by Carmen Caine
Apparently, he’d done more than study for my exams.
“Sure you’re ok?” Grace asked again, catching my arm.
“I’m fine,” I mumbled, hurrying my step.
I was spared further explanation as a group of girls surrounded us. I recognized them as the most popular group of cheerleaders. For the most part, they were nice to everyone, but they were a little standoffish and usually stuck to themselves.
“Hi there, Sydney!” One of them waved.
I stared at her confused before forcing out a muted, “Hi.”
“I can’t thank you enough for covering for me yesterday!” She scrunched her nose into an impish grin. “I owe you one.”
“Yeah, that was great!” a couple of the others added.
Waving, they hurried past me and skipped up the sidewalk to the gym.
I watched them go, puzzled.
“Covering for them?” Grace prompted, staring at me as if I’d sprouted horns.
“Uh, beats me.” I shrugged, gritting my teeth and deciding that I couldn’t get to class fast enough.
Hiding deeper in my hood, I quickly escaped Ellison and Grace and ran to stuff my things into my locker. Grabbing my English book, I hurried to class and sank into my chair with a sigh.
My relief was short-lived.
“I was astonished at you yesterday, Miss Sydney!” My English teacher, Mrs. Roberts, stood next to my desk holding a stack of thick books. “You’ve really been paying attention over here, haven’t you? The volumes of poetry you quoted yesterday amazed me. You have a gift, a true gift that shouldn’t be wasted! Have you considered a career in the written word?”
I stared at her open-mouthed.
“It’s something to think about, my dear.” She smiled at me warmly. “And since you missed the beginning of the year, I gave it a bit of thought and agreed to that extra project you suggested yesterday.”
She plopped the stack of books down on my desk and slapped several stapled sheets of paper down on top of them before returning to her desk where a cluster of students waited with their papers in their hands.
I snapped my mouth shut and glanced at the daunting stack of books.
I’d asked for an extra credit project?
I felt my first genuine ripple of anger towards Brock.
Picking up the stapled papers, I squinted at them.
Apparently, there had been a pop quiz yesterday, and I’d answered all of the questions perfectly, including the bonus ones. In addition, I’d written several poems on the blank sides of the paper, as well as an opinion piece on the merits of proper dress when ballroom dancing.
I scowled.
But Brock hadn’t left it at that.
On the top of the second page was a row of stick-llamas with happy and sad faces, and in the center of the last page was a large stick-llama with creepy eyes that had a little balloon over its head with the words ‘feed me extra credit points’.
Underneath, Mrs. Roberts had written: “Sorry, I don’t give extra credit points in this class, but here are 15 llama points instead. And with your brilliant answers and extra project, you don’t need them anyway!”
I stared at the page, mortified.
I was going to kill Brock.
If he knew what was good for him, he’d never let me see his face again.
He’d only been me for a day, but he’d managed to wreak a lot of havoc in just those few hours.
After class, I edged into the next one, leery and watchful, but things seemed to be settling down a bit.
I had Mrs. Kemensky next period. She had on a new pink sweatshirt with cats decorated in glitter paint on the front, and she was particularly perky today, hopping up and down while pointing to a whiteboard with tons of scribbles on it.
I usually found her entertaining, but today I couldn’t concentrate on a single word she said.
At first, I spent my time wondering what else Brock had done in my place, but there wasn’t all that much I could do about it. I was going to have to play that one by ear.
It didn’t take long for my thoughts to wander over to my fear of Mesmers and anxiety of the future, along with the image of myself trapped inside the Coke bottle. And about the tenth time I caught myself thinking about all of it, I decided it was time to take action.
On the last page of my notebook, I wrote down three questions: How do you deal with fear? How do you deal with anxiety? What does that Coke bottle mean?
I found it hard to wait for lunch, and the minute the bell rang, I skipped the cafeteria and went straight to the school library computers to do a few quick searches.
My first query about how to conquer fear brought up a few articles, but they didn’t really help much other than to say that dealing with fear is scary.
I already knew that.
Temporarily shelving that issue, I searched on how to deal with anxiety.
Again, the results were disappointing. Most of the suggestions revolved around exercising and diverting your attention to something else.
I really didn’t think that jumping jacks or going to a movie would help me much against Tulpas, Mesmers, and the destruction of the Tree of Life.
Frustrated, I came to the conclusion that I was approaching it all wrong.
Maybe fear and anxiety were only symptoms of the real problem that I was wrestling with. The more I thought about it, the more I liked that theory. My real issue was my Blue Thread and the fact that I was going to destroy the Tree of Life and everyone in all three dimensions.
On a whim, I typed in a new search: “Can you change your destiny?”
The responses were just as useless.
Basically, they all said, ‘no’.
Disheartened, I gave up.
I eyed my questions, biting on the end of my pencil before I angrily crossed out the first two. I eyed the last one about being trapped inside a Coke bottle, but there wasn’t an internet search to help me with that one either.
Tiredly, I cradled my head in my arms.
Regardless of what Rafael and Jareth thought, I knew the image from the Hall of Mirrors meant something.
I figured it meant that I was trapped, but trapped by what?
By fate? Was fate a Coke bottle?
I snorted.
I was clearly exhausted.
I yawned and began stacking my books into a pile.
I’d never felt particularly trapped, at least not until after hearing of my horrible fate.
Now I felt trapped, but I couldn’t see what I could do about it.
I hid out in the library for the remainder of lunch and snuck to the rest of my classes, but there were no more surprises. Still, not knowing what else I’d be expected to remember, I waited until the last minute before joining Grace and Ellison on the bridge, sliding into Betty’s truck before anyone had a chance to say anything.
To my relief, Grace spent her time texting her friends in between laughing with Betty about some crazy movie they’d watched the night before. Apparently, I’d spent the evening talking with Al in the kitchen about Jareth and the FBI. They didn’t seem to know much more than that, and I was cautious not to appear too ignorant myself.
I couldn’t afford to raise any suspicions.
I expelled a sigh of relief after Betty dropped me off at the back of Samantha’s coffee shop, Bean There, Baked That.
I was proud of myself. I’d made it through the day!
In retrospect, it hadn’t been too bad. I’d only come out of it with an extra credit project in the end. I was going to torture Brock when I saw him next, but nothing had happened that I couldn’t recover from.
Changing my clothes, I put my stuff into my locker and tied my apron on.
I saw by the mountain of boxes in the storage room that we’d had a delivery. Organizing the storage room was part of my job, and I eagerly jumped right into the task. Stacking things in neat piles relaxed me in some strange way and after all that had happened, I certainly needed to relax.
Rip
ping open one of the boxes, I closed my eyes and took in a deep breath, savoring the smell of coffee and cocoa. Despite my anxiety and fears, it put me in a good mood.
Hmm, maybe Rafael was starting to rub off on me a bit.
Maybe I could learn to live in the moment more.
Thinking of Rafael made me smile secretively, and knowing I shouldn’t, I couldn’t help but recall his kiss. I guess the lure of the forbidden made him even more fascinating, not that he needed any help in that arena. His mysterious black-rimmed eyes, muscular arms, and hero personality were captivating enough.
I felt a little embarrassed, almost stalker-like but I kept thinking about him anyway, wondering what he was doing and when I’d see him next.
I knew we could only be friends, but I could still secretly dream about him. He didn’t need to know.
I grinned, pleased with my logic and so indulging in my obsession with all things Rafael I let my thoughts wander from his clothes, to his deep voice, to his hairstyles, all the while stacking cans of cocoa and bags of coffee beans.
I don’t know how long it was before Ellison casually strolled into the stockroom with his hands shoved into his pockets, looking as if he’d just wandered in by mistake.
Jerking in surprise, I stared at him. “What’re you doing back here?” I asked, glancing around to make sure Samantha hadn’t seen him.
“Me?” He appeared genuinely puzzled. “What’re you doing back here?”
It was my turn to be confused. “Huh?”
But he didn’t seem to be looking for an answer. Instead, he began to laugh and settled back against the shelf as if preparing for a long gossip session. “I don’t think any of us will ever forget yesterday! That’ll go down as the most epically awesome moment in espresso history! Even Samantha had to admit it!”
I stared at him like he was stark raving mad before it dawned on me. Apparently, something had happened at work, too. I was going to have to lengthen my not-so-friendly chat with Brock when I saw him next.
He’d done everything but keep a low profile.
But first things first, I didn’t want Ellison to get yelled at by Samantha. “You really should go,” I said. “I don’t want Samantha to get ticked off.”
He frowned. “Ticked off? What’re you talking about, Sydney? You mean in the back?” Reaching over my head, he snagged a clean apron from a hook on the wall. “I still have five minutes before my shift starts!”
I blinked, stunned.
“You work …” I was going to say ‘here’ but managed to cough and quickly change it to, “tonight, too?”
“Yeah,” Ellison replied, sending me an even more bewildered look.
Apparently, I hadn’t covered well enough, so I decided to explain, “I meant … the same hours as me tonight.”
“Yeeeaahhh?” His frown deepened even more. I hadn’t known that was physically possible. “It was your idea, don’t you remember? Are you feeling ok? You’re acting a bit strange today.”
I mentally kicked myself. As usual, I’d have been much better off just keeping my mouth shut.
Thankfully, Samantha rescued me by sticking her head into the storage room and looking around with a critical eye.
I gulped, fishing for an explanation when she smiled. Well, for Samantha, it was a smile. It was more like an upwards crinkle around the corner of her eyes than any actual movement of her lips.
“Well done, Sydney.” She nodded crisply. “Even though you work up front now, I like those who pitch in wherever help is needed!”
I stared at her. Up front? Surely, she didn’t mean where the customers are? Samantha let very few of her employees near her patrons. And I didn’t want the pressure that accompanied dealing with them. I was happier washing dishes in the back, by myself.
“Now, hurry and get up front, both of you!” she ordered. Spinning on her heel, she headed for the door, adding over her shoulder, “And bring some beans with you! We need decaf and light roast.”
Ellison waited until she was gone before asking in a concerned tone, “You ok, Sydney?”
Cradling a bag of light roast beans in my arms, I mumbled, “Yeah, why?”
He didn’t say anything as he hefted a bag of decaf over his shoulder.
I didn’t wait for an answer. We both knew Samantha possessed very little patience.
I pushed the door open with my knee and stepped out into the coffee shop.
I loved Samantha’s place, it was a quaint place, homey and chic all at the same time.
The walls were painted a warm chocolate color and covered with big paintings of red and yellow flowers. Blue, hand-blown glass lamps hung on their silver chains over brown-velvet overstuffed chairs grouped around sleek wooden coffee tables.
The espresso bar and glass pastry case were decked out in bright red holiday decorations, and an elegant flocked Christmas tree stood in the window under the red neon open sign.
I barely had time to savor the aroma of freshly ground coffee before Samantha swooped down on us.
“Today you’ll continue your practice in the fine art of cappuccino foam by using chocolate syrup to create butterflies,” she announced crisply. “I’ll have ten perfect butterflies out of each of you, or I won’t let you out of that door! You can practice until tomorrow morning if that’s what it takes!”
I gaped at her in terror.
But Ellison bowed. “As you wish, my lady,” he said in a thick British accent and added with an impish grin, “You’ll have your butterflies within the hour, in your stomach, if you so desire.”
Samantha’s eyes minutely crinkled in another smile. “I’m not sure what possessed me to hire you, cheeky boy! I must’ve been sick yesterday.”
She moved away to the opposite end of the counter to stack notebooks of pastry orders.
“Butterflies?” I mouthed to Ellison, setting my bag of beans down with a thump.
“After the Christmas wreath you pulled off last night, you should be able to do butterflies in your sleep!” he said. But a faint, puzzled line appeared between his brows.
Tearing open the bags of beans, he emptied them into the dispensers for the two baristas and then facing me, rubbed his hands in anticipation.
“You get the practice cups, and I’ll get the chocolate and toothpicks!” he said, looking downright eager to start.
I scowled.
Apparently, Brock hadn’t spared my job while trifling with my life. I was looking forward to confronting him.
“And you can make your own foam tonight,” one of the baristas informed us. “Don’t forget to hold the cup at the right angle when you froth it, that’s the trick!”
“And don’t forget to clean the nozzle this time, either!” the other barista snapped in a perfect imitation of Samantha’s gruffness, releasing a burst of steam through the espresso machine’s frothing wand to punctuate her statement.
They all snickered.
Even I couldn’t resist smiling.
A new customer arrived at the counter, asking for a scone and a latte.
I hung back uncertainly, wishing desperately that I knew what Samantha expected of me.
It didn’t take me long to find out.
Raising a sharp brow in my direction, she ordered brusquely, “Sydney, put the pastries in the bags tonight, just like you did last night.” She eyed me a moment before adding to Ellison, “And you can warm them up and hand the customers their drinks.”
Ellison bowed again, and Samantha gave a small humph of strangled amusement before returning to leaf through her pastry books.
Nervously, I grabbed the tongs and selected the scone. Normally, it wouldn’t have been any big deal to pick up a scone with tongs, but knowing I was being judged by Samantha made all the difference in the world.
My hands shook and I promptly squeezed it in half.
“Uh …” I smiled, rattled, feeling like an idiot and glanced guiltily over at Samantha.
I’d just been to Avalon and diverted Protectors with an arm
ed Hello Kitty. Why did I find Samantha far more intimidating than tall, highly-skilled Fae guards trained to kill on sight?
Steeling my resolve, I gingerly picked up another scone and promptly put it on the piece of paper as Ellison whisked it away to be warmed in the convection oven.
Letting out a long sigh of relief, I quickly hid the broken scone under the bags. I’d choose that one as my free pastry for the day and let Samantha think that I’d intentionally broken it in half.
A few more people arrived and began queuing up in line.
After five minutes, I already knew that I hated being up front. I fervently hoped that each customer would just stick to ordering drinks, but they seemed to be a hungry bunch that evening.
Forcing a fake smile on my lips, I carefully selected whatever muffin, cookie, or donut they pointed to and turned it over to Ellison to bag or warm.
It wasn’t much of a job, and after about thirty minutes, I found myself mostly watching people, especially Ellison.
He was a natural with the customers. Slipping another scone into the convection oven, he smiled back over his shoulder at a chubby, middle-aged woman in scrubs. “Sorry it’s taking so long.” He gave her a gallant bow. “It’ll be done in 15 seconds.”
“No worries, young man.” She smiled at him warmly. “Take your time. I’m just on my way to work.”
“Ah, let’s make that done in 6,000 minutes, instead,” he suggested with an appealing grin.
They shared a laugh and the oven dinged.
“I’m sorry to give this to you so quickly, ma’am,” he said, handing her the warm pastry.
She laughed again, and Samantha looked over, practically beaming approval at Ellison. She watched the customer leave with a pleasant smile on her face as a portly, balding man accompanied by a frizzy red-haired woman holding a huge-eyed toddler stepped up to chat with Ellison and order lattes and hot chocolate.
After that, there was a lull in the flow of customers, so we practiced frothing milk in preparation for our cappuccino butterfly practice session.
I wasn’t looking forward to it, especially since I couldn’t make cappuccino foam to save my life.
As it turned out, Ellison was a master at frothing milk, whipping up mountains of foam with the ease of an artist.