"So, did he wait for you after school?"
"Yeah." I pushed the book aside and told her all about the guy and the bean.
"Did you eat it?"
"No."
"You should eat it."
"What? That's crazy. Why would I eat it?"
"Maybe it's crazy, but you never know. I wish someone would give me a magic bean.
I'd wish for Face to notice me.
Crap, I gotta go. My dad's flippin' out because I dented the car. It's just a little dent but he's going ballistic. See ya tomorrow."
My jeans lay on the floor. I slid out of bed and plucked the bean from the pocket. The chocolate had worn away, staining the pocket's lining. I held the little bean in my fingers. Fortune would solve everything, wouldn't it? We could fix up the shop, buy an espresso machine, and hire more employees.
As if. No way was I eating that thing. Alley Guy was a lunatic.
And yet, I didn't throw it away. Why? For the same reason that I make a wish before I blow out my birthday candles, and look into the sky for the first evening star, and pull extra hard on the wishbone. Because, deep inside, like a Scandinavian craving caffeine, I craved change. I had been living a quiet life in the mundane middle, hidden in my two friends' shadows, but that wouldn't work much longer. When they left Nordby to pursue their dreams, I'd become visible, exposed for w7hat I was--nothing much at all.
I set the little bean on top of my dresser.
Seven
Tuesday morning came, but you wouldn't know it without a clock. On days like that, the sun became almost mythic. People would say things like: "Remember when it was warm? When was that exactly?" After I had finished my cereal, a rainstorm descended upon Main Street. I peered out the back window. Fat drops rattled the Dumpster's lid. The alley's yellow lightbulb hummed. No one slept on the wet bricks.
Hopefully he had gone home--back to his family and some medication.
I made the coffee. Just as I was filling the jam pots, Elizabeth, a breathing kaleidoscope of patterns and colors, blazed through the front door. Her artistic expression was not limited to canvas.
"Thought I'd give you a ride. It's like a typhoon or something." She brushed the rain off her striped raincoat. Then she sat on one of the stools and helped herself to a day-old pastry. Cinnamon icing oozed between her fingers.
Elizabeth had a thing for sweets, and I mean a thing-- daily doses of white flour and glazed icing to the extent that, if stranded on a desert island, she'd go through withdrawal pains that would put a heroin addict to shame. She kept a platter of cookies near her easel and you could always find a candy bar or package of Ding Dongs in her glove box. Her particular favorite, marzipan, she ate straight out of the tube. Total junkie.
Fortunately, Elizabeth was one of those perfectly proportioned plump people, like an hourglass. "Hourglass figures are classic," she often said.
I'm one of those perfectly proportioned skinny people, like a flagpole. Flagpoles are patriotic. That's about the nicest thing I can say about flagpoles.
"So, did you eat it?"
"No."
"Let me eat it. Maybe it will work for me." She wiggled on the stool. "Why let it go to waste? If it works, I'll share the money with you. Come on." There was no use in arguing with her. She wouldn't give up. That's how she had gotten her father to give her a car--two weeks of nonstop whining. Her dad deserved some credit, having lasted two weeks. I tended to fold quickly.
"Come on. Give me the bean. Please? At least let me see it."
"Fine." I went upstairs and collected the little bean from my dresser. Ratcatcher followed, batting at my ankles along the way. The faucet gurgled in the bathroom as my grandmother got ready for the day, her radio blaring down the hall.
"Yuck," Elizabeth said when I showed her the bean. "You said it was covered in chocolate."
"It melted off."
"But it's plain. I can't eat it plain. It'll taste disgusting."
"I didn't say you could eat it."
"Are you going to eat it?"
"No."
We stared at it, as if we'd never seen a coffee bean. As if something about it would be different. "Hey," she said. "Let's grind it up and drink it."
Okay, so I was curious about the bean. Of course nothing would happen because nothing ever happens after the birthday candles go out or after the wishbone snaps.
But maybe something would happen. Though it wouldn't. But what if?
"Come on. Let's do it," Elizabeth begged. "Don't worry about those stupid jam pots.
Irmgaard can fill them."
I poured coffee into a mug. Then I washed the bean with soap and hot water, just in case. I dropped the bean into the electric grinder. A short whirrr later, a dusting of grounds appeared in the basin. Elizabeth pressed against my shoulder, watching as I pinched the grounds, then sprinkled them into the mug. They floated, shimmering like golden sequins.
"I've never seen coffee grounds shimmer like that," I said.
Elizabeth leaned closer. "Me neither."
We jumped as the front door slammed. Vincent hurried over to the counter, water dripping from his knit hat. "It's dangerous out there. The wind almost knocked me over, twice."
"Watch out, you're getting water on me," Elizabeth complained as Vincent shook his head. "Jeez, what are you? A dog? Where's a towel?"
"In the back room," I told her. She stomped off.
"Can I get some toast?" Vincent asked.
"Yeah." I dropped some bread into the toaster, then got some butter from the refrigerator. Vincent liked his toast dark, with enough butter to lather a sunbather.
"That coffee tastes bad," Vincent said.
Coffee? I had only turned away for a moment. I pointed to the mug of magic coffee.
"Did you drink that?"
"I just took a sip. It's got a weird aftertaste."
Uh-oh. Does E. coli have a weird aftertaste? What about botulism or cholera? Can you taste those diseases, because I'm fairly certain that those are the kinds of diseases that would be hanging out in a London sewer pipe. Or any sewer pipe. Had I poisoned my best friend?
Elizabeth emerged from the back room just as Vincent poured our magic coffee down the sink. She grabbed the empty mug. "Hey, we were going to drink that."
"He took a sip," I told her.
He rubbed his red nose. "Sorry. I just wanted something hot." Elizabeth and I stood side by side, watching for signs of fortune--diamonds raining from the ceiling, gold coins pouring from Vincent's ears, that sort of thing.
"Why are you staring at me?"
We waited for changes--for his wallet to swell, for gold chains to appear around his neck. Nothing. The toast popped. He buttered it and ate it.
"Oh well," Elizabeth said with a sigh. "Better get to school."
Vincent put his bike in the alley, then we piled into Elizabeth's car. Her window wipers squeaked as the blades fought the downpour. Up the hill we went, past the Nordby Veterinary Clinic and the Chevron station. "Sorry about the bad coffee," I told Vincent. I kept asking him how he felt, worried he might turn green or spotted.
"You're not getting a fever, are you? Do you feel like you're going to puke?" Stuff like that. He told me to "quit it already."
Just as we passed the nail salon, the black car in front of us veered right, left, then right again. "What's he doing?" Elizabeth asked, slowing. The car took a sharp left and crossed the opposite lane, right in front of an oncoming truck. The truck veered into our lane.
"Watch out!" I cried, covering my face. I was going to die in a car crash, just like my parents. We were all going to die! Elizabeth slammed on the brakes as the truck swerved and narrowly missed us.
I dropped my hands, watching in silent shock as the black car drove up on the sidewalk, then crashed into a bus bench. Vincent threw open the door and raced across the street. Other people got out of their cars, but Vincent was the first to reach the crashed car. He opened the driver's door and a man tumbled onto the wet sidewalk.
<
br /> Traffic came to a standstill. My heart thumped wildly as I got out of the car and ran toward Vincent, who was crouching over the driver. A siren wailed in the distance.
Rain bounced off the bus bench.
"Oh my God," Elizabeth said. "That guy looks dead."
Eight
Turned out the driver wasn't dead. Just almost dead.
Vincent knew CPR because he'd worked as a lifeguard at the Nordby Community Center Pool last summer. Elizabeth and I huddled in the rain as he rhythmically pushed against the man's chest. He searched for a pulse in the man's neck, then pushed his chest some more. When the ambulance arrived, the medics shook Vincent's hand.
Officer Larsen drove Vincent to the police station to answer some questions about the accident. Drenched to the skin, Elizabeth and I got into her car and drove to school.
"That was amazing," Elizabeth said.
The fact that Vincent had saved an old guy's life didn't surprise me one bit. If anything bad was going to happen, you'd want Vincent around. Everyone else would be freaking out, screaming "Earthquake!" or "Alien invasion!" but he'd figure out how to get to the nearest exit, or how to build a ray gun.
Thanks to Elizabeth, the story spread quickly. When Vincent returned from the police department, Principal Carmichael congratulated him over the loudspeaker. Students swarmed him. Teachers asked him to recount the event. The first news van pulled up at noon. Then CNN showed up. Then FOX. Turned out the old man was some kind of software developer--a mega-billionaire who had come to Nordby to buy property. He had had a heart attack while driving, and Vincent's CPR had definitely saved his life.
So, from his hospital bed he made an announcement. He would reward Vincent with--
drum roll, please...a full scholarship to whatever college or university Vincent chose to attend.
Amazing.
That was the best news ever.
"Oh my God," Elizabeth said as we stood in the cafeteria, watching throngs of reporters shove microphones at Vincent's face. "I just remembered, he drank the magic coffee. He got fortune."
"He gave a man CPR," I reminded her. "He earned that reward. It had nothing to do with the bean."
"Really?" She narrowed her heavily lined eyes. "I suppose you think this was just a coincidence."
"Yes."
"Katrina, there are no coincidences. It's all part of something bigger."
"That's crazy. Of course there are coincidences. You and I are both wearing green shirts. We didn't plan that."
She sighed. "You believe what you believe and I'll believe what I believe."
I didn't feel like arguing. Something else caught my attention. Heidi Darling had squeezed her way through the reporters and was standing next to Vincent. "We're on the same team," she told them with a dazzling smile. She wore the latest trendy jeans, dyed in all the right places. She looked pretty. My old jeans were still wet from standing in the rain. Soaked to the skin, my butt kind of itched.
Principal Carmichael glowed with pride, or maybe from the heat of the camera lights.
"We promote good values here at Nordby High. In fact, I personally created our values-centered curriculum. It's no surprise to me that one of our students acted heroically."
Vincent's bleary-eyed dad showed up. He worked nights as a security guard at the marina and never seemed to get enough sleep during the day. Even though he walked around in an exhausted stupor, usually unshaven, he was pretty good-looking for a dad.
"He's always been a good kid," Mr. Hawk told the reporters. "Real good."
Mr. Darling made an appearance, handing out Java Heaven coupons to the reporters and their crew. "Our coffee is one hundred percent organic. One hundred percent free trade." He shoved a poster in my hand. "Put this up in your window."
Unbelievable. I unrolled the poster, which advertised the "Vincent Mocha." What? He had named a drink after Vincent? And had printed up posters? Could he do that?
Could he name a drink after someone without asking that person?
The swim team gathered for a photo. Heidi Darling put her arm around Vincent for the picture that would be plastered all over the Internet. Someone shoved a microphone in her face. "What do you think of your teammate?"
"Vincent's the best," she replied. "He's a great guy. I've always known he's a great guy."
"She definitely likes him," Elizabeth whispered in my ear.
Okay, hold on just a moment. I knew that Vincent was a great guy, long before Heidi knew it. I knew it when he walked me to the nurse's office in the fourth grade, after I had split open my lip on the monkey bars. I knew it when he didn't tease me after Elizabeth and I got a horrid case of head lice from trying on wigs in a costume shop. I knew it because whenever I called him in the middle of the night, when I couldn't sleep or was worried about something, he never got mad at me.
But Heidi acted like it was something she had discovered. Like she was letting us all in on a secret. They looked so chummy with their chlorinated hair and matching sweatshirts.
"Vincent and I spend every morning together," Heidi said.
Elizabeth squeezed in next to a reporter. "If you want to know about Vincent, you should ask Katrina." She pointed at me. "She's his best friend."
"Shhh," the reporter scolded. "That girl with the pony-tail is still talking."
Heidi pressed against Vincent's shoulder. "My dad owns Java Heaven and he created a special drink called the Vincent Mocha." She held up one of the posters. "The best cocoa, the best coffee, the freshest milk. Vincent loves it."
Well, if you knew Vincent half as well as you claim to know him, you'd know that he wouldn't drink that in a million years because he's lactose intolerant!
Vincent looked totally surprised when he read the poster. But Heidi didn't give him a chance to say anything because she kept talking to reporters about how amazing Vincent was. Elizabeth fake gagged. While she had no real reason to hate Heidi, other than the excessively perky thing, she hated her on my account because that's what real friends do. "Did you notice that her hair is turning green?" she whispered in my ear.
Heidi's hair wasn't the only thing turning green. Jealousy had invaded me and I was pretty sure I looked exactly like the Incredible Hulk.
"Can I have that poster?" Elliott stood next to me. Principal Carmichael had put him on technical duty. He'd been providing extension cords to the camera crews. I gave him the poster. "I'm going to get Vincent's autograph, then sell it on eBay." He smiled at Elizabeth. "I like your striped raincoat." She ignored him.
Vincent didn't make it to any of his afternoon classes. He sat in the cafeteria, answering the same questions over and over. When I passed by, between Geometry and English Composition, he waved, looking totally bored. I never got the chance to congratulate him or ask him about the poster. But I knew that he hadn't agreed to the
"Vincent Mocha" because my friends and family had a longstanding pact to never buy Java Heaven coffee, to never taste Java Heaven Coffee, and to never, ever, step inside Java Heaven.
By the end of the day the rain clouds had cleared, but colder air moved in. I walked home, a hand-knit scarf wrapped around my face, trying to disappear into a cocoon of yarn. I should have been skipping merrily down the street, celebrating my best friend's fortune, but I had let the Darlings worm their way under my skin. I concocted the following conspiracy theory: that Heidi and her father were working together. She would take away my best friend so I'd be miserable, and in my misery, I'd convince my grandmother that we should move to Florida.
"I'll never move to Florida," I snarled.
"I wouldn't move to Florida either. Too humid."
I gasped, inhaling a mouthful of yarn. I stopped walking and pushed the scarf off my face. "You said you were leaving."
"I've been trying to deliver a message here in Nordby." He patted his satchel. "But I haven't been able to deliver it."
"Look..." I paused, weighing my options--run away or deal with him. "What's your name anyway?"
"I
don't have a name." He wore the same kilt and sweater. That flowery scent swirled around us. "But if you'd like to call me by a name, you can call me Malcolm. That's what they called me in Scotland. I spent a long time there. So here's a thought--if you're going to move, you might consider Scotland."
"Look, Malcolm, I've got a lot on my mind."
"You've got a lot on your mind? I've got a lot on my mind."
God, those eyes were blue. If Elizabeth had been there, she would have wanted to paint them. I felt a rush of inspiration. Maybe I should try to paint them, but I had about as much artistic talent as that elephant at the Seattle Zoo. Every Sunday, a zookeeper gave her a canvas and she painted with her trunk. I don't care how many people raved about that elephant's paintings, they were terrible. Just a bunch of splotches. That's what my paintings always looked like. That's why there was an easel and ajar of paintbrushes in my Closet of Failure.
Malcolm kept right on talking. His skin was perfectly clear. He exfoliated, no doubt about it. And his long brown hair wasn't an everyday brown. Close-up, I could see dozens of shades of brown and red and copper--like one of Elizabeth's palettes. "Are you listening?" He waved in my face. "Katrina, I wish you'd listen."
I snapped out of it. "Okay, I'm listening. But just for a minute because I've got to get to work. I don't have time to play that coffee bean game again."
"That's the problem." He pushed his hair behind his ears. "You thought it was a game.
You weren't supposed to give the bean to someone else."
"Huh? I didn't give it to someone else."
"You did. You allowed your friend to drink the coffee that you made from the bean, and your friend received fortune."
How could he know that? Had he been spying on us through the window? Was he some kind of stalker? The cold air tickled my nose. I wanted to hide behind my scarf again. "Vincent got a scholarship because he saved a man's life."
"After he drank the coffee. That bean was for you, to give you what you most desire."
"Well..." There had to be some way out of this conversation. "Obviously what I most desired was for Vincent to get a scholarship. So now everybody is happy."
CoffeeHouse Angel Page 5
