by Erynn Mangum
I let my breath out finally and close the door. Cool Beans is not crowded this time of the morning. Aside from the women, there’s a bald guy with a laptop and two guys in suits discussing something about stock presentations.
Here’s how Cool Beans is set up:
There is always a blend of fifties and big-band music playing quietly over the speakers. Everything is decorated in retro colors: cerulean blues, cherry reds, lots of white leather and silver. There are five art-deco bar stools by the counter, near the fireplace.
Jack throws a towel at me as I walk through the little swinging door next to the counter. “Morning, Sciurus,” he says, smirking.
I catch the towel and pop it at his leg. “Hey, how’s the zookeeping?”
Jack is still in the process of majoring in biology with an emphasis in animal behaviors. A degree like this will open doors.
Zoo doors, at least.
Just so you know, Sciurus is the Latin name for squirrel. I do not appreciate him calling me this, especially since he does so because he’s convinced my brain activity is a lot like a squirrel’s. Quick, pointless, and scattered.
Which is also the reason he calls me multiple related nicknames: Nut-job, Nutkin (from Beatrix Potter), and Pattertwig (compliments of C. S. Lewis and Prince Caspian).
“Just fine; thanks for asking.”
He takes a red-headed girl’s order and starts making an espresso while I tie on my cherry red apron. He grins over the machine at me. “I think I might get that internship at the Hudson Zoo for next semester.” The automatic espresso machine is humming quietly.
I can’t help the smile. “Awesome! That’s really good, Jack.”
“A friend who works at the zoo said that if they don’t like your application, you find out in a week. It’s been nine days.” He smiles into the espresso. “It’ll look really great on a résumé for the san Diego Zoo.”
I’ve known Jack since the second grade. We were both assigned to the same lunch table — which was fortunate because his mom always packed him tamales for lunch, and my mom always packed me tuna fish. I hate tuna fish. Jack doesn’t like tamales. So, we became lunch-swap buddies.
We lost track of each other through high school, but both ended up in the same fitness elective junior year at Cal-Hudson. And we both started working at Cool Beans that same year.
So, we’ve been friends for a while.
Jack has wanted to work at the San Diego Zoo since he visited there as a third grader. Hudson is about an hour northeast of San Diego.
Once my apron is on, I start grinding a fresh batch of the Italian medium roast.
“So guess what?” Jack asks over the buzz of the grinder.
“You decided against a career in shoveling manure?”
“Funny, Pattertwig. No, I’m parrot-sitting this weekend.”
“Won’t that hurt the bird?” I ask, tilting my head.
“What?”
“If you sit on it.”
He sighs.
I grin.
“I thought you were working on the sarcastic comments,” he says, joining me by the coffee grinder.
“I have been. I thought that was a smooth delivery.”
“Nutkin.”
“Sorry.” I smile toothily at him. “Don’t expect miracles overnight.”
Sometimes, my sarcasm can be more … um … hurtful than funny. I’m attempting to work on this because I don’t mean to hurt people. And as a Christian, it’s probably not the best witness to go around insulting people all day.
So Jack decided to be Jiminy Cricket and help me keep my mouth shut.
“At least it wasn’t mean,” he concedes.
“You might want to let the parrot owner know that you don’t think it’s mean to sit on the poor bird.”
“Maya!”
“Sorry!” I tuck the coffee filter filled with grounds into the basket, slide that into the coffeemaker, and snap the switch to On. It immediately starts gurgling like Free Willy out of water.
Jack’s laughing.
“So, what’s the parrot’s name?” I ask.
“Polly.”
“Please tell me you’re joking.”
“I’m joking.”
I nod. “Good. How unoriginal can we get?”
“The bird’s name is Polly, though.”
“You said you were joking!”
“You asked me to say that,” Jack says.
I cover my face. Talking with Jack hurts my head. I start making myself a mocha. Cool Beans lets us have as many drinks as we want while we’re on duty. It just makes us huge enough caffeine addicts that we’re constantly coming back for more, even on our days off.
I pour milk into a metal pitcher and start the steam wand in it. Bubbles float to the top as the espresso lightly trickles into a mug for me.
“So, Polly. Does she talk?” I ask.
He makes a face. “More than you, even. It will be a loud weekend.”
“It’s good for you.” I smack his shoulder. “Makes you tougher.”
“And deafer. The bird screams. And sings. And whistles.”
I laugh. “When are you becoming the proud guardian?”
“This afternoon when I get off work.” He glances at the clock. “Five hours, forty-five minutes, and counting.”
“Hey, this is good experience for becoming an overseer of wild beings.”
“No, it’s not. This parrot is an Amazona aestiva. Blue-fronted Amazon. Those are commonly kept as pets. If parrots could be domesticated, this one would be.” He hands the girl her espresso. “This one is not wild.”
I roll my eyes and pull the wand out of the pitcher. I start pouring the milk into my espresso and chocolate syrup, holding most of the foam back. “Well, maybe next time someone with a hyena will go out of town, and you can hyena-sit.”
He immediately brightens. “Do you know someone with one?”
“No.”
“Oh.”
“You have problems.” I stir my mocha and inhale, sighing. He smiles. “Probably.”
My lunch break is at one thirty, but by one o’clock, I’m starving. My stomach is trying to eat itself, and I keep patting it, attempting to reassure it that I’ll feed it before I die of missing organs.
Note to self: Regardless of the label, Snickers bars do not satisfy your hunger all morning, thereby making them bad breakfast food.
“Whoa, Maya. Miss breakfast?” Jack asks, after my stomach rumbles in protest of a late lunch. He just got back from his lunch break and is retying his apron over his black collared shirt and straight-cut dark jeans.
“I had a Snickers bar,” I say.
“Healthy.”
“It has peanuts. That’s protein.”
“And milk chocolate. That’s calcium.”
I grin. “Exactly.” I turn to a short older woman who has gray hair, blue eyes, and a white smile. She’s wearing what I assume is trendy old-lady clothes: khakis, a silky floral blouse, and, in not-so-old-lady fashion, a bright pink cardigan.
She clears her throat. “I would like an extra-large iced mocha with two extra shots and whipped cream, please.”
I stare at her. “Okay.”
“And one of those coffee cakes. Those aren’t reduced fat, are they?”
“Uh … no.”
“Excellent.” She pulls her credit card out of a blue leather purse.
I ring up her total. “Is this for you?” I ask hesitantly.
“Of course, dear. Who else?”
I’m in awe. “I want to be you when I grow up,” I tell her.
Jack starts laughing as he steams the milk. The lady — Autumn Reeve, according to her credit card — grins at me.
“Oh? Why is that?”
“You’re drinking a mocha on steroids and eating coffee cake.”
She slides her card back into her wallet. “And most old fogies don’t do that, do they?”
“Not even that. Most women in general.”
She smiles again. “Well, thank you for the c
ompliment, dear.”
Jack hands her the drink. “Take care, ma’am.”
“Here’s your cake,” I say.
Autumn takes both, waves, and then sits on the sofa near the unlit fireplace. She pulls a copy of Good Housekeeping out of her purse and sets a pair of bifocals on her nose.
Jack pokes me in the back. “Stop staring.”
“Ouch. Invasion of personal space.”
“Nutkin, you have no personal space.”
My stomach growls again, and I sigh longingly at the glass case of doughnuts along the back wall. Jack rinses the pitcher he used to steam the milk while I wipe off the steam wand and then squirt another blast of steam out to clear it.
“Why didn’t you eat breakfast?”
“I went for a run instead.”
“You can’t do both?”
“At the same time?” I make a face. “I can’t eat and run. I get cramps.”
“Nutkin.”
I rub my cheek. Actually, the reason I only got a Snickers was because we’re all out of cereal, and Jen and I are too lazy to go buy more that early in the morning. And I typically forget after work.
“We’re all out of breakfast foods, and I never remember that unless it’s breakfast.”
Jack digs around in the catch-all drawer under the cash register. He pulls out a pad of paper and a bright green pen. He scrawls something.
A guy in his late teens comes up to the counter then, and I stop watching Jack. “Can I help you?”
“Cappuccino, please.”
“Okay. What size?”
“Uh …” He makes a weird face at something behind me, and I turn to look right as Jack smacks a piece of paper on my forehead.
“Ow!” I yelp, more out of surprise than pain. The paper is stuck there with tape, and I yank it off.
To Whomever Is Reading This: Please remind me to buy cereal. Thank you.
I glare at Jack, who is smirking by the espresso machine. The kid in front of the counter is gaping at us.
“Uh. You should … buy cereal,” he says, staccato-voiced.
“Thanks.”
“Yeah.” He stares at me for a few more moments. “Uh. Large cappuccino, please.”
I ring it up on the cash register and tell him the total. Jack finishes making the cappuccino and slides it over the counter.
After he leaves, I turn to Jack. “Good grief.”
“You’re telling me. It’s one thirty. Go eat.”
My stomach is dancing happily at this news. I grin and pull my apron off. “See ya.”
“Eat more than a Snickers bar this time, Pattertwig,” he calls after me. I dig my purse out of a cabinet and run for the door, waving.
My cell phone is vibrating as I shuffle through my purse for my keys. The screen reads, “1 New Voice Mail.”
I check it as I unlock my ancient blue Jeep Wrangler.
“Maya! Call me as soon as you get this!” Click.
It’s Jen. I’m trying to decide what could be so enthralling at her law office. Maybe her boss closed his tie in one of his legal dictionaries again.
For as cool and collected as they make lawyers look on TV, Jen’s boss is one of the biggest klutzes I’ve ever met in my whole life.
I push speed dial number four. Here’s what my speed dial looks like:
#1 - Voice Mail.
#2 - My mom, who lives an hour away in San Diego.
#3 - My dad. Even though I drive to San Diego every Sunday for dinner, my dad still likes me to call every once in a while and let him know how the Jeep is.
#4 - Jen.
#5 - Jack, who likes to send me random text messages on my days off.
I listen to it ring as I back out and start driving toward the nearest Panda Express. Cheap Chinese food — is there a better lunch?
“This is Jennifer Mitchell, legal assistant to Wayne Davids. Please leave me a detailed message including your name, number, and best time to reach you, and I’ll return your call promptly. Thank you.”
So businesslike.
“Jen, it’s me. I’m on lunch break until two. Call me.”
I hang up, make two right turns, and park in a front parking spot. One thirty is too late for lunch but a great time to eat if you’re trying to avoid crowds. No one is even in line.
“The two-entrée plate, please. Orange chicken, beef and broccoli, and fried rice.” I can feel my salivary glands working overtime, and I focus on not drooling on the nice man in a hairnet helping me.
“Anything to drink?” he asks, giving me a weird look as I use my sleeve to dab the moisture from my mouth.
“Dr Pepper.”
My phone rings right then. I hand the man a ten and answer it. “Hi, Jen.”
“Guess what!”
I yelp, yanking the phone away from my ear and earning another weird look. Seriously, I should be the one giving him odd expressions. He’s wearing a hairnet over a buzz cut, for goodness’ sake!
I take my change, Styrofoamed meal, and empty paper cup to the beverage island, turning the volume down on my phone as I do that.
“What?” I ask Jen.
“No, no, you have to guess”
“Wayne’s giving you a raise.”
“Nope!” She is giddy.
Weird. Jen is rarely giddy. It’s what makes her a good legal assistant. She laughs and has a fairly good sense of humor, but she’s rarely hysterical.
“Uh …” I stick the cup under the Dr Pepper. “You got your own case.”
“No! Try again!”
I pop the lid on and sit at the nearest table. “You met Orlando Bloom?”
“In Hudson? Heh. Right. No, Maya! I …” — her voice drops fourteen volume levels to a whisper — “I got asked out.” She immediately starts giggling.
“Oh yeah?” I’m not seeing the big deal here. Jen gets asked out an average of five times a week by Wayne’s clients. It’s not that unusual. Especially if you’ve got long, sandy blond hair, big green eyes, and lashes to kill for.
Certainly not unusual enough to elicit giddiness.
“Yeah,” she sighs. “Oh, Maya, he’s so cute. And a Christian and my age! I can’t even remember the last time that happened.”
I grin. Okay, so it’s true that she’s usually getting offers from men twice her age and just out of divorce court. Part of the price of working for a family lawyer.
I stare at my fork and suddenly frown. “It’s not Adam, is it?”
“What? No, it’s not.”
“Good. Adam was a jerk.”
I hear her sigh. “He wasn’t a jerk, Maya. Be nice.” She’s giggling again. “This guy is so sweet! I met him on lunch break.”
I breathe a sigh of relief. As long as it’s not Adam. “Cool, Jen!” I say. “That’s so exciting! When are you going out?”
“ Tonight.”
“ Wow. Quick. He doesn’t waste time.”
“ And isn’t that a great quality?”
“ Uh. Sure.”
“ Maya, I’m so excited! Promise you’ll be home when I get back from the date so you can meet him, okay?”
“ As long as it’s after ten, I should be there.” I take a bite of fried rice. “I’m closing tonight, remember?”
“ Oh. Be careful, Maya. I don’t like the idea of you being there all alone.”
“ Jack usually stays and studies after he gets off.”
“ Good. Okay, well, I just wanted to tell you.” She’s back to giggling. “I have to go. Love you; see you tonight!”
“ Have fun, Jen!”
I hang up and concentrate on my orange chicken. How do they make orange chicken, anyway?
I grin, thinking about Jen. She’s really excited. Jen doesn’t make personal calls during business hours. Not because Wayne doesn’t let her but because she thinks it’s unethical.
Silly Jen.
This guy must be really something. Just as long as he’s not like Adam, the last guy she dated. Adam was a jerk.
He made Jen cry. That i
s not okay in my book. Or Jack’s. He was ready to kill Adam.
I glance at the clock on my phone, gasp, and inhale the rest of my food. I jump up from the table, toss the Styrofoam, and refill the Dr Pepper.
I get back to work at 2:03. The school crowd will be in the building in exactly twenty-two minutes.
“ Late, late.” Jack is tsking at me. He is making another pot of coffee in anticipation of the crowd.
“ Jen called. She’s got a date tonight,” I say, tying on my apron.
“ Better not be with Adam.”
There’s a subtle threat to his words, and I smile. Jack is like my and Jen’s big brother. He watches out for us.
“ It’s not. Actually, I don’t know this guy’s name. But it’s not Adam.”
“ Good.” He grins at me. “So, you’re closing tonight, right?”
“ Yeah.”
“ Okay. I’m going to go get Polly the Parrot settled in my apartment, and then I’m coming back here to study.”
“ I don’t understand why you can’t study at home.”
“ It’s too quiet.”
“ Won’t Polly take care of that?”
He gives me a look. “A whistling bird is not going to help my studying.”
I shrug. “Okay, suit yourself.” Honestly, I like it when he studies here. And he has ever since a group of rough-looking guys came in about a year ago right around closing time and gave me a lot of trouble when I tried to get them to leave.
Yet another way he plays the big-brother role.
The school crowd rushes through the doors and keeps us on our toes until it finally slows way down right as Jack is taking his apron off at four.
He waves. “I’ll be back in a little bit.”
“ No rush. Say hey to Polly for me.”
He rolls his eyes as he leaves.
Nine forty-five. And Cool Beans is officially the most boring place in the whole town of Hudson, California. It’s a school night, so I knew it wouldn’t be like a Friday- or Saturday-night close, but this is ridiculous.
I lean over the counter, resting my elbows on it and cradling my cup of French roast with two shakes of cinnamon, one of nutmeg, and a smidge of cream and sugar.
Jack is busy reading a book about how to keep parrots happy and healthy. Apparently, the bird said nothing. Just sat on her perch and stared at Jack and his mutt, Canis.
Just so you know, Canis is the Latin name for dog.