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Missing my last two classes probably wasn’t a good idea, especially since my GPA is starting to look relatively good. I’m just glad they don’t grade for attendance like they did during my first two years.
King wraps around my arms as I search the coffee shop down the street on my phone and click on their little homemade website. Would I be a total cliché if I became a barista? Why can’t there be a reptile shop that’s looking for someone nearby, or why couldn’t I be a chef and work at Bibio? God, I really hope this Environmental Science degree works out in the long run, otherwise I may be completely fucking useless.
Setting King down, I go on my laptop to check the resume I made in high school. It’s completely blank except for some bogus awards about my internet capabilities, and my high school diploma. After a quick search on espresso machines and techniques, I add in that I’m knowledgeable in that. I’ll just say I do it at home all the time. Nothing a few YouTube videos can’t solve.
After researching the differences between a macchiato, latte, mocha, flat white, cold brew, affogato, cappuccino and americano, I complete my resume and send it to the printer in Dad’s office, printing out a couple copies and sliding them into an extra folder I found in one of the desk drawers. I’ve never been in his office before now. It’s pretty spacious with a leather couch and various chairs, not including his grand office chair that looks like it cost more than my old apartment. St. Paul Royals décor is strewn across the walls, even the paint job is the school colors: black and yellow. Now I see who the favorite child is.
I close the office door behind me and put on my most professional outfit before heading out the door to the coffee shop. Lucky for me, I don’t pass Dad or anyone else on the way out. I notice his truck is gone as I begin the half mile walk in my four-inch heeled booties. If the coffee shop is in this neighborhood, it’s going to be bougie and probably impossible to get a job. Hopefully, the lies on my resume will help convince them.
By the time I make it to the coffee shop, my feet already hurt, but this is what I get for driving a beater. If Dad can’t hire a mechanic in time, I’ll have to carpool with Elijah, and I’d rather gouge my eyes out first.
I swing open the door to the quaint coffee shop just as they’re closing. The sweet chocolate scent of mocha and fresh brewed coffee welcome me like a warm hug. Mom used to take me to the local shop when our Wi-Fi would go down to pay bills and send out emails. I especially appreciate how everyone seems to mind their own business.
My heels thump on the hardwood floors as I walk up to the counter. A girl with shiny blonde hair and a toothy smile greets me.
“Hi, what can I get started for you today?” she asks, looking down at the screen in front of her. I order a latte before handing her my resume. She clacks away at the screen with long green acrylic nails.
“I have my resume here; I was wondering if you maybe had any jobs available?” I ask, nervously fidgeting with my hands.
She takes the resume and glances at it before looking me up and down. “Taylor Cromwell?” she says, curiously. “Remember me from middle school?” I squint my eyes and fix my glasses, not recognizing her at all. My forehead breaks out in a sweat.
“Uhh…yes? How have you been?”
She laughs. “I’m just fucking with ya. Thanks for the resume. Your latte is ready.”
Is that it? I smile and nod before going to the pickup counter. “Thank you, Eve,” I say, reading her name tag.
“The pleasure is all mine, Ms. Cromwell.”
I grab the coffee and promptly leave, cringing atMs. Cromwellas if I’m some sort of grown-ass businesswoman. Well, maybe I am in this outfit.
By the time I make it back home, my feet are screaming at me to kick off my heels. I pass Elijah as he leaves for practice or maybe a game. I can’t keep up. He gives me a brief smirk, I’m guessing because of this ridiculous pencil skirt and blazer.
After finishing my latte and grabbing some frozen mice for King, I decide that a night in to hang out with my slinky boy and rest is a must. I make a point to call Mom before going to bed to update her with school and home life, embellishing the details and omitting the parts about Derek and Elizabeth. As far as she knows, everything is perfect.
…
Dad calls me downstairs and says the mechanic is here. The news isn’t great. It’ll be 1500 dollars to fix the head gasket, but the guy is already out there working. I guess that’s the neighborly discount, too. I should have my car by Monday, just in time for school. For that, I am eternally grateful.
20
TAYLOR CROMWELL
Acouple weeks have passed, and my car has been running fine. Elizabeth still looks at me with pity, but she doesn't say anything every morning I pass her desk. I’ve found yet another seatmate in cellular biology and they are my neutral boring savior. We haven't spoken a word to each other, which is perfect for me. Maybe Environmental Science attracts fucking weirdos, or maybe I do. Either way, I'm getting into the groove of keeping my mouth shut and head down in all my classes. So far, this semester is looking good for my GPA.
I got the job working weekend mornings and various afternoons at the coffee shop,Sacred Grounds. It took a brief interview with Eve, who happened to be the manager, and I was hired at minimum wage. I guess there weren't a lot of other applicants since the hours were so low, but it's perfect for my busy school schedule.
Campus still has large banners of Elijah’s smirking face everywhere and I'm getting sick of it. Even when he's leaving me alone, he's never really leaving me alone. I've heard the St. Paul Royals are on course to go to the tournament, or something like that. I can't remember. It's all anyone is talking about. Especially Olive and Stephanie.
Speaking of Olive and Stephanie, after a particularly hard cellular bio test, I meet them in the cafeteria. They’ve been too busy doing their own schoolwork and fawning over Levi to notice my absence. But I’m ready to have some girl time. I tell them about the whole Samantha and Elizabeth debacle before the conversation automatically changes back to hockey.
“There’s another game tonight. It’s a big one. You have to come with us, Taylor,” Stephanie begs, flipping back her long wavy hair. Today, she wears long false lashes and a bright pink headband. Olive looks grungy in comparison with a gigantic, frayed hoodie and thick leggings. But they both make it work.
“Yes! And we have an extra jersey for the right team this time,” Olive remarks. That comment coming from anyone else would have sounded sly or sarcastic. But coming from Olive, it sounds almost genuine and sweet, like I accidentally put the wrong jersey on before.
“I’d love to,” I lie. I’d love to hang out with my girlfriends. I won’t love watching Elijah play hockey.
After school, I drive to campus and get ready in Stephanie and Olive’s dorm. I’m surprised this is the first time I’ve been in their room. It’s actually adorable with Hello Kitty lights and rainbow blankets. Above their window hangs a pride flag, and yet, it still does not confirm my suspicion about the two ever being intimate. Stephanie sits down at a small antique vanity and applies blush to her plump cheeks. She has me sit next to her so she can apply them on mine as well, creating a pink-stained bridge across my nose.
