Page 26 of The Last to Let Go
“Anyway,” Owen continues. “What can we get for you?”
That was supposed to be my line, I gather.
“Can I get a medium coffee with a shot of hazelnut? And...” She scans the rows of doughnuts and pastries in the display cases but then says, “That’s it,” probably just because she doesn’t want Owen to know that she actually eats food sometimes.
I stare at the register. I found the coffee button. But dammit, I don’t know what to press for the extra flavor—there’s no flavor button.
“Right here.” Owen reaches across me and presses one of the buttons on the screen.
“Thanks,” I tell him, hating every moment of this. “Uh, okay, so that will be—”
“No, you hit total first,” he interrupts.
I find the total button. “Okay, so that’s—”
“Here. Keep the change,” she says, sliding a five-dollar bill across the counter, as if that’s easier than watching me fumble through a simple order.
“I’ll finish—it’s okay,” Owen tells me. “You can start the drink.”
He flashes me a quick sympathy smile; his eyes seem to be telling me I can relax. And for a second I wonder if it’s because I’m acting like this is the first time I’ve ever been in public, interacting with other people, if it’s because of those old rumors, or if it’s because he knows about my parents. It’s been on the news, of course, and in the paper. I’ve forbidden myself from looking it up online, so I don’t know how much is out there, how much people know.
I try to focus on pouring the coffee into the cup—a simple task, something I can control. But suddenly my hand twitches involuntarily, making me spill the coffee, which burns my hand in one hot, sharp slice—making me drop the cup on the floor, the coffee splattering everywhere.
“Oh, damn!” Owen murmurs, slamming the cash drawer closed as he rushes over to me.
“Careful!” Monica B. adds, though I’m sure her concern is for her coffee and not me.
I will time to speed up, just this once, but it refuses. Then I will everyone to stop staring at me, but they won’t. I study the place on my hand where the skin feels like it was suddenly lit on fire. Jackie hangs up the phone and is standing next to me in the puddle of coffee.
Owen takes over, pours the coffee, adds her stupid flavor shot, and snaps the lid on, so effortlessly.
“Here,” Jackie says, pulling me over to the sink and holding my hand under a stream of cold water. I watch as the water circles the drain, spiraling down into that black hole. Part of me wishes I could dive in too, and then part of me thinks maybe that’s what’s already happened. I glance over to see Monica B. and Owen exchanging their good-byes. “See you in school tomorrow,” he tells her. She blows a kiss to him as she walks out the door.
I feel the beginning of a headache coming on, its familiar tightness crawling along my hairline. I try to breathe, in and out, slowly. I try to shove down all these murky old feelings that are churning up inside of me, a volcano preparing to erupt. That’s the last thing I need while I’m trying to be normal. I silently tell myself to hold on, a few more hours, then I can go home and be myself.
Owen has now appeared with a mop and slides it back and forth, sopping up the spilled coffee. “Don’t worry, that happens to me all the time,” he tells me.
“Really?”
“Well, no,” he admits.
Jackie laughs. Then Owen starts laughing too. Slowly I realize I’m smiling, and that lava in the pit of my stomach is beginning to cool.
JEFFERSON HELL
JEFFERSON STARTS AT 7:15.It’s only fifteen to twenty minutes in the car, but I have to take the bus, forty-five minimum. That doesn’t include the time it will take to actually get into the school and make my way to homeroom. That has to add at least four or five extra minutes, I imagine. I calculated it all out, so that if I catch the 6:15 bus, then that should leave me with about ten minutes to spare.
I check my phone again. The bus is thirteen minutes late now. My palms are sweating, the exact change clenched in my fist. The whole rest of my life starts today, and I’m late for it.
By fourteen minutes.
Now fifteen.
“Perfect!” I growl only to myself, since there’s no one else around at this ungodly hour. My whole day is already completely screwed, and I haven’t even spoken to another human being yet. I check my phone again. Sixteen minutes. There’s absolutely no way on earth I can be on time at this point. No way at all.
“Shit!” I hiss.
I start dialing the 1-800 number listed on the timetable posted at the bus stop, prepared to give someone at the Department of Transportation an earful, but just then I see the crosstown bus round the corner and rumble toward me at a snail’s pace.
