The Espressologist

by Kristina Springer

  “Thanks, Derek!” I say, and head out of his office.

  “Did he demote you?” Sarah asks when I join her in the front.

  “Not at all,” I respond. “We were just talking about some ways to increase profits.”

  “Wow,” Sarah says, looking impressed.

  “Yeah, there really is a lot that comes with being assistant manager,” I say in my hoity-toity voice.

  “Sounds like it,” she replies as she straightens up the straws and picks up wrappers off the counter. “By the way, your friends were just in here.”

  “Which friends?” I ask.

  “Two girls,” Sarah answers. “Both thin and blond, but the taller one was really beautiful. I couldn’t really tell if she was being sincere or snarky, though. They ordered small nonfat lattes.”

  “Ugh . . . say no more!” I immediately know whom she is talking about. “They aren’t my friends. Not even close. I’m glad I missed them.”

  “Really?” Sarah questions. “They asked about you.”

  “What did they say?” I’m not sure I really want to know.

  “Well, the taller one specifically said, ‘What? My friend Jane isn’t here today? Oh shoot, she makes the BEST drinks.’ ”

  “Yeah,” I conclude, “she was being snarky.”

  “Who were they?”

  “Just some stupid girls from school last year. They were seniors when I was a junior and not exactly nice to me.”

  “Oh, how lame are they? I guess they haven’t matured at all since high school.”

  “Nope,” I declare, starting to make two small vanilla crème frappycaps a couple of preteens just ordered.

  “So, what kind of mood is Derek in now?” Sarah asks.

  “Almost decent,” I tell her. “I would talk to him now if you need anything.”

  “I actually do,” she says. “I’m hoping he’ll let me have the day after Thanksgiving off. I want to hit the Black Friday sales.”

  “Sounds like fun! But that is one of our busiest days. Everybody wants coffee while they shop. He might not go for it. I would definitely ask him now before he gets on his next tirade.” I am so jealous. I’d love to go to the Black Friday sales, but I know for sure he’ll have me work that day.

  “Okay, be right back,” she says, and heads toward Derek’s office.

  The front door swings open and five police officers walk in. They aren’t in the standard-issue police uniform, though. They are wearing faded blue jeans, dark sweatshirts, and black bulletproof jackets with the word POLICE embroidered across the back in white capital letters. I recognize Officer Jake right away. He’s been in here a couple of times before and he is definitely hard to miss. In his early twenties, and built like a baseball player, Officer Jake is tall, Italian, and gorgeous. The muscles busting out of his forearms are incredible. You just want to touch them. The other guys with him are decent-looking enough, though maybe a bit older. Officer Jake is definitely the cutie of the group. And single.

  “Hey, how’s it going?” he bellows out as he approaches the counter, confidence radiating from him. This guy is definitely comfortable in his own skin.

  “Great. What can I get you all?” They each give me their order, but I concentrate on Officer Jake’s—a large extra-bold Sumatra with room for cream. Hmm . . . confident, daring, fun, and, well, incredibly hot. He’s perfect for Sarah! Now how to get them together?

  I make all the officers their drinks and call them out. They take them to one of the bigger tables near the windows. It looks like they are going to sit and talk for a while, so I have a few minutes to devise a hookup plan. I grab a napkin and walk over to the employee bulletin board in the hallway outside the break room.

  “Sarah, Sarah, Sarah,” I say, scanning the employee call list tacked up on it. Bingo. I scribble Sarah’s phone number onto the napkin with a short cute note and hustle back up to the front. Okay, now I have to get it to him. I glance over to the dessert tray in the display case, and a plan forms in my mind. I take out a slice of our signature coffee cake and place it on the napkin, careful not to cover the phone number so it doesn’t leave any grease marks and smudge a number. Just then, Sarah returns.

  “You were right, Jane. He was in a pretty good mood. He let me take the day off.”

  “Great. Hey, do me a favor,” I say as I start finger-combing Sarah’s long black curls and wipe some mascara smudges from under her eyes.

  “Um . . . what are you doing?” she asks. “You better not wipe spit on me next.”

  “I won’t. Just take this cake out to that magnificent-looking policeman sitting over by the window.” Sarah looks up and sees Officer Jake.

  “YUUUUUUMMMMMMMY!” she exclaims, and starts to help me fix her hair. “Here.” She holds out her hand and I place the cake in it. I watch Sarah walk up to the table and hand Officer Jake his cake. He grins, looking a little puzzled, but accepts the cake. Sarah tells him something and throws back her head, shaking her curls a bit. She’s definitely flirting. She says something else and returns to the counter. I can see that she’s hiked up her tight long-sleeve cotton shirt so that a strip of her stomach and back peeks out. She’s a pro. He’s totally watching her walk away.

  Officer Jake and his friends talk for another moment and Sarah and I drool from afar as we watch him take a few bites of the cake. We’re drooling over him, of course, though the cake looks pretty good today, too. A call comes over their radios and they all jump up and head for the door. Officer Jake comes by the counter first and waves the napkin at Sarah.

  “Thanks for the cake,” he says with a wink. “I’ll give you a call.”

  Sarah beams and nods and we both watch him leave. She turns to me, “What the . . . ?”

  “There’s your hookup.”

  5

  Is it just me, or does this project seem a bit lame to you?” I ask, scooting my chair and desk around so that I can sit face-to-face with Cameron White. Professor Monroe, our English instructor, said our next assignment is a five-to-eight-page biography on someone else in the class. Because of our seating vicinity, Cam and I decided to partner up on this one.

  “I don’t know,” he says with a straight face. “It might be fun to learn about all your deep dark secrets.”

  I stare at him for a moment, not sure what to say.

  “You don’t really expect me to tell you my secrets, do you?” I whisper.

  “Well, you’ll have to give me something good to write about. I want an A.” Cam grins at my worried look.

  “No way!” I exclaim with a nervous laugh, relieved. “Besides, I’m going first with the questions.” I tap my pen on my notebook, purse my lips, and study Cam. He’s really not bad-looking at all. He’s a little more rugged than the typical guys I see around the city. More like he should be hiking a trail somewhere instead of riding the El train. But he’s got really nice blue eyes and he laughs a lot, which makes his face light up.

  “You are taking too long to come up with a question. You’re kind of scaring me.”

  “Okay, okay, I’m just trying to come up with some good ones. I think I’m going to start from the present and work my way back, if you don’t mind,” I say.

  “I don’t mind. Shoot.”

  “Okay. Number one, how did you decide to attend Anthony Carter Community College?” I ask.

  “That’s a good question,” Cam says, and I relax a little and prepare to take notes. “I actually got into Indiana University—it’s one of the Big Ten schools. They have a decent finance program—that’s my major, by the way—and I’d always planned on going there.”

  “What happened?”

  “Well,” he says, taking a long pause. “My mom was diagnosed with breast cancer in August.”

  “Wow,” I say, dropping my pen. “I’m really sorry.”

  “She’s doing okay so far,” he tells me, “but she’s all alone and, well, she needs me right now. The chemo has been rough on her. For the time being, I’m staying home to help her and going to s
chool locally.”

  “You are, like, the best son ever.” I have a sudden respect for Cam. He shrugs.

  “My turn. What’s your favorite coffee drink?”

  “What?” I chuckle. “Are you kidding me? Is this going in my biography?”

  “Definitely,” he says, with his pen on his paper waiting to write down my answer. “I’m very interested. You already told me you’re the assistant manager at the Wired Joe’s around the corner, so I’m sure you’re an expert on the best drinks.”

  “That is kind of true.” I try to sound modest. “But just because I know a lot about coffee doesn’t mean my favorite would be everybody’s favorite. It’s such an individual thing.”

  “Still waiting . . .” He feigns impatience.

  “Large iced nonfat mocha, no whip,” I tell him, and he actually writes it down.

  “Hmm . . . interesting.” Cam stares at what he just wrote.

  “Oh, stop it,” I say, shaking my head. I’ve been analyzing people and their drinks for so long that it’s kind of weird having someone analyze me. Just then Professor Monroe interrupts and tells us that class is over for today. I check my watch. Fifteen minutes to get to work.

  “I don’t have nearly enough here to write a paper on you, so it looks like we’re going to have to work on this outside of class. Do you want to meet sometime?”

  “Sure,” I say, writing my e-mail address down in the upper corner of his notebook. “Gimme your e-mail, too.” He writes his in my notebook. “When is this due, anyway?” I ask.

  “Next Wednesday. We only have a week, so we’ll have to get together soon,” he says.

  “Let’s shoot for Sunday afternoon,” I suggest. “I work until four. You can meet me at Wired Joe’s and we can work at a table there.”

  “Cool.” He tosses his books in his backpack and walks with me out the classroom door. “See you then.”

  “See you,” I say, buttoning up my tan designer-knockoff jacket (who can afford a real one?) and slipping my backpack over one shoulder. As I head out the door I hear the signal on my phone indicating I have a text message. It says, “J, come over. 911. E.”

  I type back, “Wrk in 15.”

  Em responds, “4 real. 911.”

  “Ok,” I type, and slide my phone back into my bag.

  I run the three blocks from school to Wired Joe’s to let Derek know I’m going to be late for work this afternoon. I tell him I have my period and no tampons so I need to go to the store and he makes an “ew, gross” face. The “just got my period” excuse works on every single male teacher at school—it’s good to know it is just as effective in the real world. I leave Wired Joe’s and run the six blocks to Em’s. I ring her apartment and she buzzes me in. The door is unlocked and I know her mom is at work, so I head in and go straight to her bedroom.

  “Must . . . start . . . working . . . out . . . again,” I huff and puff, bending over slightly and grabbing my sides. I take a moment to regain my breath and then finally look up at Em. She’s lying in a lump on her bed and, oh crap, she’s crying.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask, not entirely sure what to do. I’ve never seen Em cry before. In the seven years that we’ve been best friends I’ve cried plenty and she’s always consoled me. Well, until now, that is. I sit down on the bed next to her. “Em, what’s wrong?”

  Em turns her head from her pillow to look at me. She’s a puffy-faced mess. “Jason broke up with me,” she whispers.

  “What?” I practically scream at her. I can’t believe it. Jason and Em have always been so solid. They are the dream couple. “Why on earth would he break up with you?”

  Em’s face crumples and she drops her head into her pillow again. Her shoulders rise and fall with her crying. I wait for her to stop. She turns her head and looks at me. “He said it isn’t working anymore. He said we’re too different,” she chokes out.

  “What does that mean?” I ask.

  Em grabs a handful of Kleenex from the box on the desk near her bed. “He thinks I’m too involved with school,” she tells me.

  “What does he expect? You are taking really hard classes this semester. He should know that you have a lot of work.” Em nods her head in agreement. “Not to mention . . . you’re going to college next year and then law school. He should get used to all the schoolwork now.”

  “That’s just it,” she says. “The prelaw thing. He thinks I’ll be too busy with school and study groups to spend any time with him, so we should just end it now.”

  “Maybe it’s not such a bad thing to break up,” I say, crossing my arms. “If he can’t hack it now while you are in high school, he sure won’t be able to when you are in college.”

  Em’s face crumples up again and she buries it in her pillow. Shoot. Wrong thing to say. I knew I was no good at this consoling business.

  “Sorry, sorry, sorry,” I say. “What can I do to help? Do you want me to try to talk to him?” We all hung out quite a bit last year, so I feel pretty comfortable approaching him about this. We haven’t hung out much since the school year started, though. Jason was a year ahead of Em and me and is out of school now. He didn’t go to college. He went right to work for his uncle in his construction business and has been pretty busy himself.

  “No!” Em screams, sitting straight up. “I didn’t tell you the worst part.”

  Uh-oh. There’s more?

  “Oh god . . . I’m so embarrassed.” She covers her face with her hands.

  “It’s okay, Em, you know you can tell me anything.”

  “He’s . . . dating someone else. She’s . . . a . . . townie,” she says.

  “A what?” I ask.

  “You know, a townie. His uncle lives in a really small suburb of the city. Jason has been spending all his time out there since he started working for him.” Em sighs and takes a deep breath. “She’s like the town hussy or something. She practically lives at the one little local bar in town. She’s twenty-four and she works at the SuperMart full-time.”

  “Dare to dream,” I say.

  “It gets worse,” Em continues. “He met her bowling.” Despite Em’s distress. I can’t help but grin, putting the whole picture of this girl together. “She’s on his league.”

  “Jason is on a bowling league?!” I practically scream. “What’s up with that?” I ask, laughing now. “Do they have team shirts and everything?”

  “God, I don’t know. And stop laughing—this isn’t funny! He’s been acting strange ever since he graduated,” she says.

  “Sounds like it.” I mean, seriously, a bowling league? I shudder.

  “What am I going to do?” Em whimpers.

  “Do you really want my opinion?”

  She nods.

  “Let him go.”

  “But we’ve been together for almost three years!” she protests.

  “I know. I’m not saying it will be easy or anything, but he cheated on you, Em. Or I should say he IS cheating on you. And, not that I want to agree with a cheating jerk, but it does sound like you guys are headed in different directions.”

  Her bottom lip quivers a bit. “I know.”

  “I’m sorry, Em,” I say. “Here, let me call Derek and let him know I can’t make it to work after all. I’ll tell him I have killer cramps or something. We can hang out tonight.”

  “Okay. Thanks, Jane,” she says, wiping her eyes with the Kleenex.

  6

  How are you doing today, Em?” I ask in the break room of Wired Joe’s. I just finished my shift, and Em is coming on to work the afternoon-till-close shift. It has been strangely slow for a Sunday.

  “I don’t know. All right, I guess,” she replies in a melancholy voice.

  I fold up my blue apron and shove it in my bag as she slips hers on and ties it behind her back.

  “I know it doesn’t seem like it, but things really will get better,” I assure her, looking in the mirror on the wall to adjust the thick plaid tweed headband in my hair and smooth down my white collared shirt. I w
ish I’d brought a change of clothes for my meeting with Cam today.

  “Yeah, I know. You keep saying that. I’m still waiting for it to happen.”

  “Well, it won’t happen immediately,” I say, even though I have no experience in this department, since I’ve never really had a long-term boyfriend. “What’s going on? You sounded better on the phone yesterday morning. I knew you should have come out with Katie, Ava, and me last night. Next time I’m going to drag your butt out so you don’t have time to sit around and mope.”

  “I didn’t sit around and mope the whole time,” she says. “I saw him.”

  “You saw Jason?” I spin around to look at her. “Oh, my god, Em, why? Please tell me you didn’t do the desperate girl thing and beg for him to take you back.” Darn it. I should have kept her company last night. I can be such a sucky friend sometimes.

  “No . . . no! Of course not. I’m depressed but not stupid,” Em says. “I ran out to Chipotle for a burrito last night and he was there. He looked amazing. He was wearing that big super-soft comfy navy blue sweater that I gave him last Christmas. For just the briefest of moments I wanted to rush up to him and throw my arms around him. But then I noticed he was with her. I lost my appetite instantly, so I turned around and went home.”

  “Oh geez, Em, that’s rough. Did he see you?”

  “No, I don’t think so.” We’re both silent for a moment.

  “What did she look like?” I finally ask.

  A slight smile spreads across Em’s face.

  “Totally lame,” she admits.

  “Tell me, tell me. I want details.”

  “Well, for starters she was wearing acid-washed stretch jeans.”

  “No!” I practically scream, covering my mouth with my hand.

  “Yeah, I didn’t even know they still made those,” she says.

  “Maybe she bought them on eBay?” I offer. “You can buy all kinds of crap there.”

  “Maybe,” she echoes. “She also had on a pink-and-green tie-dyed shirt, big pink hoop earrings, and, get this, construction boots.”