Chapter 1
ALEX
Idon’t have to take another step inside to know I’ve made a mistake.
My feet are begging me to turn around and scramble out of here, but my brain is telling me to stay exactly where I am.
The sound of coffee grinders, squealing steam wands, and the raucous chatter of students is about to make my head explode.
This cafe is pure pandemonium.
I took one week off from coming here to save money. It used to be somewhat crowded but manageable.
What in the fresh hell is this?
Paper cups and straw wrappers litter the floor, and the tables are begging to be cleaned. Wrappers, napkins, and coffee-rimmed mugs cover every surface I pass.
This place is definitely understaffed, and they’re definitely desperate for help.
“Alex! Hi!”
An intensely high-pitched, desperate voice calls me over from the cash register.
I’m greeted by the same woman who interviewed me last week, her eyes wide with panic but still carrying a shaky smile.
Vicki, I think her name was.
Various stains cover her white shirt, which makes me wonder why she thought it was a good choice for a job practically built around spills.
“Uh… hi,” I respond as she stuffs some kind of fluffy, flaky pastry I’ve never seen into one of the display cases.
“Ready to start?” Vicki asks, leaning back out of the pastry case and tossing her black dreads over her shoulder.
I glance past her at the floor, where milk and syrup spills spread beneath empty cartons of various milks.
Oat milk. Almond milk. Cow’s milk, and… macadamia milk? That exists?
I grimace at the thought of touching the sticky counters, and suddenly, all I want to do is clean this entire place myself. How can they let it become this much of a pigsty?
“Yeah, I guess I am…” I say, with very little certainty.
“Great!” Vicki screeches, her brown skin tightening around her cheeks as her unnerving smile somehow widens even more.
She darts into the kitchen in the back.
I brace myself against the counter, careful not to touch the drying caramel syrup or dripping oat milk.
I still have a chance to turn and run. I can find another job if I really need to.
But before I can seriously consider leaving, Vicki returns with an apron in her hands.
She tosses it to me. “We just had… the mother of all rushes. The worst of the semester so far.”
I clear my throat and nod. “Great?”
I see a line of ticket orders peppered along the counter, leading to the espresso machine.
I notice a very concentrated blond guy at the espresso machine, his eyes wide and frantic but moving in a focused, calculated way.
“Almond milk chai latte for Michelle!” he yells.
A redheaded girl comes over and gives him a smile before snatching up her drink and leaving the cafe.
His station is a complete mess. He should be cleaning it as he makes each drink.
But I bite my tongue. I’m not here to judge; I’m here to learn.
Vicki sighs. “Okay, so today we’re just going to have to go for it. You’re going to be taking orders from customers. I’m going to be standing right next to you, though, so don’t fret.”
“But—” I start, but Vicki is already guiding me to the point-of-service tablet.
Adrenaline surges through me as I fling the black apron over my head and tie it behind my back. I’m not sure why I need to wear an apron if I’m not handling drinks, but considering Vicki has multiple stains all over her shirt, I don’t question it.
The tablet screen for taking orders looks like a puzzle as she taps through it to get to the main screen.
“From your interview, you told me you know about our drink menu, right?”
I nod. “Sort of. I—I came here a lot in my freshman year and tried out the whole menu.”
She grins. “Exactly! So you must have some kind of idea of the drinks then…”
I open my mouth to argue that I most certainly don’t remember what a cortado or a piccolo is, but she’s already explaining how to make customizations to the drinks.
“We also have all of the pastries here.”
She motions to the pastry case to the left of the register, which has multiple levels and a dizzying array of pastries.
How am I going to remember all of this?
I focus my gaze back on the register and notice someone standing in front of it.
“Hi—” My voice sounds way too high-pitched.
I clear my throat. “Hey,” I try again, sounding much more casual than I actually feel.
The girl at the register smiles at me meekly. “Hi. Can I get a coffee?”
My face immediately falls.
I try to reel in the frown threatening to cross my face. “A coffee?” I ask, hoping the question goads her into revealing more about what she wants.
She nods, smiling. “Yup. A coffee.”
I look at Vicki for some kind of guidance. She nods slowly and flicks her eyes toward the customer, silently telling me to ask more questions.
But why am I the one pulling the information out of her? Isn’t the customer supposed to know what they want?
Why am I playing some kind of guessing game? How am I supposed to read her mind? Isn’t the entire menu essentially coffee?
“What kind of coffee did you want?” I ask, plastering a smile onto my face.
She squints. “A plain coffee?”
“What does a plain coffee mean to you?” I ask, the words tumbling out before I can stop them.
Damn, my journalistic lack of tact.
The girl blinks, looking taken aback, like I just insulted her, and Vicki immediately sidles up beside me with an even bigger smile plastered across her face.
“Did you mean a filter coffee?” Vicki asks, already trying to get the girl back on her side after I nearly derailed my interaction with my first-ever customer.
“Umm… I think so,” she says.
Vicki motions to one of the coffee carafes to my right. “Like this?” She presses the button, and a small stream of filter coffee pours out.
The girl shakes her head. “No. Not that.”
I want to shake this girl by the shoulders for not knowing what the hell she wants. What does a plain coffee mean if it’s not filter coffee? What other “plain coffee” even exists in the world?
“Did you want… an americano?” I ask, trying to play along myself.
The girl squints. “What’s that?”
It’s too early for me to be dealing with this shit.
“Maybe a latte?” Vicki offers.
The girl’s eyes light up. “Yes! That’s what I want.”
“With two pumps of hazelnut syrup and macadamia milk, please,” the girl continues.
I blink at her.
So she didn’t know what drink she wanted, but she somehow knew exactly what syrup and alternative milk she wanted?
“And what size was that going to be in?” Vicki asks in her chipper customer-service voice.
“Hmm… a regular?”
I look down, trying to hide my judgment.
“We have small, medium, or large,” Vicki says, somehow still maintaining her composure.
“Which one’s your regular?” the girl asks.
“The medium,” I answer for Vicki.
Vicki glances at me, but I don’t meet her eyes.
“So, a medium hazelnut latte with macadamia milk?” I ask the girl.
She nods with a hopeful smile.
Vicki shows me how to enter the order into the tablet, and the total appears on the card machine.
The girl pays.
Vicki points to the line of people waiting at the end of the espresso bar. “Your drink will be at the end of the bar for you.”
The girl nods, but then something dawns on her face. “Oh. I forgot to tell you that it was iced!”
I clench my fists. This girl can’t be real.
Vicki chuckles. “Not a problem. It’s the same price. I’ll just mark it down on the ticket.”
The girl thanks us, and I’m nearly already done with this job by the time she walks away.
Vicki holds a finger up at me. “I know what you’re going to say, and yes, this is how it is. You have to babysit people through their orders. The regulars are usually fine, though. Just keep a smile on your face, and it’ll become second nature.”
I brace myself against the counter, wondering if this job is even worth it.
They’re clearly understaffed, with only two people working during a rush, and they both look completely defeated.
But no other job was willing to hire me so quickly and with so little experience.
I’m a junior journalism student trying to juggle my coursework, my work on Montgomery’s paper, The Goldberg, my little sister, and now—my mom’s sickness.
It’s my fault for not having enough job experience to apply elsewhere. Since I actually love this cafe, I thought working here might make me love it even more.
I’m beginning to think that was a bad idea.
In reality, I need this job—but not for myself.
My dad left my mom a couple of months ago after she got sick.
My parents’ marriage falling apart had been a long time coming, but my dad leaving my mom at her lowest point felt like a real knife to the chest.
My mom can’t work anymore because of her illness, my dad refuses to help financially, and my little sister is too young to make any kind of money beyond selling lemonade at a lemonade stand, so the responsibility falls on me.
Now I have to start helping pay the bills on top of my growing student debt.
This wasn’t the life I wanted to live, but what’s the point in sitting around and moping about it?
And honestly, what better way is there to get to know the student body for my major than working at a cafe?
If I work for The Goldberg, then endless ideas will come to me from all the humanity I’ll come into contact with during every shift.
There are endless possibilities and inspiration in working at this cafe. I just have to be patient.
“Can I get a cortado for here, please?” a voice says from behind me, startling me.
I wheel around to look at the man dressed in professional attire: a button-up shirt, dress pants, and a single black earring in his right ear.
I turn to Vicki. “What’s a cortado again?”
“It’s equal parts espresso and hot milk. It’s a four-ounce drink here—two shots of espresso with hot milk to top it off,” she explains as she taps through the tablet to find the button for it.
“First day?” the man asks me.
I smile and nod. “That obvious?”
He shrugs. “I’m here every day and haven’t seen you before. I made a conclusion.”
He pays for his drink, and I send him on his way to the hand-off bar.
At least that was a better experience than the first girl.