Café Soiree
In April, I get a job at Café Soiree. At first, my parents didn’t want me to work, because once Sally started at McDonald’s her grades went downhill and she barely graduated. But Gregory’s dad assured Mom that I could study between customers. Besides, I only work three to six, the hours when nobody is at my house. I still can’t stand coming home to empty rooms.
What I didn’t count on is Gregory’s habit of talking non-stop, so that I don’t get an ounce of work done.
Today, he’s on his favorite subject. “Why doesn’t Keisha like me?”
“What do you mean? She’s always doing things with you,” I say.
“She likes me as a buddy.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Everything. I mean, why can’t she like me as more than a buddy?”
“You’re three years older than her.”
“When we’re eighty and eighty-three that is going to be a very big deal.”
The bells on the door chime. A couple of college students come in. I take their order.
Gregory follows me to the espresso machine. “You’re her best friend. You should know if she likes me.”
What I know is she can’t decide. Gregory needs a haircut. Something about his face reminds me of a cubist painting, all these different features placed oddly. Still, he’s a bit good-looking. “Once, she told me that if you liked a boy, you couldn’t show him, because then he would lose interest.”
“So, maybe she’s not showing me.”
“I don’t know.” I deliver the drinks and take the money. Gregory glares at the customers. He hates being interrupted.
“Keisha is my soul mate. Do you know what that is? It’s someone that you’re fated to be with. People can meet someone and know that that person is for them, even if they’re three years older, even if it’s their best friend’s sister.”
Soul mate. If it were sole mate, that would mean there was only one. My soul mate was Obaachan. That’s what it felt like. But he means a boy-girl thing.
“So here’s what I want you to do,” he says. “Next time we’re supposed to all do something together, you pretend you’re sick.”
That gives me a little stab. I know that Gregory doesn’t want me as a third wheel, but I thought at least he liked me. “Why don’t you just ask her out?”
The bells on the door chime. Sally rushes in. “Lin, you won’t believe this!”
“Hi, Sally,” Gregory says.
“Something exciting just happened; something that will get me out of McDonald’s.”
“I thought you liked McDonald’s.”
“McBarf! I never want to see another golden arch in my life.”
“Hi, Sally.”
“Oh, hi, Gregory.”
“What’ll it be?” Gregory says.
“I don’t have a dime,” Sally says.
“On the house.”
“You’re sweet.” Sally has this way of making boys think they are the most impressive beings on the planet. “You make the best cappuccino.”
“Cappuccino it is.” It’s the first time he’s made a drink all day.
“To go, please. I’m in a hurry.” She holds up a box. “Look.”
Inside is a silk scarf, painted with delicate pink and white plum blossoms and black Japanese characters.
“Wow. Where’d you buy this?”
“I didn’t buy it, I painted it. It’s my own design.”
“It’s awesome.”
“I made it for my senior project and I stuck it in the closet. Then today, just before I went out shopping with Heather, I put it on. We went into REGARD, on Thayer Street. Remember that weird lady who runs it? The skinny one who wears purple all the time?”
“Yeah?”
“She loved it. When I told her I had hand-painted it, she asked me if she could order some to sell. She gave me a check for four hundred dollars for materials. I have to make fifty of them by next week. And they have shops in Boston and New York and Miami. She also has ideas about using my designs on other fabrics. She says Japanese stuff is really in.”
“Wow.”
“Use it or lose it.”
“Here’s your cappuccino, Sally.”
Sally smiles. “Gregory, I swear if you got a haircut, you’d be drop-dead gorgeous.”
“Did you hear that?” Gregory watches Sally leave. “I’m going to the barber right now.”
The streets are crowded when I get off work, as if every class at Brown University has let out at the same time, and every business has closed. The evening is humid and heavy and my heart feels heavy, too.
“Lin!”
Matt Perino rushes toward me. “I can’t believe you’re alone. Every time I see you you’re with your friend or Gregory.”
“You know Gregory?”
“A little. From sports and stuff. That’s their café.”
“I work there.”
“Really? I’ll have to go in more often.”
I blush. “What’s your uniform for?”
“Hockey. I just got out of practice. It’s a bloodthirsty sport, I’ll tell you. I should’ve gone into figure skating, but my brothers would’ve never let me hear the end of it. So I hear you ran into Sister April at the hospital.”
“Yeah. I volunteer there. She seems so different!”
“She is. Her husband used to be a priest, but now they’re both living it up. Next thing you know they’ll be buying Harleys and getting tattoos.”
I want to ask where he saw her and why they were talking about me, but I’m still struck with shyness around Matt. “That seems a little extreme.” I laugh.
“Do you like working at the hospital? It sounds pretty depressing seeing all those sick kids.”
“It is and it isn’t.” I don’t know how else to explain it. The kids will be sick whether I am there helping or not. So it’s better to help. “Some of them get better.”
“Do you want to work in medicine?”
“I want to be a doctor,” I blurt out. I haven’t actually told anyone this yet. “Maybe a plastic surgeon, but I don’t want to do face-lifts and stuff like that. I want to work with people who have real problems. Have you ever heard of Doctors Without Borders? It’s a group of doctors who go to third world countries and work with the poor. I want to do something like that.”
“I always thought there was a lot going on in that quiet head.”
“There’s too much. I wish my brain was a faucet I could turn on and off.”
“That would be a good invention. A switch for the brain. Can I walk with you? Everyone is passing us by.”
“Sure.” I search my mind for something to say. “Isn’t hockey a winter sport?”
“Among fanatics, it’s all-year. But my schedule. It’s getting crazy, and my parents are harping about colleges already. They are so paranoid about it, because neither of my brothers went. They need at least one son to go.”
“Are you going to?”
“Yeah. Definitely. I’ll major in criminal justice. I think I want to be a detective like my dad. Or a lawyer. I can’t decide which. I mean, the problem with being a detective is you have to be a cop first, pull people over, give them tickets, deal with the drunk and disorderly. Hockey is as violent as I like to get. Does that sound wimpy?”
“No.”
“That reminds me . . .”
“What?”
“I wanted to ask you something.” He touches my arm.
“Yeah.”
“I could get in trouble for this. I mean, I hang out with my dad at work a lot. There’s . . . you know . . . a big deal about confidentiality. The other day I was kind of reading some of his files. They’re more interesting than any crime novel you could read. I never say anything to anyone about what’s in them. But . . .”
Then I know why he stopped me, and my heart sinks. It isn’t because he likes me or wants to be friends, it’s because he wants to know about my weird talent, the reason I’m different. My voice comes out cold. “What?”
He looks abashed. “Never mind. We’d better hurry. It’s going to rain.”
A minute later, a light sprinkle comes. “Should we duck in somewhere? I could buy you a coffee. Or, maybe you’re tired of coffee.”
“I’m expected home.”
“Take my jacket.” He puts it around my shoulders. “Sorry if it smells.”
He’s so sweet that I soften. “What was your question?”
“The other day in physics, the teacher was talking about this researcher from Oxford who thinks there are force fields where thoughts exist. And they can be from other times and places. One example he gave was an experiment where they put mice in a maze and time them. Then they take other mice, unrelated to the first set of mice, and put them in an identical maze. They find that each time, the mice get through the maze faster.”
“So they think the knowledge of how to get out of the maze is in a force field?”
“Pretty much. There are other things: scientists coming to the same conclusions at the same times, composers writing similar pieces of music. Then there’s the day-to-day stuff. Like my mom claims she can tell if something is wrong. You’ll come home and she’ll say, ‘Oh, you had a bad day.’ Or worse, ‘My baby had a bad day.’ She’s always right, although none of us will admit it.”
I smile against my will. “My grandmother used to communicate daily with a friend in Japan just by thinking. Then, when she died, the friend called. She knew something was wrong.”
“I’m sorry to hear your grandmother died.”
“It was hard.” I blink, glad for the rain dropping down my face. “So you were looking through your dad’s files . . .”
“And I found the one about the missing boy. I just wondered . . . how you did that. I mean, there are people who work with police all the time. Psychics.”
“That never happened again.”
“But what was it like? I mean, how did you do it?”
The curiosity and insistence in his voice brings me back to catechism and his questions for Sister April. “How does your dad solve crimes?”
“He gathers evidence. He analyzes it. He also says that detectives have highly developed instincts, and that they have to trust those instincts.”
“Exactly.” I turn and look at him. His face is so open. It makes my stomach flutter.
“Like in Star Wars,” he says, joking. “‘Trust your feelings, Luke.’”
“I’ve never seen that movie.”
“Really? You’re deprived.”
“That’s part of it, too. I’m not always on the phone, or hooked to the computer or the TV. You have to be still and quiet.”
“Like a statue.” He grins.
“Right. My grandmother said that if you were empty, the universe would fill you. This is my street.”
“I’ll walk you to the door.”
“It’s okay.” I give him back his jacket. “Bye.”
“Just one more question.”
“What?”
“What are you doing Saturday night?”