“You seem happy.” Josh leans against the counter, his red T-shirt emblazoned with a cute cartoon zombie. “Was the mission a success?”
“Yes, sir.” I salute. “Mission complete. We really owe you one, Mom had no idea what happened.” I move closer, distracted by the familiar-looking illustration. “Is that one of Aiko’s designs?” I ask.
“Yes!” Josh grins, tugging at the shirt. “She finally caved to LuAnn and started selling them online. What do you think?”
“I like it. Very undead chic.” The doorbell dings behind us suddenly, and I turn to see Dominique sashay in, her shirt crisp and her jeans fresh — not a sign that merely eight hours ago she was stripping for a room full of strangers. She looks past us as if we don’t exist, breezing through to the back of the café.
Josh and I exchange a look. “Not it,” he says quickly.
“Hey!”
“You snooze, you lose.” Josh backs away, grinning. “And someone has to be alive to open up!” He crosses to the front of the café to flip the closed sign while I brace myself for battle.
Here goes nothing.
I find Dominique clearing out her locker: stuffing old time sheets and notes into a trash bag. “Spring cleaning?” I approach gingerly, not sure quite how to act now after her drunken revelations. She looks up.
“No,” Dominique answers simply, pulling a cardigan from the lockers and folding it neatly into her shoulder bag. “I’m quitting.”
“What?”
“The café, Sherman . . .” Dominique gives me a tired smile. “I’m applying to transfer to another school. Out West maybe, or Chicago. I’m done here.”
I look around. The café is almost empty, nobody except Josh to witness this huge development. All the times she’s threatened to quit, nobody actually thought she’d go ahead and do it. “B-but . . . Carlos,” I stutter. “I mean, what did he say?”
“What could he say?” she replies with a shrug. “I left a note. He’ll be fine.”
She turns back to the locker and checks it one last time. She’s utterly self-contained, and something about her pose — so studied and careful — reminds me of that poem they always drag out in lit class, the John Donne one, about no man being an island. But Dominique is. She is a vast territory, walled and guarded.
“Um. Good luck, I guess,” I offer, feeling useless. She finishes packing, but before she leaves, she reaches out and puts her hand lightly on my arm, the kindest gesture I think I’ve ever seen her make.
“Merci,” she tells me quietly.
“For what?”
“You changed. This summer, with that plan of yours . . .”
I don’t follow. “What do you mean?”
There’s another pause, and for a moment, I think she’s just going to snatch her hand back, deliver a deadpan bon mot, and leave, but once again she surprises me. “I don’t like who I am with him,” she answers. “How he makes me feel. Last night . . .” She swallows and shakes her head, stronger this time. “You were right. I don’t have to be this girl. I can do something about it.”
And then the wall is back up: she straightens and gives one last look around. “Tell the others . . . Well, tell them whatever. It won’t matter to me.”
She stalks away, the door closing behind her with a final ding.
Without Dominique on shift, I’m run off my feet for the rest of the morning, dashing around to keep up with orders while I try to deconstruct her cryptic comments. Just taking off and leaving town, transferring schools, literally running away from Carlos? It seems so extreme to me, yet more drama from our most dramatic staff member. Ex-member now, I guess. But as much as I’m shocked by her sudden departure, a part of me understands it, too. That plaintive note in her voice, coming through the dark last night; the glimmer of self-loathing on her face today. She wants to escape the woman she’s become around him, any way she can.
“I called LuAnn; she’ll be in ASAP.” Josh hauls an armful of dirty dishes into the kitchen, backing through the swinging doors.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” I call, trying to juggle three different drink orders for five different kinds of coffee. I hit the Beast, say a short prayer, and turn to the next customer to apologize. “Sorry, we’ll just be a moment —”
“Hey, Sadie.” It’s Garrett. He gives me a lopsided smile, his hair still falling long enough to tuck behind his ears. “What’s up?”
“Garrett, hi!” I turn back to the counter, trying to remember which jug is soy and which is two percent. “Could you hold on, like, ten minutes? We’re kind of slammed right now. . . .”
“I know, but I wanted to say sorry about last night.” He takes a hand from behind his back and holds out a bunch of daisies. “I got so caught up with this new poem, I lost track of time.”
The flowers are tied with string, obviously handpicked. I always loved daisies. I soften. “Thanks, that’s sweet. But we really are crazy right now.”
Josh appears next to me. “I can take the register if you pour.”
“Perfect.” We sidestep around each other in a well-practiced ballet while Garrett waits on the other side of the counter.
“Oh, before I forget . . .” Josh pulls a CD from his back pocket and slides it over to me. Sadie’s Mix is written on the front in scrawled Magic Marker. “I burned you some of those Thermals tracks.”
“Um, thanks,” I say, my focus pulled in three different directions. “That’s great. I’ll take a listen later.”
“Anyway.” Garrett coughs. He looks back and forth between me and Josh. “Sorry. I guess this isn’t a good time.”
“Not really!” I froth milk with one hand while Josh passes me a fresh mug. “I just had someone quit on me,” I explain to Garrett. “And the lunch crowd will be here any minute. . . .”
“Why don’t I help?” Garrett brightens.
“No, it’s fine.” I turn back to the drinks in front of me, and then stare at them, lost. “Crap. Was it soy in the mocha or in the latte?” I ask Josh.
“The latte.”
“Double crap.” I pour the drinks out and start fresh, pausing to wipe my sweaty face with the edge of my apron.
“I’m serious,” Garrett says, still loitering there on the other side of the counter.