait, I’m mad at you. You didn’t come to my party last weekend,” she accuses.
“I know, I know, my bad. Between practice, work. Couldn’t make it. Sorry. Next time, I promise.”
“Fine, I guess I’ll forgive you,” she teases.
“All right, thank you,” he says, playing along. “You know Brooke?” he asks her.
She looks at me for the first time. I know she remembers. But she looks through me, squinting, turning her head as if she’s having trouble placing me. I hate her so much.
“Anyway,” Owen continues. “What can we get for you?”
That was supposed to be my line, I gather.
“Can I get a medium coffee with a shot of hazelnut? And . . .” She scans the rows of doughnuts and pastries in the display cases but then says, “That’s it,” probably just because she doesn’t want Owen to know that she actually eats food sometimes.
I stare at the register. I found the coffee button. But dammit, I don’t know what to press for the extra flavor—there’s no flavor button.
“Right here.” Owen reaches across me and presses one of the buttons on the screen.
“Thanks,” I tell him, hating every moment of this. “Uh, okay, so that will be—”
“No, you hit total first,” he interrupts.
I find the total button. “Okay, so that’s—”
“Here. Keep the change,” she says, sliding a five-dollar bill across the counter, as if that’s easier than watching me fumble through a simple order.
“I’ll finish—it’s okay,” Owen tells me. “You can start the drink.”
He flashes me a quick sympathy smile; his eyes seem to be telling me I can relax. And for a second I wonder if it’s because I’m acting like this is the first time I’ve ever been in public, interacting with other people, if it’s because of those old rumors, or if it’s because he knows about my parents. It’s been on the news, of course, and in the paper. I’ve forbidden myself from looking it up online, so I don’t know how much is out there, how much people know.
I try to focus on pouring the coffee into the cup—a simple task, something I can control. But suddenly my hand twitches involuntarily, making me spill the coffee, which burns my hand in one hot, sharp slice—making me drop the cup on the floor, the coffee splattering everywhere.
“Oh, damn!” Owen murmurs, slamming the cash drawer closed as he rushes over to me.
“Careful!” Monica B. adds, though I’m sure her concern is for her coffee and not me.
I will time to speed up, just this once, but it refuses. Then I will everyone to stop staring at me, but they won’t. I study the place on my hand where the skin feels like it was suddenly lit on fire. Jackie hangs up the phone and is standing next to me in the puddle of coffee.
Owen takes over, pours the coffee, adds her stupid flavor shot, and snaps the lid on, so effortlessly.
“Here,” Jackie says, pulling me over to the sink and holding my hand under a stream of cold water. I watch as the water circles the drain, spiraling down into that black hole. Part of me wishes I could dive in too, and then part of me thinks maybe that’s what’s already happened. I glance over to see Monica B. and Owen exchanging their good-byes. “See you in school tomorrow,” he tells her. She blows a kiss to him as she walks out the door.
I feel the beginning of a headache coming on, its familiar tightness crawling along my hairline. I try to breathe, in and out, slowly. I try to shove down all these murky old feelings that are churning up inside of me, a volcano preparing to erupt. That’s the last thing I need while I’m trying to be normal. I silently tell myself to hold on, a few more hours, then I can go home and be myself.
Owen has now appeared with a mop and slides it back and forth, sopping up the spilled coffee. “Don’t worry, that happens to me all the time,” he tells me.
“Really?”
“Well, no,” he admits.
Jackie laughs. Then Owen starts laughing too. Slowly I realize I’m smiling, and that lava in the pit of my stomach is beginning to cool.