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“Fine!”
I should’ve just given in from the start. I look around the cafe, find the waitress, and raise my hand. She walks over, and I immediately snatch my hand down, feeling like a stupid kid in a classroom.
“What can I get you two today?” she asks when she arrives.
“Um. Can we get two large iced matcha lattes. And, uh, can I get tapioca pearls in one of them?” I can’t help myself. I have an addiction.
“Sure,” the waitress says, jotting the order down on her notepad. “Is that everything?”
“Yes, thanks.”
“Great,” she says, flashing a smile and taking the laminated menus from us. “By the way, you can order using these QR codes.” She taps a finger against the menu. “Just for future reference.”
“Oh. Right. We’ll do that next time.”
After the waitress leaves, Jemima and I stare at each other.
“She hates me,” I say.
“God’s sake, Charlie,” Jemima says. “Why do you automatically assume everyone hates you? That’s something you really have to work on.”
“You know what you need to work on?”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Jemima says, waving a hand. “I’ve been seeing these QR codes more and more frequently. It’s a genius invention. Like self-serve checkouts. No need to talk to someone.”
We look at each other for a second longer before bursting into laughter. I bite my lip so I’m not loud, while Jemima covers her mouth with a hand, shoulders shaking.
“There’s something wrong with us,” Jemima says, her lips still curled in a smile. “We’re total misanthropes.”
“I’m not a misanthrope,” I argue. “I’m just shy. I don’t understand why you’re shy.”
Jemima’s the oldest, so she’s always been bossy in our family household, at least for as long as I can remember. Despite that, though, she’s quite shy when interacting with people she’s not close with. It was pretty funny to see her go from tyrannical with me and my brother to meek when she’s talking to the neighbour down the road.
As for me, I wasn’t always shy — it wasn’t written into my personality from birth like it was with Jemima. I was confident in primary school. It’s only in my teenage years that I got the hint and learned to keep to myself.
“So,” Jemima says, leaning back in her seat. “What’s your news?”
“Right.” I clear my throat. A few days ago, Jemima messaged me, saying we should catch up for a coffee. I agreed, replying that I had some news to share. “Um. Well.”
“You look constipated,” Jemima comments.
“I’m not constipated.”
“Then what is it? You’re squirming in your seat. Don’t tell me you’re addicted to drugs or something.”
“I’m not addicted to drugs!”
“Just tell me it’s weed and not something like cocaine —”
“Jeez, Jemima, it’s not drugs. I’ve never even smoked weed.”
She raises a brow. “You haven’t? What have you been doing? It’s your first year of uni.”
“I’m going to tell Mum you said that,” I say, then bring my hands together like we’re in a business meeting. “Okay, so about my news.”
“You’re dropping out.”
“For Christ’s sake, Jem, can you stop interrupting me? It’s good news, actually.”
