Coffee Shop Social Tragedy
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Scrunching up my face, I puff my cheeks out to the side. I'm sure I resemble a blowfish. I let the air out slowly. "Old Crab Queen looked something like that." A piece of popcorn hits me square on the nose.
"Okay, yeah. You're right. She did look pretty pissed." Shaz, my best friend, shoots another popped kernel at me, but I duck this time and it sails over my head. "Jemma, I can't believe you drew a clothed model—in the nude. That wasn't even the assignment." She examines the drawing on the table between us, a big, fat red ‘F’ decorates its upper right corner. "Have you actually seen his parts?" She wiggles her eyebrows. "What aren't you telling me?"
"No. I used my imagination, obviously." I brush the kernels off of my flowered messenger bag. "I wish I had a little more of the money for the class at the Art Institute. I bet those guys wouldn't try and censor me." I sip the rest of my pumpkin latté and rub my hands together. With only three weeks until Thanksgiving, Chicago is already freezing. Winter hasn't even begun.
"I don't think she's censoring you." Shaz reaches into her purse, which is adorned with a Union Jack so large it covers the entire bag. She has a fascination with everything British. We even had to stop calling her Sharon last year and switch to Shaz—which she informed us is a trend in the UK. Pulling out a tube of pink gloss, she applies it, avoiding the piercings in her lips. "No, I think it's more that it was a high school assignment."
"So?" I drain my cup, flipping my long bangs, dark brown with a single blue stripe, out of my face.
"So what will all of the parents, including yours, have to say when they show up for open house and see this? It looks totally anatomically correct, by the way." She winks.
"Thanks. About the parents though...it's art. They should at least be cultured enough to know that." I move to drink more of my latte, but make a face when I remember it's empty.
"Really? So you think Milford Schefflebein's parents are going to act cultured when they spot a likeness of his junk hanging on the gymnasium wall at open house? I mean, would you want your kid's, uh, package, on display?"
I roll my eyes. "Point taken."
This time, she chucks an entire handful of popcorn at me. I duck, laughing. "Missed me."
"Yeah, well, she didn't miss me." A voice, young and torqued-off, slices through my thoughts and I glance up into the face of our table neighbor.
His hair is cropped short, with brownish-blond pieces spiked at the front. The boy's jaw is locked. His features hard as he picks the stray bits of popcorn from his hair. Then, his eyes meet mine.
Recognition punches me in the gut. It's him. The boy who watched me from the woods when we were kids. How can he be here, in “Beans and Bravado", my favorite coffee shop? Yet, he's sitting right in front of me, staring at me with those eyes—ice blue—like he always did when he observed me from the cover of the trees.
"How did you find me?" My raspy voice reminds me of a chain smoker.
He frowns. "Does your friend always sit with her mouth open and ask lame questions?" He directs this at Shaz.
"Only on Tuesdays." She glances at her phone. "Oh, good, you're in luck."
"You don't recognize me?" I ask. "I know you remember. You have to." A coiled spring of tension builds in my body. I bite my lower lip.
He rolls his eyes and whips around as he stands. Wait. He's not going to leave, is he? I have so many questions. I want to know why he watched me, who he really is, and more important, why he didn't follow me to the city ages ago?
I blink and then he's gone. "Oh, no." I can't let him out of my sight. Jumping to my feet, I move to rush after him.
"Whoa. Easy there, Jemma. What the hell's going on?" Shaz grabs my elbow. "Your mom and dad are expecting you home in, like, ten minutes. So you wanna tell me why you're running after some guy you think you know, but who clearly doesn't know you?"
"Look, I just have to ask him something. I'll be right back. Wait for me, okay? Two minutes—tops."
She shakes her head, chewing on another kernel. "Fine, but if it's one minute over, I'm coming after you. Got it?"
"Yeah." I'm already at the door. I rush outside, my head and heart pounding. I check the street in both directions, searching for a patch of blond hair, but there's no sign of him. It's like he's vanished.
"Argh!" I let out a small shout of frustration.
When it's clear I won't find him today, I rest my hand against a tree outside the shop. A sharp object pierces my palm. Somehow I've managed to cut myself. Way to go. I back up, surveying the tree and realize it's covered in thorns. A Hawthorne tree—my Grandmother used to have one.
Something darts through my peripheral. A pair of blue eyes stare back at me from inside the tree's trunk. Blue eyes. His eyes.
My lower lip trembles. It's just like before. I blink one more time and it's just me.
Standing in the street.
Wondering if I'm going crazy.