Kayla giggles. “Good luck with that, holding back the seasons.”
“Hey, they’re always telling us we don’t know what we can achieve if we set our minds to it.” I shrug. “So, I’m setting my mind to this.”
“Aww, I like winter,” she muses. “Fires and hot chocolate and snuggling up with . . . well”— she stops —“snuggling in general.”
I shoot her a sympathetic look, but Kayla fixes a smile on her face. “Anyway, you won’t be standing around in the cold in the mornings, you’ll be riding in with me.”
“Well, in that case, winter is allowed this year,” I decide. “Just for you.”
LuAnn’s peeling red Civic screeches into a spot just across from us. She hops out, dressed in a crazy polka-dot dress, with ballet slippers tied crisscross all the way up her calves. “Hey!” She waves over to us, walking straight out into the street. A minivan slams on its brakes and blares its horn, but LuAnn just bounces over to us, beaming.
“I thought up another step for that plan of yours!”
“You did?” I remain noncommittal. LuAnn’s previous suggestions for the “Getting Over Garrett” file have so far included transferring to an international school somewhere glamorous and European, making out with twenty-four boys in twenty-four hours, and staging an intricate voodoo witchcraft ceremony to peel his essence from around my soul. “That’s sweet,” I tell her. “But I’m doing fine for now.”
“She’s hardly even talked to him this week,” Kayla agrees.
I turn to her. “You’ve been keeping tabs on me?”
“Duh.” She rolls her eyes good-naturedly. “Do I need to remind you about a certain Slushie incident? For the sake of my wardrobe, I need to know if you’re in panic mode.”
“No panicking,” I tell them both. “I’m good — I promise.”
“But you could be better!” LuAnn cries. “If you just had — drumroll — snap bracelets!” She produces a handful of thin rubber bands. “See? You put them on, and then whenever you think about Garrett, you snap them.” She demonstrates on my bare wrist. I reel back in pain.
“Owww!”
“It’s negative reinforcement,” LuAnn declares, eyes lit up with a sly gleam. “Eventually, you associate Garrett with pain and stop thinking about him.”
“Um, no,” I tell her firmly, peeling them off. “Don’t you think it’s a little extreme?”
LuAnn shakes her head. “You said it yourself: you can’t underestimate a broken heart.”
“It’s OK.” I laugh. “Really. I don’t need to resort to physical harm — I promise.”
LuAnn doesn’t look convinced. “It can sneak up on you at any time,” she warns, tucking the rubber bands away. “One minute you’re fine, and the next — bam! You’re weeping in the corner in three-day-old sweatpants, with nothing but a pack of Hostess Cupcakes to fill the emptiness and longing inside.”
I blink. “Thanks for the warning,” I tell her slowly. “I’ll let you know if I change my mind.”
“Sure thing!” She heads inside, skirts fluttering.
I turn to Kayla. “Um, let me know if you ever see her with a cattle prod, OK?”
The rest of the afternoon slips by without any more crazy ideas from LuAnn — except her attempts to play Lady Gaga on the stereo, which are quickly overridden by five different customers and an executive decision from Dominique.
“Some of us are trying to work,” Dominique informs LuAnn, striding behind the counter and snatching the offending CD from the player.
“You’re not even on today. You don’t get a say!” LuAnn objects, rushing to save her pop mix from the trash. I edge back, out of the way.
“I have six chapters to learn before my test tomorrow.” Dominique stalks back to her corner table: a makeshift fort of textbooks and wide-ruled notebooks. “I need quiet!”
“But Dom —”
“Just play something else,” Carlos calls from the back office, where he’s been locked away, scowling at the books. He scoots his chair into the doorway and tells LuAnn, “The customers are always right, remember?”
“Fine,” she answers with a grin, reaching for another CD. “You asked for it.”
A moment later, Carlos’s hit song starts playing; LuAnn sings loudly along. “I’m feelin’ free . . .” she warbles. “Like a bird in the sky . . .”
“LuAnn!” Carlos warns her. She pivots away, turning to the next customer.
“You like this song, don’t you?”
“Uh, sure.” The middle-aged man blinks, then begins nodding in time with the beat. “I heard it on TV, that car ad.”
LuAnn shoots Carlos a triumphant look and keeps singing. “I’m flyin’ so high . . . Freeeeee . . .”
Carlos retreats, slamming the door behind him. I sneak a glance at Dominique, still full of questions about their weird back-alley makeout setup. She hasn’t said a word to me yet about my unfortunate discovery; she’s just been breezing through her shifts with the same icy detachment as ever. Does she care that I’ve kept her secret, or is she so far above petty gossiping that she wouldn’t even care if I told? I watch her: head bent over those law books, a pair of chic, wire-rimmed glasses on her nose. She looks studious and reserved, like the last person to be having a scandalous affair with her boss, but perhaps that’s the point.
Dominique looks up suddenly and catches my gaze. I turn away quickly, embarrassed to be caught staring.
“I don’t know why he’s so touchy,” LuAnn says. “Anyone would think he’s ashamed of selling out. I’d sell out in a minute,” she adds, “if it meant I got a check in the mail every month.”
I laugh. “What happened to artistic integrity?”
“Screw artistic integrity,” she shoots back. “Mama needs to pay rent.”
The door dings behind us.
“So what does a guy have to do to get some service around here?”
I turn. And there he is, a crumpled button-down shirt half tucked in to brown corduroy pants; his beat-up leather satchel slung across his body. He approaches the counter, a familiar grin on his face.
Garrett.
“So, what’s the coffee of the day?” His grin broadens as he leans on the counter.