29
HER
Let’s face it, my track record with coffee had never been great.
And yet here I was, red-faced and frantic, mashing buttons and spinning dials on a humongous, gurgling copper espresso machine at what I was optimistically calling my new job, all while juggling the wand that was supposed to froth the milk to the perfect microfoam consistency but was actually just dripping warm, milky liquid all over the tile.
“Excuse me, ma’am.”
Ma’am?Ugh. That was almost worse thanmiss. “Call me Lou,” I told the customer without looking over, but he only rapped his knuckles loudly on the counter.
“I don’t care what your name is. I’ve been waiting for my double-shot soy latte for ten minutes! Do you even know how to work that thing?”
“Yes, sorry, I’m new here. Just trying to figure out how to—” I yelped as steam shot out, scalding my hand. Frantically, I dashed to the sink and held it under the cold running water.Fucking hell, was there any spare inch of my skin that wasn’t destined to be cooked to death?
Another woman spoke up loudly. “This is ridiculous. The slaves at The Copper Leaf across the street work at three times this speed.”
“That’s because they’re beaten if they don’t,” I shouted back.
“Excuse me?”
I sighed and finally glanced their way, gathering from their tailored power suits that they were Financial District lawyers who had wandered in without realizing they were in a slave-labor-free establishment and that great patience had to be exercised. Not that I wasn’t trying to be a good employee. I’d never had a service job before and had for a long time assumed I’d never need one. But I was on my own now, with books and subway fares and phone bills to pay for, and the choice had come down to which of two things—coffee or cooking—seemed less menacing. Coffee had won. I only wished I’d buckled down and finally figured out how to use that espresso machine my dad had bought last year.
I’d meant to. I really had. I’d also, shortly after he’d bought it, become very, very distracted.
Speaking of being distracted, I’d completely forgotten which drink I was supposed to be working on. With mounting panic, I scanned the names attached to the orders on the screen in front of me, hoping they’d offer some clues.
Double shot soy latte, he’d said. Right? I glanced at one of the names. “Are you… Michael?”
“No.”
“Shit.” I stood there helplessly, my face collapsing into that familiar about-to-ugly-cry crumple I’d once made the mistake of looking at in the mirror and now couldn’t unsee. Idiot. Had I learned nothing? I’d fought my way out of certain death in a collapsed mine, but it seemed making a macchiato was simplytoo advanced for the feeble abilities of Louisa Wainwright-Phillips, Hothouse Flower. Well, that and grocery shopping, taking a trip on the subway without riding ten stops in the wrong direction, and finding a cheap apartment within fifty miles of my new university that didn’t smell like an entire family of rats up and died in the walls.
The woman lawyer scoffed in irritation. “Let’s just get out of here,” she told her colleague. When they left and I had stopped unhygienically snorting and sniffling all over the glass bakery case, I grabbed my phone, feeling obligated to call the girl who’d gotten me the job in the first place and offer to resign in disgrace.
“I can’t do this, Bex.”
“You what?” The girl on the other end sounded like she was walking, which she usually was when she wasn’t in this very coffee shop. “Why the hell are you there alone on your first day? Didn’t anyone train you?”
“Basia started to, but she left early.”
“Figures. She’s probably out picketing outside that slave dealership that just opened across the river. God forbid a coffee shop owner would be concerned with whether anyone actually gets their coffee.”
I tried to smile but only hiccupped. “I just feel so useless. There were these lawyers in here and?—”
“Lawyers? Fuck ’em. I’d like to see them try to work that thing. Besides, if they want slaves waiting on them hand and foot, it’s not like they don’t have plenty of other places they can go.”
“Oh, they already have.”
Rebekah chuckled. “You know I referred you for that job for a reason.”
“Because you thought I’d be good at it?”
“Bless your heart, no. Because you were brave enough to want to try. Anyway, I’ll call Laken and tell him to come over there and help you. Just sit tight, okay?”
It took Basia’s partner twenty minutes to come over and save my ass, but save it he did. Luckily, the only customer to arrive in the meantime ordered an iced tea, which even I couldn’t fuck up, and thanks to Laken, it only took another two hours before I was successfully pulling espresso shots. Of course I still hadn’t memorized any of the drink combinations and didn’t even know what half the terms meant. But I’d like to think I had a chance. After all, I’d passed o-chem for two straight semesters—the second one without my tutor, even.
It was funny, I thought later as I finally threw my apron down and started trudging the three blocks to the subway station, desperately hoping to avoid another side trip halfway to Cape Cod. Although an ocean view would be a hell of a lot nicer than the one from the room I was currently renting below a takeout chicken restaurant, whose price was still a stretch for my paltry savings. The only time anyone ever seemed to think I was brave was when I was forced to be. But then again, maybe that’s what bravery was.
