CHAPTER ONE – AN AD IN THE PAPER
Kat
The espresso machine coughs, groans, and shudders like an old man with a dying lung, and I’m pretty sure it’s not the only thing about to give out in this place.
The morning rush has blitzed my soul, left me with a sticky apron, sweat pooling under my bra, and the strange, persistent fantasy that if I just upend the tip jar over my head, I might get enough coins to drown in.
My hands smell like burnt beans and sanitizer.
Even my hair is now a pink mop sticky with steamed-milk humidity and flecks of chocolate powder.
I wipe down the counter in lazy circles and count the seconds till my next break.
“Hey, Kat, you spelled this guy’s name wrong,” calls Amber, the manager, holding up a venti for some local who probably thinks barista names are just white noise.
“That’s not even a real name,” I mutter under my breath. “Xaveon? Is he a video game villain?”
But I smile and remake the drink, before carefully writing “X-A-V-E-O-N” with an extra heart for flourish.
Then, I shuffle to the end of the bar, my sneakers sliding on the permanent film of milk scum.
My calves burn, knees stiff from bending to the under-counter fridge a hundred times since five a.m., and the left side of my lower back is starting to throb in that way that makes you think you’ll be limping by thirty.
Xaveon picks up his triple-shot with the bored disdain of a man who’s never worked for tips in his life.
He nods at me—doesn’t say thank you—and turns to scroll his phone.
I want to tell him he has whipped cream on his nose, but honestly, let the world have its small amusements.
The lull is brief. Next up is a mother with two cute toddlers, one sticky with what I pray is just caramel syrup, the other clutching a mutilated Beanie Baby.
She orders a single cappuccino—bless her—and a cake pop for each child.
Her hands tremble as she digs for her wallet, as her eyes plead with me. “Do you have oat milk?”
I nod. “Yes, of course.”
“Thank goodness,” she smiles. “Sometimes the super fancy places only do cow’s milk now. Don’t ask me why.”
I smile and quirk my chin.
“Yes, but not at the Thistle. We absolutely have oat, almond, soy, you name it. We’re not too fancy for anything.”
With that, I prep her drink on autopilot, muscle memory taking over while my brain slips into its usual loop: school, debt, the cold pit of not-enough that sits in my gut and gnaws louder with every shift.
The latest tuition bill from Century College is folded in my purse, stained with a drop of last night’s cheap wine.
I withdrew from school in the middle of last year and yet the bursar’s office keeps sending “friendly reminders.” Mom offered to take out another parent loan so that I could re-enroll, but after her third bankruptcy, I think it’s better if we don’t go there.
Still. There are days where I look around at the cafe and think: I could just be this.
I could just pour coffee, flirt for tips, pay rent on my micro-apartment, and call that a life.
But then I see a girl in a campus hoodie with a stack of textbooks, and I know I want more.
I have nothing against the barista life and I love my coworkers for the most part, but I just want more.
Unfortunately, what more is, or even how I’ll get there, is still unclear.
I hand off the cake pops to the two toddlers, and blow a few kisses. Then, I turn and sag against the counter, my whole body aching. Amber taps me on the shoulder and gestures at the break room. “Go,” she mouths. “You look like you’re about to collapse.”
I peel off my apron and shuffle past the display case, through the swinging door, and into the back closet that someone with a sense of humor labeled “Employee Wellness Lounge.” There’s a battered vinyl loveseat, a microwave, and a poster about hydration that’s been there since 2012.
I collapse into the loveseat and dig in my apron for tips.
A handful of bills, mostly ones, and maybe two dollars in coins—enough for a vending machine dinner, but not enough to pay even the overdue part of my tuition.
I flex my hands. There’s a ring of coffee grounds under each nail.
I think about the time my composition professor at Century told me I had “real narrative muscle.” That was before I bombed out of my last final, before I called the bursar’s office and begged for mercy.
I have muscle, all right, but it’s the kind that aches after a nine-hour shift and smells like dish soap.
On the little end table is a stack of battered magazines, left behind by whichever barista was last demoted to closing shift.
The Century College Quarterly, with its glossy blue cover, sits right on top, like it’s taunting me.
What is it with this school? Why does it cost so much when it’s supposed to be “affordable”?
I flip it open, not even reading at first, just running my finger down the pages like maybe I can feel something of my old life through the paper.
My favorite professor, Dr. Avery, has an essay about “narrative ethics in the digital age.” I dog-ear the page, because old habits die hard, and then move to the classifieds in the back.
The ads are mostly for tutors, dog walkers, the occasional “dorm room modeling” gig, which I learned the hard way is code for something that will end with you in a starring role on someone’s OnlyFans channel.
A new ad, one I haven’t seen before, jumps out at me. It reads:
Personal Assistant For Successful, Published Author Wanted. $5,000/month. Women only please. Must be fit, curvy, under 25. Discretion required.
I blink. Five thousand a month? Is this for real, or is it a scam?
But the number is local. I do a quick mental calculation, the math instantly sobering.
Five grand a month would get me back in school by September, easy.
It would buy textbooks, rent, food, even those parking permits they sell at a 300% markup.
Five grand a month means no more closing shifts, no more bus rides at midnight, no more messages from the bursar’s office that make my stomach drop.
I circle the ad in blue ink, my hand trembling just a little.
Then I shove the magazine back under the pile.
I close my eyes, count to ten, and try to imagine my life if my pockets were full.
I could do so many things. Drawing. Art.
Literature. I could maybe even quit the cafe, and focus on being a full-time student. What a dream.
My break’s over before I want it to be. Amber calls from the doorway, “Kat, can you refill the pastry case, please?”
I stand, stretching my aching legs, and surreptitiously slide the magazine into my purse. Then, it’s back to the grind, but the ad is all I can think about. The next move is obvious. I just have to wait for an opportunity to make the call.
When my shift ends, the sky is the color of cold oatmeal.
I stand at the bus stop with the magazine in my tote and the classified ad burning a hole in my brain.
My feet scream, my eyelids are heavy, but my mind won’t shut up, running the numbers over and over.
If this gig is real, I could easily make some real money.
The last time I saw any moolah at all, it was a negative balance on my student loan portal.
The bus is late, as always. I lean against the bench and pull out my phone, thumb hovering over the keypad.
My nerves spark with every vibration from my notifications, mostly spam or Mom’s latest memes.
I’m not brave enough to call the number in public, so I ride the bus in a fog, clutching the magazine like it’s a flotation device.
My apartment smells like stale air and microwaved chicken. I throw my bag on the bed and pace, dialing and hanging up twice before I get the courage to let it ring. It picks up on the second buzz.
“Sweet Lies. How may I help you?” The voice is female, smooth but clipped, the accent hard to place. She could be a news anchor or a bot.
Wait, what kind of name is Sweet Lies? Shouldn’t the agency be called something like The People Exchange, or Always On Hand? Something that clearly states what they do? But I move forward.
“Hi—uh, I saw your ad? In the Century College Quarterly?” My voice is a full octave higher than usual.
There’s a pause. “You’re interested in the Personal Assistant posting?”
“Yes,” I say. “I, um, have experience with scheduling, customer service, that kind of thing.”
“Name, please.”
“Katherine Vreeland. But everyone calls me Kat.”
More typing. “Education?”
“Two years at Century, creative writing major. On leave for financial reasons.”
“Height and weight?”
I freeze, my face heating. “Uh, five-seven, one sixty.” I fudge a little. “Curvy build.”
The woman does not react. “Age?”
“Twenty.” It comes out so small I barely hear myself say it.
There’s a brief silence. “We’d love to have you in for an interview, if you’re interested. Would tomorrow, 9am, work?”
I gulp.
“Yes, it does—”
“Great. Our address is 921 Mariposa, Suite C. Please bring photo ID. Oh, and wear something professional but comfortable.”
“Can I ask—what exactly does the job entail?” My pulse thuds as I say it.
Another long pause. “You will meet with one of our managers, Ms. Reyes, for an interview. Details will be provided then. Thank you for your interest.” The receptionist hangs up before I can ask anything else.
I stare at my phone, thumb still pressed to the screen, replaying the call in my head.
Did I just give my measurements to a stranger?
I want to laugh and dry-heave at the same time.
I double-check the address. It’s in one of those office parks near the edge of the city, the kind with too much glass and not enough soul.
At least the opportunity seems real so far.