Heart Shaped Rock (2 page)

“No, Tiff,” I say, but she’s not listening.

“If you don’t swoop in to save me, some other smelly guy—Smelly Sam or Smelly Scott or whoever—is gonna swoop right in.” Tiffany gives me her best puppy dog eyes. “How ‘bout I text Sheila and say you’ll come down there today?”

I consider the situation. The chance to earn a little extra gas money is an attractive proposition, hipsters and teenagers-with-super-important-problems notwithstanding
.
I’ve gleaned from hushed conversations I wasn’t supposed to hear that Mom’s medical bills were pretty steep during the last year, so I’d like to help out. And, I must admit, it would be ridiculously awesome to work with Tiffany. No matter how much time we spend together, I never, ever get sick of her, even when I’m third-wheeling it with her and her boyfriend, Kellan.

“Okay,” I relent. “Just tell her I’ll come
meet
her.”

Tiffany squeals and hugs me again, her accessories clanging noisily. “Yay, Shay-Shay. This is gonna be amazeballs.”

Chapter 2

Sheila’s sits on the busiest thoroughfare in Pacific Beach, the coolest and most classically “Southern California beach community” area of San Diego—one street over from and overlooking the bustling beach boardwalk. The building façade is painted electric blue, and terra cotta planters filled with sunflowers hang from the roof’s perimeter. Subtle, Sheila’s is not.

“Okay, so, don’t forget,” Tiffany coaches. We’re sitting in her VW Beetle in the parking lot. “Sheila’s sort of a no-nonsense type, so just smile and answer her questions. No babbling.”

I look at her as if to say,
You don’t know me at all.

Tiffany laughs. “She’s gonna love you.” Tiffany gestures wildly and her bracelets clank noisily. Good God, the girl is a one-woman drum line.

I pull a hair-tie from my wrist and smooth my blonde hair back into a ponytail in one practiced movement. “I’m just here to
meet
her. No promises.”

Tiffany smirks. “Okay, Peaches.”

We enter the front door of Sheila’s, and I’m struck by how crowded the place is on a Wednesday afternoon. What’s everyone doing here?

A long glass counter displaying pastries and muffins sits along the right-hand wall. A small, slightly raised wooden stage sits in the back corner, currently empty except for a microphone stand. Everywhere else, small tables, overstuffed chairs, and a mismatched assortment of cane-back chairs—currently occupied by every variety of surfer, hipster, hippie, yuppie, and artsy type—fills every cranny of the place. Amid it all, a woman in her late thirties or early forties stands behind the counter at a large espresso machine, steaming milk in a metal pitcher and laughing at something a nearby kid has said.

A dark-haired surfer dude about my age wearing board shorts, a shark-tooth necklace, and nothing else saunters toward Tiffany and me, heading to the front door. As he approaches, he looks right into my eyes and flashes me a wide smile, as if I came here just to see him. His smile’s so disarming, and his bare torso so distracting, I glance down. When I look back up, his smile has widened, if that’s even possible.

“See ya later, Jared,” Sheila hollers at Shark-Tooth Boy’s back, and when she catches sight of Tiffany and me at the door, she yells, “Oh hey. Come on in, girlies.”

Tiffany hasn’t stopped holding my hand since we walked in, and now she drags me to the edge of the counter. “Sheila, this is Shaynee. Remember, I told you about her?”

“Gee, let me think,” Sheila says, her tone clearly mocking. “You’ve only mentioned her four hundred eighty-two times since you started working here.” Sheila winks at me. “Welcome, Shaynee-girl.” Before I can reply, she turns her back to me and begins foraging through a drawer. “Here you go,” she says, turning back and placing something in my open hand. “I hope I spelled it right.”

I look down in my hand to find a nametag imprinted with “SHAYNEE” in gold lettering. There’s a little heart at the end of my name.

“Well, don’t just stand there acting like a potted plant, Tiffany. Grab our girl an apron and get to work.”

Tiffany laughs. “Yes, ma’am.” She lets go of my hand and flits off to a room in the back.

“Ever work an espresso machine before?” Sheila asks me.

I shake my head.

“A cash register?”

I shake my head again.

“Ever earn an honest buck in your life?”

I shake my head a third time.

“Okay, I’m sold. You’re hired.” She winks again.

Note to self: Sheila’s a winker.

Tiffany returns wearing a bright blue apron with “Sheila’s” printed in white letters across the chest. Her nametag forcefully declares “TYPHANI” in glittery purple letters.

Tiffany hands me a blue apron just as Sheila breezes by, toward the front door. “I’m going to taste some beans from a potential new wholesaler. Will you two ‘woman’ the store for me? Tiff, you can teach Shaynee all there is to know while I’m gone.” She looks at me deadpan. “It’s rocket science, Shaynee, so pay close attention.”

“Sure thing,” Tiffany says with confidence. “See you later, Sheila.”

Sheila exits the front door, shouting, “Be good” to no one in particular. A chorus of “Bye, Sheila” and “See ya later” follows her out the door.

What the hell just happened? Did I just get a job?

For the next hour or so, Tiffany—or shall I say
Typhani?
—scrambles to fill a heavy and diverse stream of drink orders. I try to help Tiffany as best I can, but I have no idea how to work the machine, or the cash register, or even the broom-and-dustpan-in-one contraption. For now, I’m relegated to fetching extra milk cartons from the refrigerator, refilling the half-and-half and cinnamon canisters, serving pastries onto little doily-covered plates, and bussing the tables of empty mugs.

The hour flies by.

“What’s up with the nametag?” I finally ask Tiffany when the rush has settled down and we have a moment to breathe.

Tiffany looks down, not catching my meaning. “Oh, that,” she says, glimpsing her nametag. “I just figured Sheila’s is the perfect place for a girl to reinvent herself.”

I can’t argue with that.

“Okay,” Tiffany says, motioning to the espresso machine, “let’s start with the basics.” Tiffany proceeds to explain the functionality of each part of the machine, taking great care to show me how to pack the espresso grounds into the scoopers. After that, she regales me with the differences between an Americano, latte, cappuccino, and
café au lait
. The girl’s a virtual fount of caffeinated wisdom and espressological expertise. Finally, with utmost care and precision, she demonstrates the proper method for steaming milk.

“Just go like this, up and down,” Tiff explains, furrowing her brow with deep concentration.

“Are you steaming milk or performing a tonsillectomy?” I ask.

“Ha, ha. You try now. Make sure the steaming wand doesn’t come out of the milk.”

I take over the metal pitcher from her, holding it awkwardly under the machine. “Like this?” I ask, mimicking Tiffany’s up-and-down movement with the pitcher. Immediately, a blast of steamy milk shoots me right in the face.

Tiffany bursts out laughing. “Yeah,” she says, “just like that.”

If I’m supposed to be performing surgery here, I just killed my patient. I wipe my cheek with the back of my hand and look around to make sure no one has witnessed my milk-tastic malpractice.

“Okay, rookie,” Tiffany says. “Now let’s talk about the cash register.”

For the next ten minutes, Tiffany instructs me about which buttons do what. She follows that lesson with a thousand more: how to properly clean the machine; how and when to refill the coffee beans; the procedure for maintaining stock levels of cups, napkins, and other supplies; and oh, so much more. Actually, I’m thoroughly impressed by how much she’s managed to learn after working here only a few short months. Tiffany glows with enthusiasm as she speaks, clearly giddy to display her newly acquired talents and knowledge. It’s usually
me
who’s tutoring
her
in one subject or another, not the other way around, and it’s a refreshing change.

Throughout Tiffany’s lecture, occasional customers place orders for a “half-caff macchiato” or a “wet cap with a double shot, slightly wet,” or some other first-world concoction I’ve never heard of before today. Tiffany greets each customer like a long lost family member, and they respond to her as people always do—they gobble her up like a warm apple fritter.

“So, is that where all the teenage tragedies come to pour their hearts out?” I ask, motioning to the small stage across the room.

“Yeah. Open Mic Nights are Thursdays. And singer-songwriters play most other nights, too. But never on Wednesdays.”

“Why not on Wednesdays?”

“Sheila’s son doesn’t work on Wednesdays, and he’s in charge of the music. Jason Mraz played on that stage back in the day. So did Jewel.”

“Really? Wow.”

Tiffany exhales, shifting gears. “Okay. Why don’t you practice making a skinny vanilla latte?”

“Okeedoke,” I reply, and set about making the drink.

Tiffany has to remind me to wipe off the steaming wand when I’m done. “If you don’t,” she says, “the milk gets all nasty on there.”

I feel defeated.

“You’ll get the hang of it,” she says, putting her arm around my shoulder. “This is gonna be fun. I pinky promise.” She holds out her pinky to me.

Tiffany knows I hate pinky promises. “Why don’t we just have a pig-tailed pillow fight instead?” I say. “In our pink pajamas?” But, damn, Tiffany’s face is so adorable, and those eyes of hers are so earnest, I can’t resist her. I dutifully lay my pinky in hers. Like always. “I’m already having fun,” I assure her, and I’m surprised to realize it’s the truth.

She puts her head on my shoulder. “I love you, Shay-Shay.”

“Babe,” a male voice calls out from the front entrance.

“Baby!” Tiffany shrieks.

The voice belongs to Kellan, Tiffany’s brawny boyfriend of the past year. He struts into the coffeehouse with his usual swagger and beelines right to Tiffany, a toothy grin covering his face. Clearly, his parents have spent a fortune on orthodontics.

When Kellan reaches the counter, Tiffany leans toward him, her arms extended like a child asking to be picked up. “Gimme.”

Kellan laughs. “Patience, my little chick-a-dee,” he scolds, but clearly he loves it. He takes hold of the neck straps on Tiffany’s apron and gently pulls her to him for a kiss.

Eww. Those two are so Taylor Swift and... everyone.

Kellan smiles at me, his eyes dancing with self-confidence. “Well, hello there, Banister Shaynee.” He nods his head in formal greeting.

“
Barista,”
I mumble. “
Barista
Shaynee
.”
But he just grins.

Kellan turns back to Tiffany. “Well, you finally got your girl here. God help any man or woman who stands between you and something you want.”

Tiffany beams at me. “My life is now complete.”

“Hey, I gotta get to work in a sec”—Kellan busses tables a couple nights a week at a chain Mexican restaurant on the boardwalk
called Olé! Olé!—“
but I just wanted to see our little Shaynee on her first day, strutting around in her fancy blue apron.” He looks me up and down. “Lookin’ good, Shay. You’ve got serious swag.”

“Gosh, thanks,” I shoot back, my hands on my hips. “I live for your approval.” I love giving Kellan a hard time, probably because he’s never experienced a single hard time in his gold-plated life. Regardless of my sarcasm, though, he knows I adore him like a big brother (if that big brother were loud, not particularly smart, and freakishly athletic).

“So, I just heard there’s gonna be a bonfire at Bay Street on Friday night. You girls wanna go?” For the last several months, ever since I became The Poor Little Girl with No Mother, Kellan and Tiffany have gone to great lengths to include me in their weekend plans. When they’re arranging some sort of group activity, I reluctantly join in—and usually wind up quietly experiencing whatever festivities as more of an observer than a participant; but when the plan involves just the two of them and me as their “plus one,” I almost always find a way to beg off and leave the two lovebirds to themselves.

“Coolio,” Tiffany says. “Will we know anyone there?”

“Some of the guys I surf with will be there with their girlfriends. You know that dude Jared I surf with at Swami’s?”

“Yeah,” Tiffany says. “He was just here earlier.”

Ah,
I think, putting two-and-two together:
The guy with the shark-tooth necklace.

“Well, it’s his older brother having the party. I gotta work Friday night, so you two girls can meet me at the restaurant after my shift and we’ll head over to the party together. It’s just a few blocks from work.”

“Perfect,” Tiffany agrees.

“I’m not sure... ” I begin. But Tiffany’s not having it.

“Oh no, Peaches, you’re coming. I’m not driving all the way out to the beach, alone,
at night,
to meet up with Kellan. You’ve gotta come.”

She’s got a point. Our neighborhood is about fifteen minutes inland from the beach, and it would be a pain and a waste for Kellan to have to pick her up.

Just then, Sheila waltzes through the front door. “Well? How’d it go, girls?” she asks, placing her palms on the counter. “Hello, dearest Kellan. So nice to see you. Now go away.”

Kellan laughs. “I’ve gotta get to work anyway. I’ll call you later, babe.”

“Shaynee did great,” Tiffany reports to Sheila, practically singing the words. “She picked up everything like a boss.”

We both know that’s a gross exaggeration. My performance was one shade above hopeless, at best.

“Fabulous,” Sheila says. She smiles and little lines crinkle around her blue eyes. “Well, then, I’ve got some forms for you to fill out, to make it official, honey. You’re sixteen, right?”

I nod.

She hands me a short stack of forms. “Here ya go.”

“Thank you.”

“I’d love to get some help on Wednesdays when my son isn’t here. And Thursdays, too; those are always the busiest thanks to Open Mic Night. Tiffany, let’s keep you coming on Tuesdays and Wednesdays, and we’ll have Shaynee-girl come Wednesdays and Thursdays. It’ll be a win-win-win.”