Speaking of invisible, I wish that were the case at Beans. Because almost everyone who works here is a student, we have pretty set schedules and I normally work alongside Marcela and our boss, Nate.
Nate and Marcela are polar opposites. Nate is the tall, blond, hipster-type with skinny jeans and dark-rimmed glasses, and Marcela is the kind of girl who beats up hipsters. She favors thigh high boots, short skirts, and too-tight tops. Paired with her bleached hair and signature red lipstick, she looks like a cross between a fifties movie star and a naughty schoolgirl who hates me. I’d ended things right after my arrest in May, and I’d sort of hoped that her summer away from Burnham would help calm her vitriol, but it didn’t. She returned two weeks ago with the same amount of burning resentment she’d left with.
“Hey,” Nate calls when I rush in through the kitchen, tying my apron around my waist. I’d parked my bike in the alley and now I wash my hands and pretend not to notice Marcela ignoring me as she takes a tray of muffins out of the oven. “You’re late,” he adds, propping himself up against the counter.
“It’s three minutes,” I point out, drying my hands. “I didn’t account for the travel time.”
“You’ve been making the same trip for a year.”
“Not today. I mov—” I try to stop myself, but it’s too late. Not that it’s a problem if Nate knows where I live, but it’s obvious I can’t afford one of those apartments by myself, so the next obvious question is to ask about roommates, and I don’t want to have this conversation now.
Or ever.
Especially when Nate might not know about the Kellan McVey thing, but Marcela does.
“Wait,” he says when I try to hustle up front. “You moved?”
“Yeah,” I call over my shoulder. “I think I heard the bell. Time to work!”
I elbow my way through the swinging doors to the front of the shop, inhaling the familiar smells of coffee, vanilla, and pastry. The owner of Beans is a huge patron of the arts and every square inch of the shop that isn’t devoted to coffee, snacks, and seating is committed to displaying artwork. We’ve got everything from paintings on the walls to handmade furniture, sculpture, jewelry, and a very popular set of Russian nesting dolls painted to look like famous movie characters.
I recognize the woman waiting at the counter. She comes in often and is nice enough, but she’s got increasingly complicated drink orders and despite the fact that she looks only a couple of years older than me, insists on wearing fur coats year-round. Marcela nicknamed her Mink Coat and the name stuck.
“Ready to order?” I ask.
“Yes, please. I’ll have a small iced half-caf double non-fat peppermint mocha with coconut milk. No whip.”
Nate’s lingering at my side and she shoots him a shy smile he barely notices. For once I’m grateful for her complicated order. Welcoming the opportunity to avoid follow up questions, I take an absurdly long time to make sure the cup is perfectly full before sliding it across the counter.
“Thank you.” She flicks another glance at Nate, who’s carefully restocking a tray of brownies, and leaves.
“So,” Nate says when Mink Coat is gone. “You moved?”
“Yeah.” I add the extra change to our tip jar. “Just to the edge of campus. Off campus. Barely.”
His brow furrows. “Just off campus is a pretty nice area.”
“Safe and studious.”
He rolls his eyes. He knows all about my life changes, and while he wasn’t exactly cheering when I got arrested last year, he does think I’m taking things way too seriously. That’s just the way I am, though. Always have been. I’m hot or I’m cold, never in between. Invisible or under arrest.
I started to develop when I was thirteen, cringing at the newfound unwanted attention my boobs were getting. Because I’d gone from being an awkward, gangly teen to the subject of catcalls and leers with no transitional stage, I’d rebelled the best way I could: baggy sweatshirts and jeans, sneakers, no makeup. And for the most part, it did the trick. I got no attention. I also got no dates. No one asked me to the Christmas dance or homecoming or even to prom. I had to go with my neighbor Charlie, who was a grade behind. When I moved to Burnham from my home in Washington, I decided it was time for a change of pace. I wasn’t going to bury myself in oversized clothing I found on the discount racks, I was going to come out of my self-imposed shell and live my life. When I met Marcela on my second day at school, I knew she was the ideal accomplice and the perfect guide to the Burnham party scene. And it wasn’t like I was particularly shy or awkward—I’d just never embraced my outgoing, sexy side.
Until last year.
Repeatedly. Endlessly. And sometimes illegally.