Like Sweet Potato Pie (13 page)

“Nope. Coffee?”

She fiddled with her piercing. “I guess,” she grumbled. “The sundaes don’t have corn or something on them, do they?”

“No. That’s Brazil.”

“Corn? In ice cream?”

“Yep. Pretty good, too.”

She narrowed her eyes at me. “Just how long did you stay in Rio anyway? I thought that little vacation trip of yours last year lasted just a few days.” She gave a wry look. “Back when you had money to burn. Or credit cards, rather. Associated Press doesn’t pay
that
much.”

I winced, backing into a parking spot and turning off the ignition. “Three days.”

“And you tried corn ice cream?”

“And guava and passion fruit. I loved
açai.
” I shrugged. “Brazilians eat a lot of ice cream.”

“Last time I checked you’re not Brazilian,” snapped Kyoko, glaring. “You still running every day?”

Kyoko, who could gain weight just by looking at a dish of rice, sometimes hated me.

“Pretty much. I see so many cows I’ve started giving them names.”

“Hmmph. Well, you’d better keep it up, or you’ll look like that double-wide we passed back there.”

I took my keys out of the ignition and leaned back in my seat, trying to gather my courage to explain about church.

“You know, Kyoko,” I began, banging Mom’s keychain against my knee. “I wanted to tell you where I went this morning. I know it might sound weird, but …”

Her cell phone buzzed in her purse, and my words faltered. Kyoko waved it away. “Go on. Were you saying something?” She swallowed a yawn, eyes watery.

“Yeah.” My gaze flickered out to the battered-looking parking lot. “About this morning. No, about more than this morning. About me and my life.”

I tightened my fingers on the steering wheel. “You’ll probably think it’s weird, but …”

Her cell phone buzzed again. Loudly. I waited politely with my chin in my hand while Kyoko dug it out of her purse, her stoic expression turning angry as she tapped through lines of an incoming text message.

“Not again!” She groaned, mashing her cell phone closed. “Doggone it, Nora! Don’t you know I’m in the US? Incommunicado! Go away! Do your own work!” She rolled her head in frustration against the seat back. “How on earth did she get hired at a place like AP?”

All my planned speech fizzled.

“So what was that about corn ice cream?” Kyoko turned glazed eyes to me and tried to smile. Jet lag again. I felt sorry for her.

“They sell chicken-wing ice cream in Nagoya. Tokyo’s close enough. You could get some.”

“Tell me you’re kidding.”

“And eel, too.”

Kyoko rubbed her face in her hands. “Maybe a sundae isn’t such a good idea.”

“Trust me. You’ll like this.” I opened the car door before she could change her mind. “And you’ll miss the opportunity to make fun of me when I move away.”

“Oh no I won’t. You always give me an opportunity for that no matter where you live. I just won’t have such good props.” She nodded to a discarded Skoal snuff can littering the asphalt.

Kyoko reluctantly got out of the car, giving the dumpy fast-food joint and “Riverside Grocery” the once-over. Then glowered at a guy with a shaggy mullet who parked his battered Ford pickup next to us, blasting country music. Confederate flag covering his rear window and two rifles in the gun rack.

“You’re sure about this.” She didn’t move.

“Positive.”

“In there.”

“Yep.”

I dragged Kyoko away from the Ford before she said anything rude.

“So what kind of ice cream sundaes does Tastee Freez have?” Kyoko snapped on her sunglasses in irritation as we stepped up to the door. Country music twanged from inside, and through the glass windows a hanging ad with a cowboy hat twirled from the ceiling.

“My favorite’s black raspberry.”

Kyoko suddenly paused to shield her eyes, hand on the glass door. So fast I banged into her. “Wait a minute, Ro. I can’t be seeing this! Tell me I’m still asleep!”

“What?” I put my hands on my hips. “Hurry up!”

“Is that the town dump?”

I pushed her inside before she could ask any more questions.

F
inally a quiet moment. I wiped my hands on the green Starbucks apron and brushed my sweaty hair back into its clip with sticky fingers, grateful the line of customers had disappeared. Outside glowed a gorgeous fall afternoon, all gold and brilliant blue, while my friend/workmate Jamie Rivera and I were stuck inside Barnes & Noble making espresso with Chloe and High-School Travis.

I worked with two Travises, since in the South one in approximately every five men is named Travis; the others usually falling under the category of “two-syllable-short-form-of-William-shouted-from-a-truck-window”: Billy, Willy, or Bubba.

High-School Travis was personable, if not a little goofy, although our conversations mainly consisted of (1) him trying to indoctrinate me with Garth Brooks, and (2) me pretending to heave into a trash can. But dyed-black-haired Chloe scowled and kept her iPod buds in her ears against regulation when Boss Travis (the late thirty-ish one who wore ugly polyester pants and flirted with customers) left for a smoke.

At least working at Starbucks in the fall offered one benefit: Pumpkin Spice Lattes. I made them by the dozen and now knew the secret balance of milk to espresso and how many pumps of spicy syrup for the perfect cup. I could make them at home without having to wear this silly apron.

“So where’s Kyoko today?” asked Jamie, stacking teacups and lids and pushing another strand of dark hair behind her ear. “I was surprised to see her at The Green Tree Sunday when I went in to get my check.”

“I was even more surprised she behaved herself.”

Jamie waited tables at The Green Tree, too, and she could thank me—or hate me—for the job.

She looked up with a smile, her skin the color of the fragrant latte I just made. “Kyoko came all the way from Japan just for you, Shiloh. That’s pretty cool. I have relatives back in Puerto Rico I haven’t seen since I was five.”

“She’s great.” I sponged the counter halfheartedly with a wet rag, rubbing at a sticky spot. My last few days with Kyoko had spun by in such a blur. “She brought me gobs of stuff from Japan—cream puffs, dried squid, ceramic dolls. I don’t know how she got it all through customs.” My throat tightened. “Now she’s packing up to leave.”

“Already? When?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Wow. Time sure flies, huh?”

“Tell me about it.” I sighed. “But Kyoko has a real job to get back to.”

“I know what you mean.” Jamie rolled her eyes.

Making coffee for middle schoolers had to be one of the most humbling jobs ever. Too-shiny preteens with giggly laughs—who complained in shrill, annoying voices about wanting more whipped cream or insisting “something’s wrong with my coffee”—all while yakking on their pink cell phones. I wanted to dump the cup right over their prissy, highlighted heads.

Beulah said God had plans for me here in Staunton, but I was fairly certain they didn’t include making espresso for the rest of my life. Or carrying plates at The Green Tree.

“So did you get to do everything you wanted to with Kyoko?”

“Sort of. Some museums, Luray Caverns. But I think she really liked filming Stella throwing horseshoes at pegs in the ground. Did you know people really do that?” I guffawed.

“My relatives do sometimes.”

I covered my mouth. “Oops. Sorry.” Then wrinkled my brow. “Wait,
your
family? You’re Puerto Rican!”

“Sure. But my dad was born here. We’ve been in the South for years. Too many years.” We laughed together. “My uncle also spits into a cup, but I thought I’d spare you the indignity.”

I shook my head, imagining the fusion foods that must show up on the Rivera dinner table: Deer fritters instead of fish?
Sopón de pollo con
hominy?

The front door glistened open in late afternoon sun rays, and a teenager wandered through, laughing into her cell phone. She hesitated at the smell of pumpkin spice and, to my relief, turned toward a magazine rack and began browsing.

“Is Trinity okay?” Jamie asked abruptly, picking up a stray plastic lid and plopping it back on the pile. “I mean, she just seems …”

“I know. Did she snap at you this week, too?”

“Sort of, but it’s more … I don’t know.”

“Her eyes.”

“Yeah.” Jamie met my gaze. “Like something’s really bothering her. I tried to talk to her, and she seemed like she might, but …”

I shrugged. “I can’t figure her out, Jamie. She used to be pretty open about her life, but lately anytime I delve into personal territory she zips her lips. Where’s the bright and spunky Trinity we know?”

“Good question. She didn’t even try to insult Blake like she usually does.” Jamie shook her head. “Poor kid. What is he now, nineteen?”

“I think so. He’s been mooning over her for months. Maybe years.” I picked at my nail polish, which definitely needed a touch-up. “Kyoko thinks Trinity’s hiding something. She said her body language shows signs of ‘repressed anxiety’ and went on for ten minutes about the way Trinity shredded a straw paper.” I rolled my eyes. “Of course Kyoko’s come up with some pretty … um … colorful theories about what she’s supposedly hiding. Involving illicit spy organizations or insider stock trading.”

“Isn’t Carlos a stockbroker?”

“Bingo! You’ve figured out the missing link!” I laughed, glad for once that Carlos’s name didn’t hurt quite so badly. “But you know something about Kyoko? She had a good time this week, but that’s not why she came.”

“Why, she wants to take you back to Japan?” Jamie looked up, her brown eyes reflecting that same gentle understanding that had taken me by surprise when I first started at Barnes & Noble, which seemed a century ago with all the twists and turns in my crazy life.

“No. To make sure I’m not off my rocker or something.” I shook the rag into the trash.

Jamie started to laugh then apparently thought better of it. “Seriously?”

“Think about it. In the space of a few months I’ve lost my mom, lost my job, lost my fiancé, and on top of that, she knows I considered becoming … you know. A Christian.” I swallowed, the last word sticking in my throat like a dry crumb of rice cracker. It still felt new to me and strange to hold it in reverence instead of making a joke or brushing it off with the rest of the world’s nutsos.

“Have you told her?”

“Not exactly. We’re talking about Kyoko here, Jamie! Case in point: Remember when the Harlem Globetrotters showed up at The Green Tree?”

“Are you kidding? How could I forget a five-hundred dollar tip?”

“Well, Kyoko refused to believe my story until Jerry showed her the autographed photos last Sunday at the restaurant. Becky still thinks the photos are staged.”

“Becky? That’s funny.” Jamie giggled, throwing away a handful of used register receipts. “That’s the first night you called me to help out at The Green Tree. No way I could forget that.” Her voice softened. “I’m still amazed you thought to call me. We hadn’t even known each other that long, but I really needed that job.”

“And we needed you at The Green Tree.” I poked her playfully. “Jerry was pulling his hair out.” I chuckled. “And I’m equally amazed you came. And stayed. Now there are two of us Bible thumpers under Jerry’s nose.”

I shot her a smile, proud of Jamie’s stalwart convictions and fearless faith. She practically sparkled. God had used Jamie to give me a push—no, more like a flying kick—in His direction.

“Well, I wouldn’t peg you for a loony.” Jamie shrugged, mirth tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Unless … Has Kyoko read about Western State?”

“The old ‘lunatic asylum,’ as they used to call it?” I giggled. “Right here in Staunton? Well, that certainly didn’t help my case any.”

Jamie laughed back, squatting under the counter for more foam coffee cups and straws. When she stood, though, arms full of stuff, her smile had faded. “Kyoko knows you better than that, doesn’t she?”

“You’d think so.” I moistened the rag and ran it over the now-smooth counter. “But to her, my life is so ludicrous she can’t believe it’s reality.” My mouth straightened into a line. “Fitting, huh?”

Jamie leaned against the counter and turned to face me. “Even if she did think that, she still came. She cares about you.”

“Really?” I ran my hand through my hair, confused.

“Of course. I don’t know anyone who would fly across continents just to see if I was okay.”

I started sweeping up crumbs from the bake case, wishing those espresso brownies and lemon bars didn’t look so good. Lunch had vanished ages ago.

“She’s special, Jamie. Even though she doesn’t believe anything I do and probably never will. But I feel torn in half. Just like this cinnamon bun. Part of me there. Part of me here. I don’t know who I am anymore.”

I removed the bun chunks with metal tongs and cut it in little pieces for people to taste test. Unfortunately for me, eating broken goodies was against regulation. Otherwise there’d probably be a lot more severed cinnamon buns.

Jamie set a little dish of toothpicks on the counter for people to eat the cinnamon bun remains. “Well, this is probably the time you start to find out who you are, Shiloh.”

I glanced back at Chloe, who dawdled in the kitchen, taking her time getting something out of the cabinet. Banging her head to whatever emo tune played on her iPod. Right or wrong, Chloe struck me as a wannabe. A rude, annoying wannabe. But Kyoko was real. Enigmatic. Deep. Unique. The woman who wrote about gruesome homicides without batting an eyelash got emotional over silly ‘80s romantic movies. Who rejected Carlos immediately based on his heart, not his looks—unlike dozens of women.

I puffed out my chest proudly as I thought of her, wearing her scary black garb all over Tokyo, no matter what people thought.

“But the one thing that separates us now is our beliefs. And I feel that gap growing every single day.”

Jamie looked up at me, biting the edge of her lip.

“What?” I crossed my arms.

She shrugged, avoiding my gaze as she put the tongs away. “I hope this isn’t out of place, Shiloh, but do you think your mom might have felt the same way about you?”