The Divinity Bureau

by Tessa Clare

  April works at an old-school coffee house called Dang Coffee, located near Midwest University in District 201. It’s ten miles away – a short stretch where I used to live, but one that takes nearly an hour in the daily traffic of the Greater District 200 Area. It’s been close to a decade since I’ve been to an old-school coffee house. My hometown in District 402 had one that had survived the Confederal War, but it was primarily a tourist stop. Most coffee shops these days have been dominated by automation. You punch in an order, any customizations, and a machine makes it for you. It’s faster, easier, and cheaper than waiting for some kid to make it.

  My best guess is that April is a maintenance technician, though April doesn’t seem too tech-savvy. Still, first impressions can always be wrong.

  As it turns out, my first impression is wrong.

  After battling a self-driving luxury Benz for a parking spot, I walk into a coffee shop. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee infiltrates my nose. I look for a machine and a head of brown hair, but instead, I see a counter, a blonde-haired boy – and a strung-out line.

  I shuffle my feet awkwardly. I step on my toes to see if the girl is hovering behind the counter, but I don’t see anyone but the blonde boy. I recognize him from a few of April McIntyre’s photos. He has curly blonde hair and bright blue eyes, which makes him impossible to miss. Still, no sign of the girl.

  Well, shoot. This trip was obviously a terrible idea. I suppose the best thing I should do is what I should have done all along: leave it alone. It’s not my battle to fight.

  I fall in line to grab a cup of coffee before I head home. I’m standing behind a group of college students, and the line is moving at a sluggish pace – far slower than if a computer had run the store. I also can’t help but notice how expensive the drinks are. Five sterling for a cup of joe?

  “How do we order?” I ask a boy standing in front of me.

  The boy glances at his friends then back at me. A bemused grin crosses his face. “You tell the cashier, naturally.”

  “Wouldn’t it be easier if we could just punch it into the kiosk? Why is he punching it in for us?”

  A friend of the boy in front of me snickers. “You see, Quinn? This is why our society has so many problems! People don’t know how to talk to each other!”

  “Yeah,” the boy chimes. “Back in the day, they didn’t have coffee kiosks.”

  I stare at the boy blankly. Of course, I know that coffee kiosks are an invention of the last century; but I also know that people used to create paintings on caves. It doesn’t mean that those traditions need to continue, particularly since other mediums in both forms developed. Still, it explains why the coffee shop is still in business. Located near a university, it clearly caters to that demographic.

  When it’s my turn to order, I ask the blonde-haired boy for a hot caramel macchiato. The cashier marks the cup and sets it in a line that’s practically overflowing off the counter. I glance at the row of irate customers. If I’d gone to a regular coffee shop, I’d already be on my way home.

  Knowing that I’m going to be waiting for a long while, I turn my wrist to check my text messages while I wait for my order. I don’t have enough friends in the Midwest state to warrant many messages, but my mom does text me on a weekly basis. This time, it’s because my student loan payment is due.

  The thought makes a pit form in my stomach. Would I ever catch a break? Once, I had hoped that a Master’s degree would guarantee me a chance at making it in this poor economy; but at times, I think it made it worse. Sure, I have a job. I have a roof over my head, yet all my money goes towards food and bills. I may be able to make a living, but I would hardly call it making a life for myself.

  I’m in the middle of replying to my mother’s text message when the back door flies open.

  “Where the hell have you been?” the cashier barks, loud enough that my head shoots up in the air.

  “Shut up, Tate. I’m here.”

  As soon as I see her, all thoughts of replying to my mother’s text message are lost. Her pictures have not done her justice. The first thing I notice is her eyes: steel-gray and a bit too large for her face. Her hair is pulled into a loose braid, a few strands flying free as she races towards the espresso machine. She picks up my empty caramel macchiato cup, and I get a glimpse of her up close. She’s not wearing any makeup; or, if she is, it’s subtle. She meets my gaze as she tops my drink off with a sprinkle of caramel sauce. She smiles – a subtle upwards turn of her lips that may not be directed at me, but I don’t care. As soon as I see it, my stomach churns.

  I need to say something. Anything. I can talk about the weather, but that’s cliché. I try to think about what interests I had seen on the girl’s social media.

  The realization hits me like a punch in the stomach, knocking the air out of my lungs.

  Oh God, I’ve seen her social media profile.

  I followed her to work.

  I am the worst human being on the planet. Can I redeem myself after this? The only conversation topic that comes to mind is about coffee.

  “Can you make that decaf?” I blurt out, not thinking about the implications.

  The girl glances at me and back at the near-completed drink in her hand. Her brows furrow in annoyance. “Excuse me?”

  Her grey eyes meet mine. My heart is thumping in my chest, reverberating in my ear. I don’t know how to talk to attractive women – especially one that looks as infuriated as she does at that moment.

  “Well, I – uh – I just realized that it’s past seven o’clock,” I say, word vomiting the first thing that comes to mind. “I can’t fall asleep when I drink caffeine. Not that I mind staying up late. I just need to work early in the morning.” Pause. “Sorry, I’m used to going to real coffee shops…”

  If I wasn’t already nailing the coffin, then I’m sure my last comment would put me six feet under. April is glaring at me as she pours my drink down the drain.

  “I’m sorry,” I say meekly. “That – that came out wrong.”

  “It’s fine,” April responds, though her tone says that it’s anything but. Maybe the boy in line was right about people not being able to talk to each other. If that’s the case, then I can blame society for my lack of ability to talk to beautiful women.

  I’m ready to run out of the coffee shop and back into my work-sleep-pay-bills routine. But then I remember why I’m there. The girl that’s glaring at me right now has no clue that I can save her life. That thought makes me feel like I have a lot more power – something that I’ve lacked for my twenty-five years of existence.

  I glance back at her, right as she’s pouring steamed milk into my cup. I swallow a lump in my throat and try again. “So – uh – do you go to school around here?”

  I know the answer already, but it’s an easy topic of conversation.

  April shrugs. “Sort of. Why?”

  Her answer is confusing. Didn’t I just read that she was a freshman at Midwest University? “Sort of? What does that mean?”

  “It means that I haven’t fully committed to it.”

  She’s being vague, dodging questions in the way a girl that’s grown up in the limelight would. I can also tell that she doesn’t fully trust me. That’s understandable. She did just meet me, and I haven’t given her any reason to trust me. I decide to try another angle.

  “That’s smart. College is expensive. I mean – not undergraduate school, if you go to a public university…” More words are coming out, faster than I can think. “Which I didn’t, because I’m a dumbass. I was hoping that if I studied computers for six years, I’d be able to find a good job, which is like finding bigfoot in this economy. My mom thinks that I just signed up for graduate school to procrastinate on the entering the real world. I don’t belive she’s wrong. I just think –”

  I stop when I realize that April had stopped making my drink. Instead, she’s staring at me – holding a hand up to her mouth and attempting to stifle a giggle.

  “Are you laughi
ng at me?” I ask, my face heating.

  The words make her laugh come out in full force. I don’t know what I did – or if I should do it again.

  “Sorry,” April apologizes. Her cheeks are pink from laughter. “It’s just, well, your face is pretty red right now.”

  Maybe I shouldn’t say anything more. Maybe I should just crawl into a hole.

  “Sorry,” I say, unsure if that’s the right thing to say. She did just apologize to me. “I didn’t mean to…” I trail off. The ideal situation in my head is to say that I didn’t mean to make myself sound like an idiot in front of a gorgeous woman, but that would be cheesy.

  April shakes her head. “You don’t have to apologize. Haven’t you ever heard the ancient phrase, ‘the customer is always right?’”

  “No, but I’ve heard different variations. The one I hear most frequently is that the customer is an idiot.”

  April giggles. She turns her attention back to my drink, but I want to keep her talking.

  “What’s your name?” I ask, even though I already know it.

  “April,” she replies. “Yours?”

  She pauses, glancing at the drink in her hand.

  “Oh wait. Does it relate to an ancient empire of some sorts?”

  “It’s Roman. I’d be impressed, but I can see it clearly written on the cup.”

  April puts her hands up in the air in mock surrender. “You caught me, Roman.” She turns her attention back to the drink, and the annoyance appears to have diminished. “I still haven’t figured out what I want to do with the rest of my life. My…” She glances at me, no doubt internally debating on how much information to give me. “My mom wants me to follow in my dad’s footsteps. You see, he passed away last year, and his career was…” She pauses, eying me. I don’t divulge that I know that her dad is Henrik McIntyre. “Well, I guess you can say it was a family legacy. I’m not sure if it’s for me; so, I’m just taking two classes and working here. It’s not a bad way to pass the time.”

  If I had any doubts about April’s mortality, they’re diminished with her words. Even if she had found a doctor to render her immortal – and I’m certain she could, given her family’s connections – she doesn’t even know what she wants to do with her life. Immortality is out of the question.

  The thought crosses my mind of how fortunate she is that she can decide whenever she wants to be immortal. She can pick an age and stick to it. From what I knew about Henrik, he continued his aging to appeal to the voters that wanted someone that looked older. For most, the choice isn’t given to them.

  “You still have plenty of time,” I say. I expected the tone to come out more bitterly, but it doesn’t. “I didn’t declare my major until my junior year. Both of my parents are potato farmers in District 402. I decided early on that it wasn’t the life for me, but I didn’t know what I wanted to do.”

  I leave out the part about moving halfway across the country to be closer to my then-girlfriend, Jenneka. We split up six months ago, so it’s hardly relevant.

  April laughs. “Potato farmers?”

  “Yeah. I’ll never eat another potato again.” I still associate my childhood with agrichemicals and greenhouse skyscrapers.

  She hands me a cup of a steaming hot caramel macchiato. In the look she gives me, I understand why people pay extra to come to an old-fashioned coffee shop. The human touch – and the subsequent human connection at that moment – can never be replicated in a machine. I can see myself coming back.

  April glances at the line of cups behind her. “I suppose I should get back to work. I guess I’ll see you around?”

  I take a sip of the drink and give her a nod. Perfection. I’m definitely coming back. “Yeah. You’ll definitely be seeing me.”

  She has no idea how true those words are, nor does she know how I’m about to make sure that it happens. But first, I need to make a return trip to the office.

  CHAPTER TWO

  APRIL

  “W hat do you think?” I ask, holding a poster board in front of me for Tate to inspect.

  I’m not artist – primarily because paper is difficult to come by these days. I only lucked out because I found a cardboard box in the dumpster near my work and a handful of permanent markers near the coffee shop’s cash register. Still, I managed to get by. I drew a black hourglass. On the bottom, surrounded by grains of sand (colored with a red permanent marker), were the words “No Justice in the Divinity Bureau.” The idea is to symbolize time running out, much like the way I feel life slip through my fingers. Unfortunately, Tate doesn’t seem to be getting the message.

  “No Justin?” he asks skeptically. “Is he one of your failed one night stands?”

  I slap him across the shoulder. “Can you not read?”

  It’s the Divinity Bureau’s Election Day. Throughout my life, there were two kinds of elections. There were the “good” elections: the kind that would determine whether my father would have an office for the next eight years. My mother had insisted that those elections were essential to our wellbeing. Then there were the “bad” elections: the kind that determined whether you’d live to see another quarter.

  Neither Tate nor I have anything to worry about. Neither of us is immortal, nor are we close to the age of one-hundred. But we know people that are.

  This quarter, the elected that comes to mind is Neal O’Donnell. I don’t know him, nor have I seen any of his movies (which is probably a good thing, as the last one ended on a cliffhanger and the world would likely never see its ending); but plenty of people do. A protest is being held today in front of the Divinity Bureau’s Midwest Headquarters.

  “It’s a terrible idea,” Tate says bluntly, crossing his arms to affirm his point.

  “I asked for your opinion on the sign – not on my life decisions.”

  “It looks awful! You really should invest in an art class. But while we’re on the topic of your life decisions…”

  I set the sign down and attempt to brush past him. I hope that it’s the only clue he needs that I’m not in the mood to listen to one of his lectures, but he follows me anyways.

  “What?” he calls out, following me into the stockroom. “You don’t want to relive getting arrested and biting the police officer that tried to take you away?”

  “Shut up.”

  The last protest I had attended was when my father, Henrik McIntyre, was elected. Last year, he got stuck with one of the “bad” elections. It was a shock to us all, so I did the one thing that I hoped would give me some control of the situation and make him proud: I raised hell. I was never politically active, despite early exposure to the inner-workings of political life; but my dad’s connections to the political world resulted in demonstrations behind held across the Midwest state.

  “There’s going to be a line of cops keeping you from getting close to the building!” Tate reminds me, despite my attempts to ignore him. “You got lucky last time; but this time? Do you want to risk jail time?”

  “I’ll a hire a lawyer,” I say stubbornly. I should probably say that my mother will; but given the last year, she may also let me rot in a jail cell.

  “And risk your pretty head sitting in a jail cell? Last time, you complained that their toilet sprays didn’t work.”

  Tate knows me too well. We’ve known each other since we were freshmen in high school, and our friendship only strengthened when most of our mutual friends left the Midwest. I don’t want to argue with him. I don’t want to dwell on the fact that today is the one-year anniversary since my father’s election, nor do I want to think about the fact that my last attempt to make my dad proud had ended with my arrest. All I know is that it’s something that I need to do.

  Fortunately, the shop’s automatic doors come to life. We have a customer. Tate and I exchange a look to debate on who would be taking care of it – something we frequently do whenever neither of us feels like working – but I catch a glimpse of curly dark hair. I recognize it from the day before.

 
“I’ll take care of it,” I say, too eagerly to not be noticed by Tate. He watches me skip to the front counter like an animated character – all smiles and blushes. All that’s missing is a whistle to a happy tune.

  “Hey Robert,” I say, my heart skipping a beat.

  The boy’s face immediately contours to confusion. “Robert?”

  Whoops. I’ve never been good with names. It just wouldn’t be my nature to have nailed it the first time around. “I totally screwed that up, didn’t I?”

  “Just a little.”

  “Let me think,” I say, searching my memory. I know I learned it yesterday, but my mind is a myriad of faces and tedious tasks. “You were named after an ancient empire.”

  A memory comes to mind. “It’s Roman. I’d be impressed, but I can it see clearly written on the cup.”

  I grin at the memory. “Roman.”

  “That’s the one.”

  “Roman,” I repeat, to solidify it into my memory. The last thing I want is to embarrass myself again. “A hot caramel macchiato. Decaf.”

  “That’s right,” Roman says, a hint of redness spreading across his cheeks. Is he blushing?

  “Same thing?” I ask. I briefly make eye-contact with Tate, who’s watching the scene unfold from the backroom. He’s watching like he’s engrossed in one of his soap operas.

  “No, thanks,” Roman says, oblivious to the silence exchange between Tate and me. “I’ll take a vanilla latte. Make that a medium.”

  I turn my attention back towards Roman and try to pretend that Tate isn’t there. “Decaf?”

  Roman laughs. “Yes, please.”

  I ring him up. While Roman is fumbling to get the machine to register his thumbprint, I catch Tate eying me with a coy grin. Even though we disagree on some things, I can always count on Tate to appreciate my taste in men. Luckily for me, he has a boyfriend.