“Uh,” the man started.
“No,” Sarika interrupted, pointing at him. “He wouldn’t. You do the best business while I’m here.” She smacked the machine and it let out a loud wheeze. “And you know it.”
“Okay, okay,” Mr. Hathaway said, waving a hand at her from inside the kitchen. “Do your thing.”
When the crowd died down, Leila slid out of her favorite corner and headed up towards the barista station.
“So, like I was saying,” Sarika continued. She glanced up at Leila quickly before smacking the machine while she cranked at levers and adjusted values, like a mad scientist behind a doomsday device. “I’m not here to judge. You’re my best friend and I love you. But is this really the way you want to spend your last day before everything starts up? I know it’s only summer programing, but really? Here? This café?”
“I can hear you over there,” Mr. Hathaway grumbled. Leila and Sarika laughed.
“It’s either here or at home on the boards,” Leila said, shrugging. “Or wandering around the neighborhood alone. I promise, I’ll get out more when enrichment or summer school or whatever it’s called starts. I’ll make some new friends from a different school or something.”
“Eee!” Sarika let out a squeal that rivaled even the loudest noises the espresso machine could possibly make. “I should stress that it’s enrichment, and not summer school, though. And I seriously can’t wait. Don’t make too many friends. I’m selfish, and want you to myself.” She continued fussing with the machine. “Why don’t you grab an iced coffee or something, and we’ll hang when rush hour officially ends? It’s winding down but I’m sure more people are coming.”
“Rush hour never ends when you’re on the floor!” Mr. Hathaway shouted from the backroom, amidst the clatter of dishes.
“I know it!” Sarika yelled back.
Leila smiled and grabbed one of the ready-made cold brew coffees, another one of Sarika’s many contributions to Adam’s, and made her way back to the bench.
She sighed into her cold cup of coffee, nuzzling her back against the reclaimed wood wall, watching her friend hand out lattes and espresso shots and other cups full of caffeine as more people filtered in. She was totally in her zone, and it was beautiful.
The door to the café chimed, and Leila turned to watch the next businessman or businesswoman walk in, but what she saw almost made her spit out her cold brew.
A boy slightly older than Leila walked in, all cool and calm, a handful of fliers in his hand and a staple gun in the other. He approached the giant bulletin board located right next to the front door, where scores of fliers, postcards, and business cards clung, offering up services for this or that, meetings, and events. He turned to look over at the register, squinting.
“Do—” Leila started, barely a whisper.
“Hey, Mr. Hathaway, is it okay if—” the boy started, a gruff edge to his voice, like he smoked a lot of cigarettes and was already paying for it.
“Yes, go right ahead, Shawn,” Mr. Hathaway shouted back, still hidden in the kitchen.
“Thanks!” Shawn said. Before turning back to the bulletin board, he locked eyes with Leila. Her heart quickened for a moment, and sped up even more when he fixed his long, chestnut-colored hair, adjusting it with the hand that grasped the steel staple gun. He gave the impression he was invincible, with his dark-green eyes and freckled skin. His hair, cut down to his chin, tumbled back down around his face, moving right back into the position it was in earlier.
“Hey,” Shawn said, nodding at her, the motion opening another button on his—she suspected purposely—wrinkled dress shirt that already had two undone, showing a glimpse of his smooth, slightly sunburned chest.
Leila died.
With that open button she died a thousand deaths.
“Wha . . . oh, hi!” Leila stammered.
“Thanks,” Shawn said, smiling to reveal a lopsided grin that was undeniably cute.
“For what?” Leila asked.
“You were going to, you know, say something? Maybe ask if I needed help?” Shawn motioned, nodding back at the register and the barista bar. Leila followed his line of sight, and caught Sarika staring at the two of them, smirking. Sarika gave her a playful look and went back to fussing over the machine. This was going to be a conversation later.
“So yeah, thanks for that,” he continued, still grinning.
“Oh yeah, n-no problem, really,” Leila muttered.
“Cool,” he said, nodding. “Well, see you around? Grab a flier, maybe come help change the world?” He stapled a few pieces of paper to the bulletin board in a practiced, quick motion, chk-chk-chk, and pointed at her, making a clicking noise with his mouth. “Later.”
Leila scowled as he walked out the door. The moment was ruined.
That finger point and click. The hell was that?
What a douche.
What . . . hm.
What a cute douche.
“OH MY GOD DID YOU SEE THAT DELICIOUS BOY?”
Leila jumped in her seat, spilling the cold coffee all over the table, as Sarika stood over her gushing.
“He was totally checking you out!” Sarika exclaimed. “What did he say to you before he left? Did you get his number? Facebook?”
“No!” Leila said, standing up and walking around Sarika to the sugar and cream station to wrangle up a bundle of napkins from the dispenser. “I mean, yes, I saw the delicious boy,” she said mockingly as she wiped up the coffee from the table. “But no, I didn’t get his . . . Sarika, it looks like you have an angry mob of people waiting on you over there.”
“Excuse me,” a customer shouted from the line, his voice full of concern.
“They’re fine,” Sarika said dismissively with a wave of her hand, and Leila caught several seriously irritated stares. There were only four people in the line, but in a relatively small space like Adam’s, particularly around the coffee bar, that made it look endless. “What did he say? What happened?”
“Oh, nothing,” Leila said, balling up the coffee-soaked napkins and tossing them in a nearby bin. “Something about taking a flier and that he’d see me around.”
“Okay, you go investigate the flier situation,” Sarika said curtly. “I’ll—”
“Oh my God, Sarika, what is happening over here?” Mr. Hathaway shouted, walking out of the kitchen to the ever-growing line of #SarikaTheBarista fans. Leila smiled. When you could actually see Adam Hathaway in plain sight, he was a good-looking guy. Slim and incredibly tall, with the sort of hipster, curly mustache you generally spotted all around the Northern Liberties neighborhood of Philadelphia, and brightly colored tattoos up and down his arms. A purple tentacle from the Watchmen comic curled around his upper bicep, easy to see when he wore a small t-shirt like today. His eyes were wide and panicked as he surveyed the customers that were shifting about anxiously.
“I’ll get back to work,” Sarika finished with a grin. “You go see what the deal is.”
Sarika bounded back over to the espresso machine, leapt over the countertop, and started doing her thing.
Leila looked over the table for any leftover cold brew droplets before making her way to the bulletin board, where the cute tool had stapled a bunch of his fliers. It was odd, though. If someone wanted attention, they didn’t use fliers that looked like they were made out of recycled bathroom paper towels, which is precisely what these seemed to be. Fliers were supposed to be bright colors, printed on resilient paper, drawn up with bold lettering. The ones that surrounded it were like that, advertising bands, odd jobs, a notice about saving a local endangered mouse, all printed in ways that demanded attention.
Leila plucked one of the incredibly bland fliers off the board, the paper stiff and dull as a brown paper bag.
JOIN THE BELMONT
ENVIRONMENTAL ACTIVISM CLUB
Tired of watching Mother Earth suffer the wrath of man’s careless nature?