Page 6 of Poetry By Dead Men
I bubble in the final answer—C—and turn in my exam before making my way through the narrow hallway and heavy glass doors that lead outside, hoping the cool breeze will help me breathe a little easier, but it just makes me shiver as the knots in my empty stomach twist tighter.
Turning in the direction of my house only makes it worse, and dread creeps up my throat as I picture my mother pacing by the door with my father on speakerphone. I’d been instructed in no uncertain terms to come directly home after the test so we could discussmy performance.
That's what they’d called it, too.
A performance—like I'm an actress putting on a show.
They’re not wrong.
I sigh, desperate for a latte. Preferably one made by my best friend, who just so happens to be manning the espresso machine at my favorite cafe a few blocks away.
My stomach rumbles, and before I can talk myself out of it, I’m speed-walking toward Joe’s Place, squeezing my well-worn, dog-eared book of poetry tighter between my fingers. Adrenaline seeps into my bloodstream, and I pick up my pace to a near jog, wondering if my lack of caffeine combined with the stress of my forbidden coffee run is going to kill me.
The bell above the door dings as I push it open, and my mouth immediately waters, the aroma of espresso and caramel overtaking my senses. The shop isn’t my usual cozy, girly vibe. With metal accents gleaming from every corner, the place looks as if it's been dreamed up by a man who loves camping. Or, I don't know, welding? But it’s comfortable and welcoming and feels like home in a way I haven’t found anywhere else.
Molly waves as I jiggle the door closed. She's clearly had a busy morning, her normally perfectly straight brunette hair pulled into a messy bun on top of her head and her apron stained with chocolate syrup.
I head straight to the counter, and Molly slides a drink in front of me, already made in a chipped mug as big as a bowl with a crooked square drawn into the foam. “Hot latte with two pumps lavender,” she says with a broad smile.
My stomach growls as the sweet floral scent meets my nose. When Molly got the job here, we spent hours after the shop closed for the night making concoctions with different syrups and toppings. Most of them were awful, but the lavender stuck with me, and now I never order anything else. It's surprisingly sweet and slightly woodsy. It feels romantic somehow, and whenever I drink it, I can't help but think it's something Jane Austen would have loved.
I tilt my head, confused. "I thought I told you I wasn't coming by today."
"You did. But I know you better than that, and I wanted to practice my latte art. It's the SATs! See?" She points to her caffeinated rendition of my test booklet from this morning.
"Well, obviously!" I lie. It looks more like a slice of bread, but I’d never spoil her excitement. "You’re the best. But can I get it to go?" I ask, my courage straining with every passing minute.
Molly shakes her head. "Nope. Go sit. Relax. You’ve earned it."
I rub the tense muscles between my eyebrows. “How can I relax when my parents are waiting to hear if I'll be getting into Harvard or if they need to renovate the attic to hide me in so they can pretend I died?"
"All the more reason to stay. Besides," she shoves a stack of disposable cups behind the milk steamer, "we're out of paper cups.”
I reach around the counter to grab one from the towering, completely visible stack. "What are you talking about? I have to be home in less than eleven minutes," I argue, but she pushes them further out of my reach.
"Then drink fast. Enjoy!" she says, smiling sweetly and throwing me an exaggerated wink before turning away. I narrow my eyes, but Molly ignores me, moving on to the next customer. I reluctantly walk toward my seat, sniffing the drink I'm apparently about to chug. It smells the same as always, but that does nothing to make me feel better. She's up to something.
Several regulars are here, but they’re not in their usual spots. It's unsettling, like falling asleep on the subway and waking up not knowing if you've missed your stop.
I twist toward my usual chair, hoping it wasn’t taken in the weird shuffle, and freeze.
My breath rushes from my lungs, and my heart stutters. It’s as if I've been dunked in freezing cold water and for a moment, I wonder if I'mactuallydying.
But this time, it's not from the lack of caffeine or stress of the SATs.
A boy about my age with wavy brown hair sticking out from beneath a ball cap is relaxed in the oversized leather armchair.
Myarmchair.
There's a stack of notebooks practically falling off the table in front of him, and his book bag sits in the matching chair beside him—open as if he's been rustling through it.
Suddenly, it clicks. The reason for the wink. I mentally curse my best friend for her lack of an actual warning as I wonder what to do.
He's utterly handsome, with vibrant blue eyes beneath long, dark lashes. The angle of his jawline is strong, and the sleeves of his green henley are rolled to just below the elbow. He's writing something, and the sight of his muscular forearms flexing as the pen glides across the paper makes my stomach squeeze and my mouth go dry.
I start to turn away, but his head snaps up. The air crackles as he meets my gaze, and the electricity in his stare shocks me into taking a sudden step back. Coffee spills over the lip of my cup, the searing liquid burning my fingers and dripping onto the floor. I reach for some napkins, the redness in my cheeks spreading down my neck, but the boy beats me to them, grabbing a handful before dropping down and wiping up the drops of latte. The movement makes his shirt cling to his muscular back and biceps in the most delicious way, and it’s as if there are a thousand butterflies tickling my stomach.
My phone rings, but I barely notice it as the boy smiles. A dimple appears in his cheek, and when we lock eyes again, his hand pauses and hovers over the floor. For a moment, neither of us moves a muscle. I’m not sure I’m even breathing.
