Friendship.
Ignoring him now would make him think I don’t care, that I don’t want to be friends. I want to get over him, not lose him for good! How must he feel, with me not replying to his texts and e-mails like this? What kind of friend am I?
“Sadie!” Dominique snaps me out of my panicked reverie. She dumps an armful of dishes on the counter, then strips off her apron. “I have to go,” she informs me.
“Are you off already?” I stare at her, still fixed on my Garrett dilemma. “I didn’t see LuAnn come in.”
“She hasn’t.” Dominique shrugs, with typical insouciance. “But you can handle it.”
“Um, sure, I guess.” I look around. The café is half full, and everything seems quiet enough. “But can you . . . ?”
My words fall into empty space; she’s already gone. But then I realize, I’m unsupervised, with no one to bark disapproving orders in French if I check my phone, say, or make a quick call. . . .
I snatch my phone out from my locker and dial with shaking hands. It’s pure instinct — I don’t even think about the hours of struggle I’m rendering useless here; I only want to make things right.
Voice mail.
“Hi, Garrett,” I say, trying to keep the panic from my voice. “How are you doing? I just wanted to say I hope you’re OK, and call anytime.” I pause. “I, um, know I’ve been busy, and not returning some of your messages, but I’m here for you — I promise. Just call. Anytime!”
I hang up, still feeling a lurch of guilt. It’s not Garrett’s fault I’ve been in love with him all this time, and it’s not his fault I’ve had to pull away for the sake of my mental health and general sanity. No, he’s the innocent party in all of this. And here I am, abandoning him as if our friendship doesn’t mean a thing. I think of the messages I didn’t return, the IMs I didn’t respond to, the e-mails languishing unread in my in-box. He must think I’m ditching him, that I couldn’t care less. I want to get over him to save our friendship, not destroy it!
“Excuse me? Hello, can I get some service?”
“Sure! Just a sec,” I call, quickly typing out a text in case he’s stuck in a lecture or class and can’t check his voice mail.
“Like, now?”
Some people have no patience. Call me! I finish, then tuck the phone under the counter and turn back to work. The itch is back to a full-on burn, but there’s nothing I can do but wait now.
Wait, consumed by the panic that I’ve ruined everything.
Half an hour later, it’s clear that my friendship with Garrett isn’t the only thing I’ve destroyed; my new skills as Super-Barista have fallen apart as well.
“I ordered a latte, like, ten minutes ago!”
“And I’m still waiting on the mocha whip.”
“The tables are all dirty!”
CRASH!
A tray of dirty plates tumbles to the floor, but I ignore it, yanking down hard on the Beast. It splutters but doesn’t deliver me the caffeinated elixir I need. I try again. Nothing. It’s as if the universe can sense my Zen barista focus has been broken; the peaceful, placid café has degenerated into sheer chaos, dirty dishes are piled on the tables, the orders are stacked overdue, and I’m left to dash around, desperately trying to satisfy the ever-growing line.
“Hello! We’re waiting here!”
“Uh-huh!” I call, my voice tinged with panic now. “Be right with you!”
Aren’t there laws against this — leaving a teenager in charge of, well, anything? I’m not even allowed to vote, yet suddenly I’m the sole being standing in the way of a full-on coffee riot!
“Two cappuccinos!” I cry, trying to swirl the foam into our trademark heart. It comes out a confused blotch, deformed and broken — a metaphor for my current psyche, if ever there was one. Garrett still hasn’t replied to my messages, despite my checking every five minutes — make that every three.
Josh peers out of the hatch at the mess. “Sadie?” he says, his voice edged with concern as he takes in the loud, angry, near-rioting scene. “Maybe we should close the kitchen to new orders, and I could come help you out.”
“But it’s the lunch rush. They want lunch!” I tell him, wiping sweaty bangs from my forehead, and smearing hot chocolate mix across my face in the process. “You can’t leave the kitchen.”
“OK, if you’re sure. . . .” He makes a reluctant face and then goes back to work.
“I wanted low-fat milk.” A scowling blond woman thrusts her drink back at me. “And there’s cinnamon on top. I hate cinnamon.”
“If you could just wait a moment . . .” I beseech her as I throw three pastries on a plate and push them toward the nearest person. Why must people be so picky? It’s a three-dollar coffee, not the center of their existence!
“But I told you specifically when I ordered, no cinnamon.”
With a sigh, I take back the drink, scoop off the offending foam, dump it all in a fresh cup, and hand it back. “Better?” I scowl.
“Well!” She opens her mouth in shock. “I’ll be filling in a feedback form about this.”
“You do that!” I call after her. “They’re right by the register!”
I snap back into action. The Beast is shaking so hard that the row of coffee cups stacked on top of it begins to vibrate. I snatch the jug of frothed milk away from the steamer, spilling half of it over my arm.
“Ow!” I reel back as the scalding hot liquid hits my skin.
“Hey, Sadie?” Kayla appears by the counter exit, making me jump back in the other direction and drop the jug. “Do you have those workbooks?”
I stare at her blankly.
“I left you, like, three voice mails about it,” she tries again, looking completely exhausted. “You know, the dream ambition book things?” She’s got two camp kids by the hands. There are suspicious brown stains all over her Sunny Dayze Camp T-shirt, her hair is splattered with blue paint, and her trademark perky ponytail is hanging limp.
“I’m sorry,” I tell her, still trying to stem the flow of coffee from the Beast. “I, um, didn’t get your messages.”
Truth is, I’ve been skipping past anything that isn’t immediately Garrett related. I have my priorities, especially with the café in meltdown!
“Oh.” Kayla deflates. “I have the whole Lion Cub group waiting for them. They riot after snack time. And you know how it is — there’s never enough tranquilizing cough syrup to go around.” She manages a grin.