by Cassie Mae
Kate huffs out a large breath that smells like Gatorade. “Sorry, I went too fast. I’m so used to rushing everything.” She shakes her head and goes back to the ingredients. “I’ll go slower this time.”
My throat tries to unclog. We don’t need to waste any more time on this, I got it. But I’m not used to talking to a lot of people, and I want to make sure the second sentence I say to the Kate Ryan isn’t some shaky, “N-nice t-to m-meet y-ya.”
I gulp, then clear my throat. “I…uh…I think I got it.”
She glances back at me, her eyebrow raised up into the hair that’s fallen from her hat and ponytail. “Oh?”
“Yeah,” I say, adjusting my shirt. “Can I give it a shot?”
Her smile comes back, and she moves out of my way. Slipping on gloves, I focus on the ingredients and add them to the blender in a different order. Kate doesn’t say anything, even though I know she thinks I’m botching it—but if I add the fruit juice last, after the ice cream and fruit, I’ll know how much to use. Besides, you want more actual fruit than juice, right?
I push the blender on, knowing there’s less of every ingredient than when Kate did it. But I’m gonna test my equation.
A satisfied smile creases my lips when I pound the mixture in the eight-ounce cup. Even with the small spill I calculated into the formula—I had to go with the odds, and I’m eighty percent klutz—I hit the top of the cup at the exact same time I run out of product.
Success.
I put the lid on, stick the straw in, and wait for Kate to say something.
“Guess we need a guinea pig.” She leans around the counter and shouts, “Yo! Taste tester for a free Jamba!”
There are a few people from school sitting at the tables, and one of the seniors bolts to the counter. Jeremy—I catch his name on his letterman jacket—snakes his hand out to the cup. “Free?”
Kate sets a hand on top of the cup. “Yes, but we’re not responsible if it sucks.” Her head tilts toward me. “Training today.”
“You trained him?” Jeremy asks, leaning on the counter closer to Kate. I take a step back. I’m used to being invisible, even with all the stuff I’m involved in. MESA—mathematics, engineering, science achievement club—stage crew, orchestra…and I know it’s much more comfortable for other people if I disappear myself, instead of them phasing me out.
“Yes…”
“Then I’m sure it’s the best-tasting Jamba ever made.”
Wow. Does a line that bad really work?
Kate’s too nice to blow him off, so she just tilts her head back and forth as if to say, “Yeah, yeah,” and takes her hand off the cup.
After a big gulp, Jeremy’s eyes widen, and for a second I get worried about my experiment.
“Wow.”
“Is it okay?” Kate asks, clearly expecting him to say no.
“Like I said,” Jeremy says before taking another large gulp, “best Jamba I’ve ever tasted.”
He slithers a hand into his pocket, his lips glued to the straw. After a bit of fumbling around, he crinkles a bill into Kate’s hand. He doesn’t let go of her fingers.
“Nice job.” He winks.
I take another step back because apparently I had nothing to do with that “best Jamba.”
A few awkward seconds later, Jeremy goes back to his table of friends and Kate sighs. “Well, I thought you did that one wrong to be honest…and I’m not sure if I should trust his opinion…”
“I can do another one if you want.”
She nods, slapping the tip in my hand. “Let’s do another flavor. And I’ll watch. You work.”
We wait for an order, so we don’t waste any more product. I look over the folder of recipes, mentally calculating the correct measurements. After five customers and ten more bucks in tips, I think I finally have Kate convinced of my method.
“Wow, you catch on quick.”
I shrug. “Sometimes.” Actually most of the time, but no way am I saying that out loud.
“Time for the register, then.”
After an hour on the register, I have that down, too. Even the prices. Here’s another time when I thank my lucky stars I have an eidetic memory.
The lobby goes from chaotic to dead around five o’clock. Kate and I lean against opposite counters, and I search my overcrowded brain for something to talk about. But Kate beats me to it.
“How bad is it?” she asks, lifting her hat and pointing at her head. A nice bump sits above her eye and goes back into her hair. It’s a little purple—all right, a lot purple.
“Uh…”
“I knew it. I should’ve kept that ice pack.”
“Or use steak.”
She smiles. “Or that.”
“I’ve heard it works better.”
“And makes it taste good, too.”
I choke out an awkward laugh. “Can’t say I’ve tried it.”
“Yep. The eyebrow hair gives it an extra punch.”
We laugh again, and I shift my weight against the counter.
“You go to East, don’t you?” she asks, folding her arms over her chest.
I nod.
“Sorry, I should know you.”
I shrug. Real winning moves here, Seth.
She lets out a big breath, blowing the hair off her forehead. “So, you in anything? Play any sports?”
Sports? I have to choke back a laugh since I’m the only one who’d get the joke here. Shaking my head, I clear my throat for more conversation, tugging my visor. “Not sports, no. I’m in the orchestra, though. I did student council in middle school, but it…wasn’t my thing. I’m in MESA—”
“The math club?”
I quickly defend it. “It’s cool. We go on a lot of trips and do competitions and stuff. Plus, looks good on college apps.”
“I bet. I’d do something like that if I was brilliant enough, but I have no time.”
Heat waves up my neck and burns my ears. Did she say I was brilliant? Or is that just how she speaks?
“Y-Yeah, I hear ya.” I adjust my visor again. “With orchestra, MESA, stage crew, and now this job—”
“You’re in theater?”
I nod.
“How come I’ve never seen you before?” She leans forward and scratches her knee. “I’ve been in every play since freshman year.”
“Yeah, I know.” Oh, wow, that sounded real brilliant. Now I’ve probably made her feel guilty. But it’s not her fault she doesn’t know me. Involved, yet in the background…that’s me, and I’m good at it.
Her face goes a tiny bit pink, and she scratches her knee again. “Sorry, I usually try to—”
“Don’t be sorry,” I say, surprising myself by interrupting. “I don’t talk a lot.” Obviously. I’ve been a bobble-headed shrugger this entire conversation.
She smiles. “Well, you should. You’re probably a very interesting person, with all that stuff you’ve got going on.”
This is why Kate’s friends with everybody. Unlike me, she’s not a complete idiot when it comes to the social part of anything. I sit toying with my visor, really wishing I could say, “Thanks” or something equally as complimentary to her, but my tongue freezes to the roof of my mouth, and all I end up doing is shrugging.
“Will you be on the set of Oklahoma! this year?”
“Uh, yeah. Sound crew.”
“I’ll be going for Ado Annie.”
“Not Laurey?” I ask. Kate usually goes for the big lead. She doesn’t always get it, but that’s all due to theater politics.
She shakes her head. “No time. I’ll be stretching it as it is with the secondary character.”
“Yeah. I was worried about taking on a job right now, but I hate having my parents fork out all the dough just so I can spend another afternoon locked in the orchestra pit.”
“Exactly!” she nearly shouts, making me jump back and knock over a stack of empty cups. “People ask me why I have a job when I barely have time to breathe. It’s like they don’t understand how mu
ch everything costs.”
Finally…someone who gets it and actually cares enough to take some of the responsibility off their parents. Makes Kate Ryan even more attractive than she already is. I can’t believe my tongue is still working, but work it does.
“Yeah,” I say, hurrying to pick up the mess I just made. “Those trips to win State aren’t free. There are the hotels and the bus ride, not to mention all the stuff you gotta spend on equipment. I think I’ve replaced the strings on my cello about forty times just this year.”
“Seriously,” she agrees, “I can’t even be on the team without paying a fee with the permission slip. Cost of uniforms and stuff. Like they aren’t the same exact ones from last year, coated in perma-sweat then covered in fabric softener.”
I chuckle, and she straightens her stance as a couple of girls walk in.
“Finally, you guys.” She winks at me, taking off her gloves. “Night crew.”
“Oh.” I guess training is over.
“Come on. I’ll have Harry sign your time card. I’m pretty sure you’re the fastest trainee in the world. You’ll be fine on your own.”
Managing to find my voice this time to acknowledge the compliment, I stutter out, “Th-Thanks,” then walk the distance to our manager’s office in silence. But hey, I give myself props for having the longest conversation I’ve had with someone outside my family and my best friend without royally screwing up.
“Ms. Ryan, that outfit is borderline inappropriate for school.” Ms. Meyer looks at me over her glasses, arms resting on the desk, as I hustle into trig and slam my butt in my seat.
I look down at my usual apparel—fitted t-shirt and some version of sweats or yoga pants. Depending on the weather I might add a sweatshirt. Might as well be comfy while learning. Plus, I don’t get enough sleep as it is. So when the alarm goes off I have just enough time to roll out of bed, throw on the usual, and put my hair in a ponytail. Then it’s early morning practice, shower, and throw it back on. Forget makeup or jewelry. This is the best version of me anyone’s gonna get.
“Uh, I always wear this kind of stuff, Ms. Meyer.” She’s never questioned it before.
“Well, in our staff meeting this morning we were told to be stricter with dress code. Studies show that students who dress appropriately, and not in what they wear to play basketball or soccer—” she looks me up and down—“do better in their classes. Call it, ‘dressing the part.’”
“But Kate is the part, Ms. Meyer,” Billy Stevens says from the back of the room. “Plus she’s hot in whatever she wears. Maybe those studies didn’t look at the right students.”
I shake my head and turn to look at Billy. He winks and I give him a smile. Anything with two legs and boobs is hot to him. But he’s standing up for me, so I’ll take it.
The rest of the class is chuckling and nodding, mumbling about another rule the administration wants enforced further. Ms. Meyer clears her throat. We all respect her, because despite her need to appease the administration, she’s barely older than us and really is a good teacher. The conversations die down to hear what she has to say.
“Billy, you might want to consider not saying everything that runs through your head.” Though she’s not wearing a full-fledged grin, it’s there, somewhere. She runs her hand through her short, blonde pixie cut and turns her attention back to me. “I’m just warning you that, sooner rather than later, you might not be allowed to wear that except in the gym, Ms. Ryan. Capiche?”
“Yes, I understand.” That’ll royally suck, but what can ya do?
“Okay.” Ms. Meyer claps her hands and faces the whole class. “Now that we’ve had that conversation, how about a pop quiz?”
As the rest of the class groans, my whole body heats up. I didn’t understand a lot in the latest chapter. Okay, let’s be honest—I have no idea what we’ve covered in the last ten chapters. It’s kind of hard to when I haven’t looked at the book recently. A few of the guys at lunch “helped me” with my trig homework last week. Now I’m screwed.
Five minutes pass with me staring at the quiz and thinking about what an idiot I am for not expecting this. I shake my head and press my hands into the desk. Focusing on what I didn’t do isn’t going to help. I steel myself to the questions that read like a foreign language and use whatever knowledge is in my head to puke out some answers.
After ten minutes, the page is full of my scribbles. That. Was. Horrible. Perhaps Ms. Meyer will let me do extra credit for the points I missed.
“Congrats on the tournament, Kate,” Jesse says on my right as we pass our quizzes forward.
“Oh, thanks. I heard you guys did well this weekend, too.” Jesse is on the guys’ Varsity basketball team.
Jesse nods, though he doesn’t look too thrilled. “Took third. But we should’ve been in the championship. We lost the semis by one point.”
I suck in air through my teeth. “Oooh, that hurts. There’s always the next one though, right?”
“Hey, Kate?”
“Yeah?” I share a commiserating look with Jesse over their tournament woes before turning to face Suzi on my left.
“You’re coming to my party, right? I mean, it’s not for a few weeks, but I just want to make sure you remembered. It’s going to be so fun.” She puts both hands out to her sides. Her blonde hair looks a shade lighter; she must have gone to the salon with her mother this weekend. I think I remember her telling me she was going.
“…so the music will be throughout the whole house, including the basement. I figure that way we’ll be able to fit everyone, since it’s not that big. Daddy is going to set up a huge bonfire in the backyard. Hopefully it won’t be too cold.”
Suzi could talk forever, and it looks like Ms. Meyer is ready to start the next part of class. With a light smile and a little laugh, I say, “I’ll be there. I have a basketball tournament that afternoon, but it ends way before your party.”
“Awesome.” She claps her hands and turns back to her desk.
Twenty minutes later my notebook is full of scribbles about the lesson I should have read over the weekend. And it still looks like a foreign language. When did school get so hard? I used to be a good student, and not that long ago, either. I averaged a 3.8 GPA last year.
Are the classes getting harder, or am I getting dumber?
My eyes focus on the cover of my trig book, the one I rarely open. That’s probably the root cause right there. I used to make more time to study. I’m really not that naturally smart, so I have to work at it.
And now…there’s just no time to study anymore.
The bell rings and I shove the textbook that I swear is screaming open me! under the other books in my hands. Suzi’s looking at me like she’s not done talking about her party yet, and as much as I like her I really don’t have time to get pulled into another conversation. So I give her a quick smile and hurry out the door. When I turn left to head to my locker, Brandon is there.
“You’re coming to the meeting, right?”
I have to look up to make eye contact with him, a rarity in my five-foot-ten world.
“Yup, you bet. Just have to throw my stuff in my locker and figure out what I need to do tonight. You know—” I smirk and tilt my head—“those unimportant things, like passing classes.” My heart squeezes at the thought of my failed trig quiz sitting on Ms. Meyer’s desk.
Brandon grins and clutches his books closer to his chest. “Yeah, I thought classes started off a little easier after Winter Break. Maybe being a junior isn’t so cool.”
Huh, maybe I’m not the only one struggling. I nod and drop my books to the ground in front of my locker.
“Kate! Good, I found you.”
Candace startles me so badly, I almost add another bump to my head slamming it into my locker door.
“Hey, Candace. What’s up?” I look to Brandon on my other side and nod that I will be at the meeting in a few minutes. He walks off and Candace takes his place.
“We were going to talk about when t
o meet up for the English project.”
I’m mentally sifting through my projects. Thinking, thinking. Hmm, yup—not recalling that conversation.
Candace helps me out by continuing, “You remember our English project, right? The one on Hamlet?”
“Oh! Yeah, yeah.” I shake my head back and forth and try to realign my thoughts. “When is that due again?”
“Uh, this Friday.”
“Crap. Really?” I drop to the ground and swap out some books for others. Do I have homework in chemistry?
“You said this weekend didn’t work and neither did the last because of basketball. So which night works this week?”
A large exhale leaves my lungs. Good question.
“Uh… Well, I have a National Honor Society meeting now, and a basketball game after that. Tomorrow I have work, then catechism class. My parents won’t allow me to miss it. There are games on Wednesday and Thursday but I believe they’re early. Since I also work Wednesday we could meet after my game on Thursday.”
I look up and lock eyes with Candace. I can tell by her pinched forehead and the way she’s holding her books on her hip, she’s not happy with me.
Candace is a perfect student. Everyone vies to get in with her for projects. She’s on East’s Academic Decathlon team and took us to State last year.
There are renegade brown strands blocking my vision so as I stand, I brush them away. “You don’t want to do it the day before it’s due. Do you?” I ask.
She looks down and slides a shiny Mary Jane in a circle on the tile. “Not really. What if we don’t get it done in time?”
“We will.” I say it with such confidence, even I believe it. But really, we won’t stop until we’re finished, so it has to get done on time. Right? I clear my throat. “How about this—you outline everything we need to do and assign one of the four of us to each task, to be completed before we meet on Thursday. Then we’ll use Thursday to put everything together.”