Kristina Springer - The Espressologist

They take them to one of the bigger tables near the windows. It looks like they are going to sit and talk for a while, so I have a few minutes to devise a hookup plan. I grab a napkin and walk over to the employee bulletin board in the hallway outside the break room.

"Sarah, Sarah, Sarah," I say, scanning the employee call list tacked up on it. Bingo. I scribble Sarah's phone number onto the napkin with a short cute note and hustle back up to the front. Okay, now I have to get it to him. I glance over to the dessert tray in the display case, and a plan forms in my mind. I take out a slice of our signature coffee cake and place it on the napkin, careful not to cover the phone number so it doesn't leave any grease marks and smudge a number. Just then, Sarah returns.

"You were right, Jane. He was in a pretty good mood. He let me take the day off."

"Great. Hey, do me a favor," I say as I start finger-combing Sarah's long black curls and wipe some mascara smudges from under her eyes.

"Um ... what are you doing?" she asks. "You better not wipe spit on me next."

"I won't. Just take this cake out to that magnificent-looking policeman sitting over by the window." Sarah looks up and sees Officer Jake.

"YUUUUUUMMMMMMMY!" she exclaims, and starts to help me fix her hair. "Here." She holds out her hand and I place the cake in it. I watch Sarah walk up to the table and hand Officer Jake his cake. He grins, looking a little puzzled, but accepts the cake. Sarah tells him something and throws back her head, shaking her curls a bit. She's definitely flirting. She says something else and returns to the counter. I can see that she's hiked up her tight long-sleeve cotton shirt so that a strip of her stomach and back peeks out. She's a pro. He's totally watching her walk away.

Officer Jake and his friends talk for another moment and Sarah and I drool from afar as we watch him take a few bites of the cake. We're drooling over him, of course, though the cake looks pretty good today, too. A call comes over their radios and they all jump up and head for the door. Officer Jake comes by the counter first and waves the napkin at Sarah.

"Thanks for the cake," he says with a wink. "I'll give you a call."

Sarah beams and nods and we both watch him leave.

She turns to me, "What the ...?"

"There's your hookup."

"Is it just me, or does this project seem a bit lame to you?" I ask, scooting my chair and desk around so that I can sit face-to-face with Cameron White. Professor Monroe, our English instructor, said our next assignment is a five-to-eight-page biography on someone else in the class.

Because of our seating vicinity, Cam and I decided to partner up on this one.

"I don't know," he says with a straight face. "It might be fun to learn about all your deep dark secrets."

I stare at him for a moment, not sure what to say.

"You don't really expect me to tell you my secrets, do you?" I whisper.

"Well, you'll have to give me something good to write about. I want an A." Cam grins at my worried look.

"No way!" I exclaim with a nervous laugh, relieved.

"Besides, I'm going first with the questions." I tap my pen on my notebook, purse my lips, and study Cam. He's really not bad-looking at all. He's a little more rugged than the typical guys I see around the city. More like he should be hiking a trail somewhere instead of riding the El train. But he's got really nice blue eyes and he laughs a lot, which makes his face light up.

"You are taking too long to come up with a question.

You're kind of scaring me."

"Okay, okay, I'm just trying to come up with some good ones. I think I'm going to start from the present and work my way back, if you don't mind," I say.

"I don't mind. Shoot."

"Okay. Number one, how did you decide to attend Anthony Carter Community College?" I ask.

"That's a good question," Cam says, and I relax a little and prepare to take notes. "I actually got into Indiana University–it's one of the Big Ten schools. They have a decent finance program–that's my major, by the way–and I'd always planned on going there."

"What happened?"

"Well," he says, taking a long pause. "My mom was diagnosed with breast cancer in August."

"Wow," I say, dropping my pen. "I'm really sorry."

"She's doing okay so far," he tells me, "but she's all alone and, well, she needs me right now. The chemo has been rough on her. For the time being, I'm staying home to help her and going to school locally."

"You are, like, the best son ever." I have a sudden respect for Cam. He shrugs.

"My turn. What's your favorite coffee drink?"

"What?" I chuckle. "Are you kidding me? Is this going in my biography?"

"Definitely," he says, with his pen on his paper waiting to write down my answer. "I'm very interested. You already told me you're the assistant manager at the Wired

Joe's around the corner, so I'm sure you're an expert on the best drinks."

"That is kind of true." I try to sound modest. "But just because I know a lot about coffee doesn't mean my favorite would be everybody's favorite. It's such an individual thing."

"Still waiting ..." He feigns impatience.

"Large iced nonfat mocha, no whip," I tell him, and he actually writes it down.

"Hmm ... interesting." Cam stares at what he just wrote.

"Oh, stop it," I say, shaking my head. I've been analyzing people and their drinks for so long that it's kind of weird having someone analyze me. Just then Professor Monroe interrupts and tells us that class is over for today. I check my watch. Fifteen minutes to get to work.

"I don't have nearly enough here to write a paper on you, so it looks like we're going to have to work on this outside of class. Do you want to meet sometime?"

"Sure," I say, writing my e-mail address down in the upper corner of his notebook. "Gimme your e-mail, too."

He writes his in my notebook. "When is this due, anyway?"

I ask.

"Next Wednesday. We only have a week, so we'll have to get together soon," he says.

"Let's shoot for Sunday afternoon," I suggest. "I work until four. You can meet me at Wired Joe's and we can work at a table there."

"Cool." He tosses his books in his backpack and walks with me out the classroom door. "See you then."

"See you," I say, buttoning up my tan designer-knockoff jacket (who can afford a real one?) and slipping my backpack over one shoulder. As I head out the door I hear the signal on my phone indicating I have a text message. It says, "J, come over. 911. E."

I type back, "Wrk in 15."

Em responds, "4 real. 911."

"Ok," I type, and slide my phone back into my bag.

I run the three blocks from school to Wired Joe's to let Derek know I'm going to be late for work this afternoon. I tell him I have my period and no tampons so I need to go to the store and he makes an "ew, gross" face.

The "just got my period" excuse works on every single male teacher at school– it's good to know it is just as effective in the real world. I leave Wired Joe's and run the six blocks to Em's. I ring her apartment and she buzzes me in. The door is unlocked and I know her mom is at work, so I head in and go straight to her bedroom.

"Must... start... working ... out... again," I huff and puff, bending over slightly and grabbing my sides. I take a moment to regain my breath and then finally look up at Em. She's lying in a lump on her bed and, oh crap, she's crying.

"What's wrong?" I ask, not entirely sure what to do.

I've never seen Em cry before. In the seven years that we've been best friends I've cried plenty and she's always consoled me. Well, until now, that is. I sit down on the bed next to her. "Em, what's wrong?"

Em turns her head from her pillow to look at me.