Ruby Unscripted (5 page)

“You can be Ruby's first victim. This is my niece, Ruby. Ruby, this is one of my very favorite customers, Frankie Klarken.”

“Nice to meet you,” we both say.

“So where have you been hiding her?” Frankie asks.

“She's from up north. Near Redding.”

Frankie sets a handful of brochures on the counter, then leans on his elbows. “Redding? I'm unaware of California outside the Bay. Even LA is lost directionally to me. I think it might be that way . . .” And he spins his finger from west to north to east.

“Frankie always gets a German Chocolate Blended with two add-shots.”

“Uh, okay,” I say. “So—”

“I'll start the espresso,” Aunt Jenna says. “And you put three pumps of the organic chocolate into one of the large cups.”

I try following my aunt's instructions while Frankie watches from the counter. He leans forward, his light brown hair dipping over one eye. He appears amused by our performance.

“Wow, girls, you've really got the flow of teamwork there,” he says and laughs loudly after I spill the ground espresso over Aunt Jenna's apron.

There's something that whispers into my mind about Frankie even as I'm completely stressed about making his drink. I ignore it for now and try listing out the process, determined not to continue making this a disaster:

1. Dump old espresso from (thing)—bang it until clean.

2. Grind beans.

3. Fill (thing), attach, twist.

4. Hit button for one or two shots.
I do this twice, since Frankie wants a total of four shots of espresso in his drink.

5. Oh yeah, don't forget to put the shot glass under the release.
I redo one of the shots.

6. Milk, soy, or rice milk—
Frankie wants milk. “Not the skim kind, baby face.”
Do I have a baby face?
I wonder.

7. Steam milk until thermometer reaches at least 180 degrees.

8. Add shots of flavor if needed.
For the German Chocolate Blended, we use a shot and a half of coconut syrup and a half shot of hazelnut, which I pour into the shot glasses.

9. Add three pumps of chocolate—
then one more because Frankie says, “I like my chocolate, can't have enough of the chocolate.”

10. For blended, we put the espresso shots, milk, flavored syrups, and
chocolate in the blender with ice. Blend, pour, top with whipped
cream and more chocolate syrup.
Done.

“Okay, there you go,” I say, handing him the drink.

Aunt Jenna and I wait as he takes the smallest perceptible sip. He makes a slight grimace before the smile. “Mmm.”

“If you don't like it, we'll redo it,” I say. “I did wonder if I grabbed the sugar-free coconut.”

“No, girl, it's just a little different.”

“Different?”

“Different doesn't mean bad, now, does it? Look at me—I'm different. Is that a bad thing? But I'd better run. Much to do before tonight.” He says this as he's leaving, calling at the door, “See you tonight. Nice to meet you, Ruby, and thanks.”

My aunt and I stare after him a moment, until I finally say, “He didn't like it, did he?”

Aunt Jenna does that little scrunchy face she gets when trying to tell me something without hurting my feelings. “It's not that he didn't like it.”

“He hated it.”

“Yeah, he hated it.”

“And he's gay?”

My aunt nods her head. “Yep.”

“Bummer.”

We stare at the door after Frankie, look at each other, and laugh. But then the door opens and the horde arrives.

chapter five

“Please, no more coffee,” I protest with my hands up in surrender.

After my preliminary espresso disaster, Aunt Jenny asked me to watch every espresso drink she made for the next hour while I worked the register. Her hands moved fast, and I asked her to slow down a few times.

Then the samples began. She wanted me to distinguish between a cappuccino, latte, café mocha—how soy and rice milk changed the flavor, not to mention the different add-shots that include every flavor you can imagine. I spotted a “cheesecake” (interesting) and even a “blood orange” (ick!). In the sampling, I discovered some new coffee favorites like almond biscotti latte and Mexican café mocha. But enough is enough.

Aunt Jenna pushes the little cup toward me. “Okay, but this one is s'more. It's a mocha with marshmallow and graham cracker flavorings.”

I give her a sickened look—this has to be my twentieth sample.

“But are you getting an idea of the different flavors and intensities?”

“Am I ever.” I may become a tea person after this espresso overdose.

“Good,” she says with a laugh. “Now take a break before we get ready for the filmies. You can go around the corner for gourmet pizza, or there's a great salad place on the next block.”

I take off my apron in the small back room and search for my phone to tell Kate about the cute gay guy I met and my new favorite coffee drinks. My phone is nowhere to be found in the holes and pockets of my bag. I dump out everything—my wallet, photos, gum wrappers, notes from friends, pens and pencils. Then I remember: it's sitting at home charging in the window of my bedroom. Oh bother.

My hands shake from the caffeine, and my stomach longs for something to combat the sweets, so I'm off to a late lunch somewhere. But self-consciousness pervades me as I walk toward the outside door. People have come in and out of the Underground for the last four hours, going about their business. I find it strangely hard to force myself out the front doors. I even consider getting a scone and eating it in the back room.

Okay, Ruby, you're fifteen years old. You can walk down the
street, do a little window shopping, buy some lunch.

“Can I get you anything?” I ask the one couple in the room, who basically ignore me as they lean in and talk in romantic tones.

The tables are nearly empty now, but I feel vaguely guilty to be on lunch while Aunt Jenna clears them. “Do you want me to stay and help?”

“No, no, go explore a bit. The fog burned off, and it's a beautiful day. If you find Greens, get me an Asian salad with dressing on the side. Do you need money?”

“Mom gave me some.”

One last glance around the safety of the coffeehouse, and I push myself into the warm sunlight of midafternoon. These brick grottos are full of interesting shops and boutiques. I notice a handcraft toy shop that Kate would love to explore with me, and a shop with musical instruments from all over the world dangling from the ceiling and resting against the wide windows.

But I don't find Greens because the farthest I venture is to the gourmet pizza parlor in the courtyard next door. I reach for my cell phone to call Aunt Jenna about getting a pizza instead. Argh! No cell phone . . .

Without my cell, I'm truly alone. It feels like going to the mall and realizing I've forgotten my shoes. As I get in line at the counter, I hear someone else's phone beep, and I look around like a hungry orphan at a banquet.

The walls of Antonio's Gourmet Pizza are covered in pictures of famous people standing beside the owner, presumably Antonio. Harrison Ford, Cameron Diaz, Tom Hanks, the lead singer of Green Day, and others I recognize but whose names I don't know.

The counter girl asks me if I want the couscous crust, and I say yes simply because I don't know what it is. I sigh when I walk away, tired of feeling stupid. The tables are full, but I see a guy leave a table outside. That's where I sit, with the number 17 on the iron tabletop.

The day is blue and bright. Hanging baskets cascade flowers from light poles along the street, and I think what a beautiful town this is. When have I done something like go to a restaurant alone? Never, I realize. I haven't done anything alone in my fifteen years that I can think of. Even when I'm alone in my room, I have connections all around, thanks to the miracle of technology. Me at this wrought-iron table beside a huge planter of red geraniums waiting for my couscous pizza with people all around me—this is alone.

So this is what it'd be like in Europe, sitting at an outdoor café with the French or the Swedes (is it too cold in Sweden for outdoor cafés?) or the Austrians or . . . whatever country I'm in. Could I do it alone? Mom says that all the truest journeys are done alone, even if traveling with companions. It's the inner journey that matters.

And strangely, just sitting here at a little table in this corner café, I sense such a journey stretching out before me. Once my pizza arrives, I lean back in the chair, cross my legs, and drink a sparkling mineral water.

But okay, when a lady's phone beeps, I do reach for my purse.

When I get back to the Underground, the clock says 3:15. Kate and everyone will be out of school. Maybe she's at track practice. Carson will be hanging out with his friends. Little Tony's family will probably be making funeral arrangements, picking out his clothing, buying a coffin and plot of ground for his grave.

I try shoving those terrible thoughts out of my head, and instead I wonder if Nick will ask me to the upcoming prom. After all, he finally knows he likes me, and he wants to ask me something. There's a dress in a store window down the street. I caught a glimpse of it on the drive in. It's lime green and black, with a skirt that would twirl if I felt like twirling.

I imagine all kinds of
Sound of Music
twirling as I work in the coffeehouse. I imagine that I glance up at one of the customers and there's Nick. His arrival is like the scene in
Chocolat
when Johnny Depp returns to the little chocolaterie for Juliette Binoche. Who couldn't feel that all the way through the toes? What happens next as the movie credits roll . . . who knows and who cares? We know he's taking her from her loneliness, and they'll love each other for the rest of their lives.

“Ruby!” Aunt Jenna says loudly, making me jump and realize she's been calling my name for a while. “Off in Rubyland again?”

“Sorry.”

“One of our regulars, Natasha, is at her table by the corner window. She's waiting for a ginger currant scone and chai tea with rice milk. The tea is on the counter—just pour some rice milk from the lower fridge into a cream server.”

Natasha isn't easy to locate. I hadn't noticed the tiny table tucked behind the indoor stone fountain in a corner by the window. She's fully engrossed in a book with a stack of other books and sketches spread out on the small table, making it impossible for me to set down the tea saucer and plate.

“Excuse me,” I say in a library-soft voice—why, I'm not sure.

She looks up as if surprised to see me, as if surprised to find herself sitting at her usual spot in my aunt's café/movie house. It's not a ditzy sort of look, but one that makes me think she's still somewhere else, in whatever place that book took her.

“Oh yes, I apologize. Let me make some room.”

She's old—like maybe fifty—and beautiful. I think she's the most beautiful older woman I've met. Her hair is cut short, very short, in a way only certain women can pull off—and she's one of those certain women for sure. Her earrings are black pearls, and she wears a matching black pearl necklace.

“What are you reading?” I ask.

“Short stories from a Croatian writer,” she says, turning the book over. She moves her books to a chair and thanks me as I set her tea and scone beside a paper with notes scribbled on it.

“Croatia? Is that in Europe?”

“Former Yugoslavia—Eastern Europe. Croatia is next on my list of places to visit—the Dalmatian Coast, to be precise. I'm hoping to go in the autumn, and then I'll head for my favorite place to visit in October—the Austrian Alps. Have you ever been to Europe?”

I smile. “Uh, no. I haven't. Not yet.”

“That's the spirit. I believe you most certainly will, and not too far in the future.” Natasha gives me a confident look, as if she can see it clearly.

I can't talk any longer; we have a large order for a team of advertisers having a board meeting.

As I'm cleaning tables later, I imagine myself over at Natasha's table in thirty or more years. I'm chatting with a teenaged girl, telling her how I once worked here and then all about my world travels, encouraging her to venture out as well. The girl might ask about the book I'm reading. An art book written by me, or a travel guide written by me, or maybe it's written by someone else, but I'm planning my next trip. My handsome husband shows up—Nick?—who says he's booked our tickets and we'll be spending the summer on a lake in Italy or on the coast of Brazil or in a small beach hut in the Cook Islands.

“Ruby,” Aunt Jenna calls, and again I realize that she's called me more than once.

I really need to control my daydreaming.

My shift should be over. No one can give me a ride home. If Carson were here . . . but he isn't, I remind myself. And he won't be. I suppose I'll need to learn public transportation. There's no such thing in Cottonwood, unless you count hopping on the nearest horse you see in a field.