Mom returns to the kitchen all quiet and distracted-like.
“Did Carson say when he’ll be here?” I ask.
Mom is silent long enough to make me stare at her, ignoring the waffle sizzling in the iron.
“What? What is it?”
“He’s not coming. It sounds like he wants to live with your dad.”
chapter four
Carson not living with us?
Not here to drive me around or talk to or even to fight with?
Then the full impact hits me. I might be going to school without my brother. He’ll be at our old school sitting with his friends; my friends will pass by, or sometimes our groups will even combine, but I won’t be there. I’ll be alone in the new school in Marin.
There is no way he’s abandoning me like this. I call him, but it goes directly to voice mail as I should have expected. There’s no service at Dad’s, which is why I sometimes feel stir crazy there. If it weren’t still before six in the morning, I’d call the house, but I don’t want to wake Dad and Tiffany.
Carson and I fight like cats and dogs; there’s no way around that truth. But especially since the divorce, we end up doing a lot together. And though we don’t hug and say, “I love you,” or smile fondly at one another, we have a pretty close relationship—though neither of us would admit it too readily.
This is something I can’t even imagine.
After our predawn breakfast, mostly in silence, Uncle Jimmy leaves, and the rest of us all eventually fall back to sleep. Aunt Jenna wakes me at ten to get ready for my first day of work.
I dial Dad’s house, and he answers.
“Dad, what’s going on with Carson? Is he there?”
“No, he’s at school.”
“What’s this about him not moving down?”
“Well, your brother would miss Cottonwood. He’s not really a big-city person.”
I can’t believe what I’m hearing. Did Dad convince my brother to stay in one short day?
“He only has one more year of high school, and he can work at the hardware store over the summer.”
I glance at the clock. “Dad, I have to go, sorry. I’m starting work with Aunt Jenna today. I’ll call back tonight. But tell Carson I called.”
Dad says his usual endearing “Okay, good-bye, sweetie,” and I rush for the bathroom.
Later, as I blow-dry my hair, my phone beeps. I expect it to be Carson, but the name surprises me.
NICK: Hey there Rubes, I'm sitting in Spanish II, Como estas?
ME: Bien. is that right? I took French. Bon. How are you?
NICK: Fine, but I missed your empty seat in alg last period. So you haven't started school yet?
ME: Monday. I start work at my aunt's coffeehouse today.
NICK: Sounds cool. Maybe someday I'll show up there for a coffee. How far away are you?
ME: Three to four hours.
This doesn’t even sound like Nick. He’s never this talkative.
NICK: Is it three or is it four?
ME: Depends on traffic.
NICK: I have a cousin at Berkeley. He wants me to come down. Arc you near?
ME: Across the Bay, not too far. My stepdad thinks I should go to Berkeley for college.
NICK: Cool. Hey gotta go. Mr. Finkle keeps glancing my way. I think he's on to me.
ME: No problema. That's Spanish for no problem.
NICK: Thanks. I'll write later. Want to ask you something
ME: Don't keep me in suspense.
NICK: Oh but I am.
ME: Meany
NICK: Yep. Crap, gotta run. Bye Marin girl.
ME: TTYL
“I think your mom will talk Carson into moving down,” Aunt Jenna says as she drives faster than usual. We’re late. The convertible top is up, and a thin fog covers the sky.
“He has Dad and all his friends up there. I think he likes Alexi Henders too.”
I know my brother. And now I remember the many hesitations he had about moving down. I ignored them, thinking he’d adjust soon enough. Still, how could he drop a bomb like this without any warning—and over voice mail?
Aunt Jenna drives a narrow hilly back road that keeps us from the traffic of Highway 101. “Guess we can’t really blame him. He’ll be a senior in the fall. Maybe if we found him a girl down here . . .”
I nod, but with little hope attached to it. The realization that I won’t be with Carson during his senior year, that we won’t live together—it’s too staggering for me to fully process. I just can’t think about it right now.
Aunt Jenna pulls into a parking place. I’ve been to the Underground Coffeehouse & Theater a few times. Baskets dripping with vines and flowers hang from the wooden eaves. Around the side is the opening to a courtyard where more shops and restaurants are tucked into the nooks and crannies of brick walkways with surprise flower beds and colored lights.
Aunt Jenna gets out quickly and carries in a bag of groceries. One of her employees has been here for several hours already. As we walk through the back door, my aunt transforms. It’s not like a Jekyll/Hyde conversion, but she goes from fun and happy aunt to stressed and businesslike.
I scurry after her to the tiny office, where she plops down her jacket and purse.
“I’m warning you, this is the worst day to be your first day. I’m sorry for that. Usually we’d train you on a slower day. I’ll give you a tour in a few minutes—just follow me around for now. I need to see how Rayna’s surviving the morning crowd.”
Aunt Jenna heads off after tossing me a black apron, which I tie around my waist. She’s not usually neurotic, but when she dumps espresso beans into the grinder while introducing me to Rayna and assessing the needs, I’m worried her hand will soon be a finely ground blend.
Aunt Jenna talks over the grinding and, thankfully, pulls her hand from the machine. “We’re already short-staffed. Terri forgot to put her India health trip on the calendar for this week, and without proper training on Premiere Night . . . oh, you’ll just have to do what you can!”
And so here I am at the Underground. Aunt Betty was a silent partner until she gave Aunt Jenna the entire business after her marriage to Herbert. She said, “I want to see my nieces enjoying their inheritance before I die.” Thus Mom got the house and Aunt Jenna the business. Carson and I wanted to ask about any early gifts to great-nephews and -nieces but decided against it.
On the street level, the Underground is a coffeehouse decorated in an Old World style. There are thick tables and chairs of different woods and shapes. Several tables have old theater chairs around them. I can imagine a Viennese coffeehouse when I’m here, except for the absence of cigarette smoke lingering in the air—I’ve read that’s what it’s like in a Viennese coffeehouse.
Downstairs are the cinema rooms with red velvet theater chairs, couches, dangling lights of all colors, and framed old-movie posters—some with autographs from the stars or directors. Two independent films play every week, and cinemagoers can take pastries, coffee, or a bag of Aunt Jenna’s famous kettle corn varieties down to snack on during the movie.
Aunt Jenna explains all this as I follow her around the coffeehouse checking the cream and sugar, cleaning off tables, being introduced to customers.
“This is my wonderful niece, Ruby,” Aunt Jenna says with her arm around my waist. It’s when she speaks to customers that a calm friendliness returns and for a moment all the work and needs of the café are on hold.
“Isn’t she a doll,” an elderly lady exclaims.
“She most certainly is, and we’ll have her running the coffeehouse and the cinema before too long—this is a sharp one.”
“Oh, she looks like it. And cute as a button as well.”
I smile. Sometimes I imagine I’ll be Aunt Jenna’s partner someday, and we’ll have a chain of Undergrounds in funky little towns up and down the California coast. Santa Cruz, Mendocino, Half Moon Bay, Carmel, Santa Barbara . . . But there are so many things I want to do . . .
When I follow
her behind the counter, it’s back-to-business Aunt Jenna.
“Let’s get you familiar with the espresso machine. But during the busy times, I’ll keep you on the cash register, since you have some experience from your dad’s store.”
“You know, I don’t really know what Premiere Night is,” I say as Aunt Jenna bends inside the display case to straighten the bakery items.
She’s muttering something I can’t hear, then pokes her head back out and calls toward the kitchen, “Rayna, are you finished with the quiche?”
Rayna peeks through the opening that separates the front counter from the kitchen. “Yep, it’s cooling. But the cinnamon rolls aren’t rising very well, and we need to buy some mushrooms and sun-dried tomatoes . . . and some brie.”
“If we don’t have time, I think we’ll be okay. The popcorn is most important.”
Aunt Jenna turns to me as I stand awkwardly behind her, knowing she needs help, but what do I do? My dad’s hardware store is a lot different from a coffeehouse. There I mostly sat on a stool and watched. Sometimes I worked the cash register or rode around with him on the forklift.
And I still don’t know what Premiere Night is.
“We’re becoming quite known for our gourmet popcorn. This month’s special is White Chocolate Cinnamon—and then we have our normal buttered popcorn; plain caramel or Caramel Supreme with cashews, almonds, and pecans; and Choco Supreme.”
“Yum. I better sample it all,” I say with a smile. “Will I learn to make it?”
“Yes, but not today. Rayna will be in the kitchen until she leaves at four o’clock. I’m hoping to get your mom or a friend to come relieve you at six—oh, I forgot to get the butter out of the freezer—oh, we need to . . .”
Her words turn to muttering again, and I stand behind the counter gazing around. “What can I do?”
Aunt Jenna stops as her eyes move around the room. “Uh, uh . . . wash all the tables, refill the sugars—we use both natural sugar and refined . . . whatever you see that needs doing. Then I’ll teach you the espresso machine and juicer, and if you could make sure all the theater rooms are clean—they should be, but you never know. Somewhere around here we have a list that explains our drinks . . . We have three hours before the hordes arrive.”
“For Premiere Night,” I say, hoping this reminds her to answer my question.
“No, for the after-school rush.” My aunt stops her frenzied movements and smiles. “I’m sorry, Ruby Red, it’s a crazy day. Premiere Night. You see, every week we show two independent films in the theaters downstairs. But every three months we have amateur night for local filmmakers—a lot of them are from the college and high school. They get to premiere their latest shorts—short films.”
“Ah,” I say with a smile. “So we’re about to be inundated with a horde of artsy, filmmaking, high school and college-aged guys—good-looking too, I hope?”
My aunt laughs. “Yes, some are. Now let’s get to work. Good service is why my customers keep returning—that and the awesome gourmet popcorn, which I need to start making, and the movies, and the coffee . . .” She winks at me.
I clean the tables as a few people enter and place their orders. Aunt Jenna, despite her anxiety, is amazing in her ability to appear calm and lively around the customers. She’s witty and friendly while her hands move around the espresso contraption.
Sometimes I find it interesting to think of all the hundreds and thousands of people who are walking into a coffee shop somewhere in the world right at this exact moment. Taste buds yearning, the milk steaming, the conversations in nearly every language on earth. I picture an old Turkish man with a tiny steaming cup of strong espresso or . . .
“Ruby.” Rayna interrupts my daydreaming.
“Yes?” I return to earth and set a dirty plate and cup in the kitchen sink.
“While I have a few minutes, why don’t I show you the espresso machine?”
“Sure.”
Sounds easy enough . . . but Rayna’s instructions sound like Open this, dump this here, get this, put this here and that here, press that, wait for this, and that’s a shot of espresso.
I know she uses more precise words, but that’s how it comes to me before she says, “Oh, I forgot the butter was on the stove. Hope that helps. Why don’t you experiment for a bit until your aunt can show you more.”
I open the thingie where you put the espresso, and a splash of watery grounds shoots all over my apron. At least the apron’s black. I think I’m figuring it out, but when I push the button, water comes out in the other spot, and then I overflow the soy milk when I try steaming it. I step away from the espresso machine and decide to search for more dirty dishes and tables. The dining area has many nooks and crannies between tall plants, half walls, and wooden cabinets with pottery for sale.
And then a cute guy walks through the door.
“Hey there, Frankie, you’re out early,” Aunt Jenna calls with a smile.
He rubs his eyes. “I’m actually out late. Was up all night working. I get special home credit when I’m working on film projects.”
“I thought you were going to enforce deadlines on your group—no finishing the night before.”
“Yeah, I talk big. Hey, I’m dropping off the programs. And since I’m here, I’ll get my usual.”
“You can be Ruby’s first victim. This is my niece, Ruby. Ruby, this is one of my very favorite customers, Frankie Klarken.”
“Nice to meet you,” we both say.
“So where have you been hiding her?” Frankie asks.
“She’s from up north. Near Redding.”
Frankie sets a handful of brochures on the counter, then leans on his elbows. “Redding? I’m unaware of California outside the Bay. Even LA is lost directionally to me. I think it might be that way . . .” And he spins his finger from west to north to east.
“Frankie always gets a German Chocolate Blended with two add-shots.”
“Uh, okay,” I say. “So—”
“I’ll start the espresso,” Aunt Jenna says. “And you put three pumps of the organic chocolate into one of the large cups.”
I try following my aunt’s instructions while Frankie watches from the counter. He leans forward, his light brown hair dipping over one eye. He appears amused by our performance.
“Wow, girls, you’ve really got the flow of teamwork there,” he says and laughs loudly after I spill the ground espresso over Aunt Jenna’s apron.
There’s something that whispers into my mind about Frankie even as I’m completely stressed about making his drink. I ignore it for now and try listing out the process, determined not to continue making this a disaster:
1. Dump old espresso from (thing)—bang it until clean.
2. Grind beans.
3. Fill (thing), attach, twist.
4. Hit button for one or two shots. I do this twice, since Frankie wants a total of four shots of espresso in his drink.
5. Oh yeah, don’t forget to put the shot glass under the release. I redo one of the shots.
6. Milk, soy, or rice milk—Frankie wants milk. “Not the skim kind, baby face.” Do I have a baby face? I wonder.
7. Steam milk until thermometer reaches at least 180 degrees.
8. Add shots of flavor if needed. For the German Chocolate Blended, we use a shot and a half of coconut syrup and a half shot of hazelnut, which I pour into the shot glasses.
9. Add three pumps of chocolate—then one more because Frankie says, “I like my chocolate, can’t have enough of the chocolate.”
10. For blended, we put the espresso shots, milk, flavored syrups, and chocolate in the blender with ice. Blend, pour, top with whipped cream and more chocolate syrup. Done.
“Okay, there you go,” I say, handing him the drink.
Aunt Jenna and I wait as he takes the smallest perceptible sip. He makes a slight grimace before the smile. “Mmm.”
“If you don’t like it, we’ll redo it,” I say. “I did wonder if I grabbed the sugar-free coconu
t.”
“No, girl, it’s just a little different.”
“Different?”
“Different doesn’t mean bad, now, does it? Look at me—I’m different. Is that a bad thing? But I’d better run. Much to do before tonight.” He says this as he’s leaving, calling at the door, “See you tonight. Nice to meet you, Ruby, and thanks.”
My aunt and I stare after him a moment, until I finally say, “He didn’t like it, did he?”
Aunt Jenna does that little scrunchy face she gets when trying to tell me something without hurting my feelings. “It’s not that he didn’t like it.”
“He hated it.”
“Yeah, he hated it.”
“And he’s gay?”
My aunt nods her head. “Yep.”
“Bummer.”
We stare at the door after Frankie, look at each other, and laugh. But then the door opens and the horde arrives.
chapter five
“Please, no more coffee,” I protest with my hands up in surrender.
After my preliminary espresso disaster, Aunt Jenny asked me to watch every espresso drink she made for the next hour while I worked the register. Her hands moved fast, and I asked her to slow down a few times.
Then the samples began. She wanted me to distinguish between a cappuccino, latte, café mocha—how soy and rice milk changed the flavor, not to mention the different add-shots that include every flavor you can imagine. I spotted a “cheesecake” (interesting) and even a “blood orange” (ick!). In the sampling, I discovered some new coffee favorites like almond biscotti latte and Mexican café mocha. But enough is enough.
Aunt Jenna pushes the little cup toward me. “Okay, but this one is s’more. It’s a mocha with marshmallow and graham cracker flavorings.”
I give her a sickened look—this has to be my twentieth sample.
“But are you getting an idea of the different flavors and intensities?”
“Am I ever.” I may become a tea person after this espresso overdose.
“Good,” she says with a laugh. “Now take a break before we get ready for the filmies. You can go around the corner for gourmet pizza, or there’s a great salad place on the next block.”
Ruby Unscripted Page 3