The Latte Rebellion (22 page)

“But they never told us we couldn’t
talk
about the Latte Rebellion. They just said we couldn’t have the shirts or the propaganda materials,” Maria said with a tiny smile.

“The girl makes a good point.” Miranda grinned. “But what if we
did
wear the shirts? That would really make a point.”

“You guys are so going to get in trouble.” Carey shook her head. “Philips said that anyone wearing the shirts would get put in on-campus suspension.”

“He said they
might
get put in on-campus suspension,” Miranda corrected her. “But I can’t help thinking that if we
all
do it, he can’t put, like, fifty people in OCS, can he? And if we get teachers who will vouch for this being a peaceful protest …”

“It could totally work,” Maria said. “Let me think about that.”

“Don’t just think about it,” Miranda said. “If we want it to work,
everyone
will have to go along, or nearly everyone. Otherwise the administration will definitely pick on the one or two people who wear the shirts.”

“I’ll bring it up at the meeting on Saturday,” Maria said. “Mocha Loco. You guys better come. Oh, and Asha, I want to know what the Rebellion Organizers have to say about the sit-in they’re holding at U-NorCal. Despite Faris being our liaison, you’re the one with the direct pipeline to Echo and Foxtrot. I want to know what they’re planning behind the scenes.”

She blathered to Carey and Miranda for a few more minutes about whether she could have Faris be appointed an official Sympathizer, but I couldn’t pay attention. I was more worried about who was behind this “sit-in.” Was it the same people who’d put together the unauthorized Latte Rebellion site? Or was it one of the myriad of people who’d founded chapters at their own schools?

“I wonder if this is going to make the news,” I said suddenly. “I mean, if people all over the country are doing this all at the same time, then it might get, like, media attention.” Would my identity come out then? And could I really afford that?

“It might,” Carey said, frowning. “If people actually do it.”

“True.” I sighed. I couldn’t help but envision twenty-five, fifty, even a hundred University Park students sitting on the grass in the quad, everyone else gathered around in awe and support as kids of mixed ethnicity told their stories. The administrators would realize how wrong they’d been in thinking the Latte Rebellion was a gang, and the teachers would be astonished at our articulateness and organizational skills. The local newspaper would send a reporter to interview us, and we would talk about how it would never have been possible without each individual’s efforts—just as different ethnicities form inseparable parts of a whole mixed-race person, the entire success of the Rebellion was like a seamless integration of all its individual parts.

I pushed aside that little doubting voice that pointed out how random our success really was, and how we weren’t exactly a unified movement. That didn’t matter. What mattered was that people believed in the Rebellion, and if enough people believed, then we, like Thad and Greg with their clinic, might actually be able to change the world.

School was strange during the week preceding the sit-in. It felt like the air was charged with anticipation, like particles of static electricity were jumping from person to person … or like Thad’s “contagious” ideas, spreading like germs. Maria carried her sign-up clipboard wherever she went, asking likely sympathizers (with a small “s”) to pledge their support for our sit-in, and either participate or just show up. I had to admire her persistence—not everyone was willing to risk being associated with the Latte Rebellion. Some people were downright hostile.

Like Kaelyn Vander Sar. I could have told Maria it would be pointless to try to talk to her. But no.

“Oh, hey, Kaelyn!” Maria bounded up to her between classes. I just happened to be walking a few feet behind them, so I overheard what happened next.

Kaelyn looked down her perfect snub nose as if Maria were something gross stuck to her shoe. “Hey, what?”

“Oh! So have you heard about the sit-in next Wednesday? It’s going to be really fun. Supporters of people of mixed race or multiple ethnicity are going to be holding, like, a mini-rally on the quad.” She brandished her clipboard.

“So?” Kaelyn said, snapping her piece of green chewing gum.

“Well, you should come,” Maria said valiantly. “We’ve already got twenty-three people signed up.”

“What, so you can take them all hostage like that guy in Indiana? No thanks. Anyway, I have a cheerleading meeting,” Kaelyn said, rudely. “No annoying Latte-whatevers allowed.” Then she turned and glared at me, as if she’d known the whole time that I was listening.

“Fine,” Maria said, “but when everybody else in the school is out on the quad on the 18th, you can’t say I didn’t invite you.”

“Fantastic.” Kaelyn surged ahead, away from Maria and what she no doubt thought were contagious nerd pathogens.

I shook my head in disgust. I couldn’t stand that Kaelyn would even put us in the same sentence as that hostage situation. She was obviously just parroting what Principal Philips said. But the odd thing was that she seemed so hostile about it. Carey would probably theorize that she was jealous of my Mexican J.Lo curves, but I didn’t think so.

I
did
think that maybe, just maybe, she was scared. Scared that if the cheerleaders got involved they’d get in trouble and have their pom-poms taken away or something.

Either way, she was missing the point.

Still, she wasn’t the only one to be rude to poor Maria. For every person Maria got signed up, she’d get five total no-gos. By the end of the week, she’d been laughed at by jocks, insulted by emo kids, ignored by stoners, and given the brush-off by fellow nerdlings. When she arrived at the Latte Rebellion meeting Friday lunch, she was practically in tears—a stark contrast to her usual crisp and confident self. I raised my voice above the fray.

“I had no idea people at our school would be like this,” I said. “I mean, we live in
Northern California
. We’re supposed to be progressive, right? And care about issues?”

“I don’t know; that’s what I thought, too,” Maria said miserably. There was a chorus of outraged comments from the fifteen or so people at the meeting, especially Matt Lee, who was part of the Save the Environment club, and the two representatives sent by the Gay-Straight Alliance. Obviously
they
cared about issues. Was this sort of thing happening at other schools? From the activity on the website, you’d think there was this growing wave of support, but maybe it was all bluster and wishful thinking from a few enthusiastic individuals—a scenario that sounded embarrassingly familiar.

We started to discuss what we’d do at the sit-in, including having Maria relate her experiences of trying to sign people up. I was scribbling notes for my own speech, and Miranda was up at Mr. Rosenquist’s whiteboard making a schedule, when she suddenly turned and said, “Guys, this is going to be the most memorable thing that has ever happened at this school.”

For a moment, the room was silent. More than a few people were looking at me expectantly, as if I somehow had the final say.

I thought about the screams and the looks of fear when the smoke bomb had detonated, and I got out of my chair decisively and moved to stand next to Miranda.

“Right on,” I said. “Let’s do this.” Miranda grinned and we did a fist-bump.

There were a few whoops and everyone clapped, including me. It was funny—even though Carey and I had started this, Miranda had really helped give it … well,
meaning
. And now that Carey had wimped out, I was glad Miranda had my back … because, to be honest, this was a little crazy, even for me.

The weekend brought me back down to earth a little. After a really uncomfortable lunch on Saturday during which I had to listen to my parents talking about various acquaintances’ children and how they’d gotten into X or Y school, I finally caved and told them that Harvard was a no-go. I was still waiting to hear from other places, I said vaguely, hopefully. Lots of people at my school were still finding out where they’d gotten in, I said convincingly. I held out a lot of hope for schools closer to home, I said quasi-truthfully.

By the end of the conversation, they were at least nodding. And they’d quit talking about the accomplishments of other people’s genius offspring, which was a relief.

“Asha,” my mother said, “all we want is for you to be happy. We’re sorry about the bad news, but we have faith in you.” She reached over and put a hand gently on mine, where I was gripping the edge of the kitchen table tensely.

“Well, Harvard was kind of a long shot anyway,” I said. “I don’t know anyone who got in.” I debated telling them about the article I’d read about admissions criteria, the one Thad had tipped me off to, but I didn’t want to ruin the moment.

“You’ll be successful wherever you end up,” my dad added.

I nodded, not meeting his eyes. I knew he meant to be encouraging, but it sounded ominous.

“And no matter where you decide to go, we’ll support your decision. It’s your choice. All the schools you applied to are very reputable.” I wasn’t sure if my mom would be quite so understanding if she knew the real story. Oh, it wasn’t like she would yell or anything, but she’d get her disappointed look, and Dad would frown, his eyebrows beetling down into a hard line. They’d tell me it was fine, but then they’d stay up late in their bedroom, talking quietly into the night, no doubt about my inevitable future career in the fast food industry.

No, I’d just have to hope that my letter of appeal was going to work and that I would get into Robbins College after all, so I wouldn’t ever have to tell them what had happened. I’d just tell them I’d decided on Robbins, and lie about the other applications. Then everything would be perfectly peachy, right? Right. Maybe.

“You know what you need to do? You need to talk about this at the sit-in at your school. I’ve totally heard about this kind of thing,” Darla said. I was at the Mocha Loco Rebellion meeting, and I’d just related what Thad had told me about how being the “right” underrepresented ethnicity could affect your college admission. I’d even, albeit reluctantly, told them I’d been wait-listed at Berkeley and Robbins.

“Yeah,” Leonard agreed. “This is
exactly
the kind of thing the Latte Rebellion should be targeting in our agenda of positive social change.” There was a small chorus of agreement from the rest of the group. I flushed, sweating at being the center of attention for about forty people, and had the sudden urge to laugh hysterically.

“I don’t know. I wasn’t sure about speaking at the sit-in. I’m going, of course,” I added hurriedly. “But I’m … nervous in front of crowds,” I said. And how.

“Are you kidding?” Darla said. “You—”

“
No
, I’m
not kidding
,” I said, rushing to cover whatever she was about to blurt out about my secret identity.

Darla shut up, smiling conspiratorially and making a “zip the lip” gesture. Then Maria jumped in.

“But, Asha, this is
exactly
the kind of thing I was thinking of when I asked you about this before.” She tapped her pencil against her notepad. “You really should think about it.”

I did think about it. I drank the rest of my latte straight down and thought that maybe it was time to take control of my own life. My letter of appeal was just the beginning. If I was going to protest being wait-listed at Robbins, then I might as well go whole hog on the issue and speak out.

“Okay, I’ll do it,” I told Maria. “As long as it’s not a huge crowd.”

“Oh, come
on.
It wouldn’t be like talking in front of a big crowd. It would just be the kids at our school. You’d know everybody.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” I muttered.

Nevertheless, on Sunday, I spent two hours making notes of what I was planning to say at the sit-in—and then went over them again, and again, and again. I even copied everything onto index cards and practiced in front of Carey and Miranda, hoping that would make me less nervous. But it didn’t, not really. For my presentation, I created a “college professor” look—I would put my hair in a bun, wear glasses instead of contacts, and dress up in my most serious, going-on-college-scholarship-interview outfit (a skirt-suit I’d barely gotten to use). Then, at the end, I’d whip off the dark-green blazer to reveal my Latte Rebellion T-shirt. Carey and Miranda clapped wildly when I rehearsed this, and even Carey had promised to at least be in the background of the sit-in for moral support. I was still petrified.

The thing they didn’t understand was how terrifying it was to go up in front of everyone and
not
be safe under my paper bag hat. How panic-inducing it was to think that someone might realize that
I
was Agent Alpha. And how important it still was to me to get into Robbins College, even though I had to write an appeal.

But this really did mean something to me, even if I was scared.

At lunch on Tuesday, Miranda, Carey and I were sitting at a round table in the corner of the library, having a top-secret meeting about Miranda’s speech. The whole event was only half an hour, and there were seven speakers including the two of us, so there wasn’t a lot of time for each person.