“Omigod Jane! That is so cool!” Sarah squeals.
“Totally!” Em agrees. I’m so glad she’s not mad that I went and talked to Derek right after she turned down the job.
“Yeah, yeah, somebody’s got to do it,” Derek interjects.
“Your faith in me is underwhelming, Derek,” I say, and pat him on the back. He shoots me daggers with his eyes before heading to his office. Okay, the pat might have been a bit much. Just because we are both management now doesn’t mean we should touch. As soon as Derek is out of earshot we all laugh.
“Seriously, that’s great, Jane. I’m glad you took the job,” Em says as she hugs me.
Did I mention that she is the greatest best friend ever?
“What are we celebrating?” Gavin, my absolute favorite regular, approaches the counter.
“Hey, Gav! I’ve just been crowned assistant manager,” I tell him.
“That’s great!” He reaches over the counter and hugs me, too. I’m getting all the love today. “Congrats!”
“Hey, I’ve got Gavin,” I say to Em and Sarah. “The usual, right?” Gavin comes in almost every day and orders the same thing, a medium iced vanilla latte.
He nods, already handing me the $3.89 in cash. I mark the plastic cup, slide it over to Sarah to make, and lean toward Gavin on my elbows.
“So, what’s new with you?” I ask.
“Not too much,” he says with a slight hesitation. “Well, that isn’t totally true. Anne and I broke up yesterday.”
“Ooh, I’m sorry. Are you okay?”
“Yeah. Actually I am pretty okay with it. Our relationship had run its course. I’m too young to be tied down anyway, right?” He laughs.
“Sure! That’s a good attitude, Gav. I’m glad you aren’t letting it bring you down.”
“Medium iced vanilla latte,” Sarah bellows, no more than three feet away from us.
“That’s my call,” he says, picking up his drink and popping in the straw. “See you tomorrow.” He takes a sip and heads for the door.
“Later.” I smile. “Did you hear that?” I ask, stepping over to the girls, who have begun refilling the cookie and coffee cake trays in the glass showcase.
“Yeah, it’s too bad,” Em says. “He’s a good guy.”
“He is,” I agree, and wipe down the pick-up counter with a wet white rag. “We should totally set him up with someone.” I mentally list all the cool girls that I know.
Small Decaf Soy Sugar-free Hazelnut Caffe Latte
Yuppie, her-hubby-is-off-running-an-empire-while-she-is-teaching-the-baby-Latin-with-low-fat-wheat-alphabet-pretzels, yoga-doing-superwoman, stay-at-home-mommy drink. She’s fit, in style, and toting a three-hundred-dollar designer diaper bag on her shoulder and a lackadaisical four-month-old in a BabyBjörn on her front. She’s über-smart, probably has a master’s in something but has given up her high-profile career to focus on the chosen one, who is already showing superior dexterity with the way he is grasping his Baby Einstein flash cards.
“That will be two ninety-five,” Sarah tells the customer as she marks the order on the paper cup and slides it my way. “Think you can stop writing in your notebook long enough to make this drink?”
“Already on it,” I say, and toss the notebook under the counter once again. I pour a shot of decaf espresso into the plastic cup, add three pumps of sugar-free hazelnut syrup, and begin foaming the soy milk to pour on top.
“Small decaf soy sugar-free hazelnut caffe latte,” I call out as I hand the woman her drink and make the expected cooing noises to the baby.
“So, are you ever really going to tell me what’s in the notebook?” Sarah asks.
“It’s work-related,” I respond. “It’s part of my assistant-manager duties. Derek just didn’t want me to talk about it before.” Okay, I’m totally lying now, but Sarah doesn’t have to know that. How do I explain to her what I am doing? I don’t think I can. About three months ago I was really bored at work and started doodling in my notebook. This woman came in and ordered a large caramel frappycap and it just sort of hit me that she SEEMED like the large-caramel-frappycap type. Not so current with fashion, kinda frumpy, no clue where the gym is, doesn’t mind the five hundred calories in the drink. Like, I could see her somewhere else, outside of Wired Joe’s, and know that was her drink. It’s a “you are what you drink” philosophy. So I’ve been documenting people’s drinks—all kinds of people. Young and old, skinny and fat, blue-collar and white-collar. It’s become my little project.
“Ohhhhhh!” Sarah says, and I can see a look of respect come over her face. God, I am so bad. I glance at Em and she has a “you are so full of crap” look on her face. The glass door opens and we are blasted with the cold air again.
“Hey,” I tell Sarah and Em, “I’ll be right back. I have to grab a sweater.” I race to the break room and grab my faux-fur-trimmed hoodie vest. Doesn’t exactly go with the Wired Joe’s ensemb’, but I’m freezing. I walk back up to the front and see Sarah engaged in conversation with a short (maybe five-three?) slim brunette in her early twenties. She’s pretty cute. Smart and simple. Nice style—no thong peeking out of her pants or other fashion disasters. Maybe a medium cappuccino? I race back up to the espresso machine and ask Sarah, “Can I get a drink started?”
“Yeah, this is my friend Simone. She wants a medium dry cappuccino.”
Ooh, I was close! She just wants an extra foamy cup. I start to foam the milk for the drink. Friend, huh? Hmm . . . what goes well with a medium dry cappuccino? Maybe a medium iced vanilla latte? I smile, and a plan forms in my mind.
“Hey, girls!” Two of my good friends from elementary school, Ava and Katie, walk into Wired Joe’s. Now they both go to St. Pat’s, a private high school. “Quitting time,” I yell to Em, who is already gathering her things. Ava is really into drama and is the lead in the community theater’s rendition of Mame. Not only is she drop-dead gorgeous, she can sing circles around anyone I know. Katie wants to be an astronaut one day and already plans on doing an internship at NASA next summer. She is way, way smart.
“No rush,” Ava says. “Can I get a quick green tea?”
“Sure.” I fill a cup with hot water and drop in a tea bag. “You want anything, Katie?”
Katie shakes her head. “Nah, I’m good. I was actually just hoping to catch a glimpse of the frat boys you keep talking about, Jane.”
Ah, the frat boys, Will, Grant, and Adam—total hotties. They are the nineteen-year-old Greek gods that attend the University of Illinois at Chicago and stop in almost every night after class for a drink.
Em smiles. “You mean Jane’s groupies? They didn’t come in tonight. Maybe they have dates?”
“They so do not!” I say. “Well, at least I hope Will doesn’t. He’s the future Mr. Turner.” All the girls erupt in laughter.
“So, why are they Jane’s groupies?” Ava asks.
“Because they want only Jane to make their drinks,” Em answers. “I think she slips in something extra, if you know what I mean.”
“Oh, shut up!” I laugh. “I don’t even want to know what you are implying. Besides, what can I slip into espressos over ice?” Adam and Grant always order a three-shot espresso over ice and Will always orders a five-shot espresso over ice. God, he is so cool. I slip on my slim brown-suede jacket, grab my notebook, and sling my one-week’s-pay-costing coffee-colored handbag over my shoulder.
“I don’t know,” Em says, “but there has to be a reason they always want you to serve them.”
“Couldn’t it just be that I’m gorgeous?” I suggest with the most serious face I can muster.
“Oh . . . sure,” Em says. “Your uniform is a huge turn-on.” Everyone giggles again.
“All right, all right, are you three ready to go?” I ask.
“Yeah, let’s get moving,” Katie adds, and we head out the door into the dark to pile into her tiny red Ford Focus illegally parked on the side of the road. “Are we going right to Jen’s party?” She starts t
he car and pulls out onto Wabash. Jen is Katie’s college friend who goes to Columbia College. Jen’s parents rented an apartment for her so that she wouldn’t have to slum it in the dorms.
“No. Can we stop at Em’s apartment first so we can change?” I ask. Like I want to hit a party in my white turtleneck and black pants.
“No problem,” Katie says, and heads the six blocks to Em’s place. When we get there Em and I jump out of the car and promise to be back shortly. We race up the two flights of stairs to her apartment and head for her bedroom. Thankfully, Em’s mom is out tonight and won’t get to voice an opinion on our clothing choices. I immediately start rummaging through Em’s closet looking for something cute to wear. As a bonus to being best friends, we both are almost the same height (I’m five-six and she’s five-seven), and we both wear the same size. We are constantly raiding each other’s closets.
I finger a pink fake cashmere sweater with my left hand and flip open my cell and dial with my right. My mom will kill me if I don’t call to check in.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Mom.”
“Hi, sweetie . . . on your way home?” Mom says.
“Not exactly. I’m at Em’s.” I pull a silver scoop-neck sweater out of the closet, hold it against myself, and turn to show Em. She shakes her head no.
“How was your day?” Mom asks, and I can hear tapping in the background. She’s obviously typing on the computer while talking to me.
“Great, actually. Derek made me assistant manager.”
“Oh, honey, that’s fantastic! It won’t interfere with school though, will it?”
I doubt it. “No, of course not. Hey, Mom, is it okay if Em, Katie, Ava, and I go hang out at Jen’s?” Not a lie. We will be hanging out at Jen’s. Along with fifty of her closest friends.
“Okay, Jane, but be home before midnight.”
“’Kay.”
“And keep your phone on.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Love you,” Mom says.
“Love you, too. Bye.”
“All cool?” Em asks when I hang up.
“Yep.” I return my attention to Em’s closet.
“Hey, that was funny what you were telling Sarah about your notebook tonight.” Em eyes the notebook that I threw on her bed as she slips on her new skinny jeans and lies back on her bed to button them.
I laugh. “That girl is so nosy. I was getting sick of her asking me about it.” I pick up a pair of Em’s black leggings and a white-and-black striped skirt and hold them against myself while looking in her mirror.
“So, Dr. Freud, how long is your study of people’s coffee habits going to go on?” Em has read through some of my descriptions before and thinks they are hilarious. And accurate, of course.
“I don’t know. It’s fun and pretty fascinating. I can tell so much about people from their drinks. I actually got an idea tonight that I’m thinking about trying out,” I say.
“Yeah? What’s that?”
“Well, it really depends on how willing my subjects are.”
“Oh god, just tell me I’m not one of your ‘subjects,’ ” she pleads, stopping to look at me before she continues to outline her right eye with dark brown pencil.
“Boring ol’ medium-hot-chocolate you?” I say. “Nah. Besides, you have a man already.” Em has been dating the ever reliable Jason Jones since freshman year in high school. I swear they are going to get married one day.
“Well, I don’t see him around tonight, do you?” she says. “And sometimes I get a coffee hot chocolate, so there.”
“You told me.”
“But seriously, do tell. What does having a man have to do with this?”
“Well,” I start, not sure how exactly to say it. “You know how earlier tonight I was telling you how awesome Gavin is and how we should set him up with someone?”
“Yeah . . .” she says, sitting down next to me on the bed.
I flip open my book to “medium iced vanilla latte.” “Look.” Em quickly reads my entry.
Medium Iced Vanilla Latte
Smart, sweet, and gentle. Sometimes soft-spoken but not a doormat. Loyal and trustworthy. A good friend. Decent looks and body.
“What about it?” Em asks.
“Hold on.” I flip through the pages of my notebook again. “Now read this.”
Medium Dry Cappuccino
Smart and simple. Fit and fairly good-looking. A little timid and soft-spoken but probably a powerhouse if ever tested. A good friend.
“Okay . . . where is this leading?” Em is totally confused now.
“Don’t you see? They’re perfect for each other!” I squeal.
“The drinks? What are you going to do with them?”
“Not the drinks,” I say, exasperated, “the people. The people who drink these drinks are PERFECT for each other.”
“Really? You think so?”
I nod. “And I’m going to prove it. I’m going to hook them up.”
“Who?” Em asks.
I sigh and roll my eyes. “Gavin and Simone!”
“Simone?”
“Yeah, Sarah’s friend,” I say.
“Ohhhhhh . . .” A smile spreads across Em’s face. “I can kind of see that! A little coffee matchmaking, eh?”
“A little Espressology,” I answer, smiling back.
We arrive at Jen’s apartment and knock on the door. No one hears us because the music is turned up and we just walk in. The place is packed, mostly with Columbia kids whom I don’t know. Katie and Ava disappear almost immediately into the crowd and leave Em and me standing there. Someone slips a cold bottle of beer into my hand. Yuck. Beer is gross. I look up.
“Thanks,” I say to the cute blond boy smiling at me. He looks familiar.
“No problem. Jane, right?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I reply. “Do I know you?”
“Cam. Cameron White. I sit behind you in English. Of course, I haven’t seen you in a couple of weeks.” Oh . . . now I remember this guy. He’s in my English class at the college.
“Yeah,” I say. “How’s class going?”
“I can’t complain. It’s pretty easy really. We only have the four papers to write this semester. Are you coming back to class?”
“Oh yeah . . . for sure. Just been busy. Well, there’s my friend. I’ll talk to you later.” I zigzag through the crowd away from him, setting my unopened bottle of beer down on an end table, and run smack into Simone.
“Hi,” I tell her. “I was just talking about you a little while ago. That’s so crazy to run into you here.” She looks at me like I’m a psycho. “Do you remember me?” I ask. “I met you earlier tonight . . . at Wired Joe’s?” She’s still looking at me like I’m going to drag her out to an alley and turn her into soup. I pull my long dark-brown hair away from my face and twist it up on my head. “Now picture me with a blue apron on and a foaming pitcher in my hand.” A look of recognition comes over her face and she smiles.
“Oh yeah, you made my coffee earlier. It was good. Thanks.”
“Sure. Glad you liked it. Hey, listen, are you single?” She looks at me funny again. “Not for me, of course!” I quickly add. “I just know the PERFECT guy for you.” She relaxes.
“Oh, well, I generally don’t do the blind date thing . . .” she starts.
“You wouldn’t really have to. Just let me introduce you. Come into Wired Joe’s the next time I work.” I quickly go over my schedule in my mind. “Monday afternoon around sixish. His name is Gavin and he’s so awesome; he comes in and gets a drink about that time every day. You can get a look at him first and decide if you want to meet him. Then I can just casually introduce you. I swear you guys are PERFECT for each other,” I repeat.
“Okay. Why not? I can at least come in and get a drink, right?” she says.
“Cool!” I’m jazzed that my first Espressology test is about to take place. “I’ll see you then.” I smile and head off to find Em.
3
My classes are
so, so hard.” Em sets her elbows on the small wooden table and rubs her eyes with the back of her hands. We’re sitting at a table next to the bathroom at Wired Joe’s, waiting for our shift to start. There is an inch-long string sticking off the seam of Em’s black fake-leather shoe and it is driving me crazy. I must get her away from SuperMart shoes and into a decent shoe store. “I was up until three a.m. working on a paper for my lit class.”
“I know what you mean. I’m tired, too,” I say with a yawn, stretching my arms over my head. Though I’m not tired from school, but rather from catching up on last week’s TiVo’d All My Children episodes last night.
“How are your classes going?” Em asks. How are they going? Good question.
“I just got off the phone with my mom and she asked the same thing,” I say, attempting to avert the question.
“And what did you say?” she persists.
Well, shoot. That didn’t work. “Um . . . okay. I guess.”
“What’s wrong? Is that chemistry class at the college getting you down? I heard that it’s hard.”
“No . . . not really.” It can’t get me down if I’m not there, right? Em looks up at me quizzically and props her head on her right fist.
“Why haven’t you been talking about school lately?” She studies my face. I hate when she does this.
“It just isn’t that exciting,” I lie, trying to look innocent. Em’s eyes narrow and she rubs her chin with her index finger. “You’re the one with all the interesting classes. You know how boring my schedule is,” I add. My classes are on the other side of the school from Em’s, so even when I do go I rarely see her.
“Really? Just nothing exciting to talk about? What are you studying in your classes?” She continues to look at me. Uhoh. Her stares are relentless—I’m doomed.
“What?” I ask, shifting uncomfortably in my chair for a few seconds. “Oh fine, fine! I haven’t gone to classes in a couple of weeks. Happy?”
The Espressologist Page 2