Chapter 15
Fifteen
Instagram caption by @star-bucks.
The smell in the air is intoxicating, and my mouth is already watering at the scents of cinnamon, nutmeg, and the burnt bitterness of coffee.
The first Starbucks ever built is homey and quaint, with a wood-paneled counter to place orders and black tables covered in green tablecloths.
Baristas are busy making oat milk lattes and frothing coffees.
The counter features a display case of blueberry muffins and cranberry bliss bars, and the chalk sign on the wall has daily specials written in swirling letters.
Someone’s hand drawn a pumpkin with curving vines across the bottom of the sign.
I’m seated at a table, waiting, and I have yet to place my order.
Zeke is supposed to meet me here for our first Seattle outing, and I’m nervous for some reason.
I wanted to invite other people to be with us, but Suzy is helping her parents at Korea House, and Kayla is helping Dana decide on her next hair color or something.
All the other girls—Chelsea, Nicole—I don’t know very well.
Especially since Zeke is so new to our group, it might be better that it’s just me and him for now.
We’re still getting to know each other and the boundaries of this whole “fake friend” thing.
I’m posting a story to my Instagram page when Zeke strides through the door with his long legs, his black curly hair dewy from the misty afternoon.
Zeke’s eyes find me. They light up, and I smile. I stand and touch Zeke’s elbow, guiding him to the counter.
“This is the first Starbucks ever built!” I say, a little too cheerily. What can I say? I’m passionate about coffee. “Promise me you’ll try the pumpkin spice latte. Their blueberry muffins are also divine. Oh and, hi, how are you by the way?”
Zeke laughs and turns to the barista, a twenty-something-year-old wearing a green apron and a Seahawks baseball cap. “I’ll have two PSL’s and a blueberry muffin, please.”
“What size?” The barista asks in a bored voice.
“Uhhh . . .” Zeke turns to me. “Large?”
“Venti,” I say with a smile.
The barista takes our order, and Zeke insists on paying for everything.
“Thank you,” I say.
“You’re welcome.”
We head back to the table and go quiet. Zeke glances around the room, which bustles with activity.
It’s Saturday at 11:00 AM, and all kinds of hipster people are ordering coffee, typing away on laptops or chatting with friends.
I see the girl with the black pigtails who caught my eye in school, and I wave. She frowns.
Zeke looks around. “Seattle has a diverse crowd, doesn’t it?”
“It does.”
“It’s nice,” Zeke says. “I’ve lived in places where I was the only black kid surrounded in a sea of white and maybe one or two Asians.”
“Zeke!” The barista shouts.
I stand to grab our orders, but Zeke beats me to it and gently puts his hands on my shoulders to press me back into my chair. “I got this.”
I watch him go to the counter. I actually really love that he’s such a gentleman. Noah is a great guy, but he never made me feel this way. Like I was something precious, to be taken care of.
Zeke returns with two tall cups of deliciousness and a fluffy muffin sparkling with turbinado sugar on top. Zeke hands me a cup before taking a seat. I take a sip of the hot liquid, savoring the cinnamon and whipped cream. “Mmmmm. It’s a crime that they only have these in the fall.”
Zeke drinks and nods appreciatively. “I like it.”
“Stop being so enthusiastic,” I tease. “It’s only a drink. Calm down. You’re getting way too excited.”
Zeke laughs. “It’s good. Really good.”
“Tell me about the other places you’ve lived,” I say, taking another sip so hot that my tongue gets scalded.
Zeke sets his coffee down. “Kentucky is where I was born, and it’s where my mama gets her Southern roots, accent, traditions, and all that. But I only lived in the South for my young years. I don’t remember much.”
I nod. Zeke doesn’t have much of an accent.
“Before moving here, we lived in Montana. And before that Utah and then Arizona, which was so unbelievably hot but also beautiful in a dry, deserty kind of way.”
“Wow. You really have lived everywhere. Do you have a favorite?”
Zeke pauses. “Are you sure I’m not boring you?”
“Not at all.” I break off a piece of muffin and chew. Sweet blueberries burst on my tongue.
“My favorite place, it’s odd, but it was Nebraska.”
My eyebrows raise. “Oh yeah, why’s that?”
Zeke shrugs and takes a deep swig of coffee. Whipped cream stains his upper lip, and I have this weird urge to wipe it off. He does that himself with a napkin. “I really like having four seasons, no offense to Seattle.”
I open my mouth and place a hand on my chest. “How dare you not love only rain and sunshine!”
Zeke grins and rips off a chunk of muffin top. “I need to have it all. Snow, crunchy leaves. Everything.”
“The leaves do change here, but we very rarely get snow,” I concede, tilting my coffee cup in his direction.
“And, well,” Zeke hesitates. “Nebraska is where I made some of my closest friends. Friends I really thought I’d stay in touch with. I see them sometimes on social media, pictures of them all hanging out together without me . . .” He clears his throat and trails off.
My heart twinges.
“I had a friend who I thought was my Suzy,” Zeke says.
“Your Suzy?”
“I mean, my best friend. Someone who would care about me forever.” Zeke trails off, staring out the window.
A woman and toddler pass by, and she’s holding the little boy’s hand in one of hers and a large frog umbrella in the other.
“He promised that we’d keep in touch. But it starts to feel pointless after a while when you’re the only one reaching out. ”
“I’m so sorry, Zeke.” I offer the rest of the muffin to him, but he shakes his head.
“You finish it.”
I grudgingly oblige. Mom’s not here to disapprove, right? And yolo. That’s what I tell myself to take away the sting of guilt that should not accompany eating a delicious muffin but I feel anyway.
“That’s what this is all for, right?” Zeke says. “The whole—” he looks side to side—“fake friend thing? So that will never happen again.”
He’s putting on a cheerful attitude, and my heart hurts for him.
“How long have you and Suzy known each other?” Zeke asks, swirling his coffee cup so the whipped cream gets mixed in with the coffee. Weirdo. Everyone knows you have to keep them separated as long as humanly possible.
I smile. “I met Suzy in third grade. I was the weird girl in the back of the classroom with huge buck teeth and pigtails high up on my head that I insisted my mom do for me every morning. I always wanted her to tie in the biggest, sparkliest ribbons.” I shake my head.
“Suzy complimented my hair when everyone else made fun of me. I didn’t care so much back then, what other people thought.
I just wanted to be me. It’s hard when people don’t accept you for who you are, when they make you feel like you have to change .
. .” I bite my lower lip. “Suzy asked me to play Harry Potter during recess and that was that. She’s been my best friend ever since. ”
“That’s amazing.” Zeke shakes his head. “I don’t know anyone who’s had a friend and stayed loyal to them for so long.”
“Maybe you just haven’t met the right friend,” I say.
Zeke pauses, and I worry that I’ve said something wrong, but then he chuckles. “How exactly does one ‘play Harry Potter’?”
I flush. “Oh, you know, wave twigs at each other while shouting at the top of your lungs, ‘Expelliarmus’ and ‘Avada kedavra’.”
Zeke gasps. “Not the killing curse!”
I laugh and finish the last of my coffee, feeling warm and energized for the fun day we have planned.
I hold up my phone for a selfie with Zeke.
“Say, ‘coffee’!” I snap the pic and tap out my caption, talking about how much fun I’m having hanging out with my new friend, Zeke.
At the end of the caption I have a call to action, asking people to vote for me and directing them to the link in my bio.
A lot of my followers also go to our school, so the link will work for them and they’ll be able to vote.
Outside of our school, no luck, but it’s the best plan I’ve got.
“What’s your Instagram handle?” I ask.
“@zekeharrisgaming.”
I tag Zeke, and my finger hovers over the “post” button. I take a deep breath.
“And you’re sure your parents are going to see this? Do they check your Instagram?”
“Oh yeah.” Zeke sucks a muffin crumb from his finger. “All the time.”
I hit post and glance up to find Zeke watching me. I show him the picture. “Just posted it. Ready to get out of here?”
He stands and holds out a hand to help me up. “Ready!”
“That is disgusting.”
I laugh. Zeke’s face is too good. I snap a picture. When I look at it, I laugh again. He’s got this horrified look on his face, and the famous Pike Place gum wall is behind him in all its shades of gum glory.
I post it to Instagram, captioning the picture with, “Showing my new bestie the sights of Seattle!” Even I think that’s a little cringey.
“Why do people do this?” Zeke asks. “How did this get started?”
“I don’t know, actually.” I put my phone in my purse and gaze at the dirty brick wall over fifteen feet high, every inch covered with different colors of gum.
There is hardly a blank space. Sometimes gum is stuck on top of gum, making grotesque, multi-colored blobs stick out from the wall.
Even a glass window is completely smothered by dried on gum.
A hardened rainbow of elongated gum blobs dangle off of the window sill.
The gum wall is located in this random alley near Pike Place market, and the ground is still muddy and wet from a recent rain. Soggy fliers and gum wrappers litter the ground, and the air is slightly chilly. I pull my jacket tighter around my body.
“The habits of some people.” Zeke’s laughing now, the disgusted look gone from his face.