I kept my expression pleasant but noncommittal. Tobin wore scruffy sweaters and was friends with the
Korean guy who said “asshat,” and he and all of his buddies were intimidatingly clever. The kind of
clever that made me feel cheerleader-dumb, even though I wasn’t a cheerleader, and even though I
personally didn’t think cheerleaders
were dumb. Not all of them, anyway.
Chloe-the-Stuart-dumper,
maybe.
“Hey,” Tobin said, pointing at me. “I know you.”
“Um, yeah,” I said.
“But your hair wasn’t always pink.”
“Nope.”
“So you
work here? That’s wild.” He turned to the girl. “She works here. She’s probably worked here
for years, and I never knew it.”
“Spooky,” the girl said. She smiled at me and kind of tilted her head, as if to say,
I know I know you,
and I’m sorry I don’t know your name, but “hi” anyway.
“Can I get drinks started for you guys?” I asked.
Tobin scanned the menu board. “Ah, Christ, this is the
place with the messed-up sizes, isn’t it? Like,
grandé instead of large?” He stretched it out all stupid and fake-French, and Christina and I shared a
look.
“Why can’t you just call it a large?” he asked.
“You could, except
grandé is a medium,” Christina said. “
Venti is large.”
“
Venti. Right. For the love of God, can’t I order in plain English?”
“Absolutely,” I told him. It was a delicate balance: keeping the customer happy, but also,
when needed,
calling him on his crap. “It might confuse me, but I’ll figure it out.”
Angie’s lips twitched. It made me like her.
“No, no, no,” Tobin said, holding his hands up and making a show of recanting. “When in Rome and all
that. I’ll, uh . . . let me think . . . can I get a
venti blueberry muffin?”
I had to laugh. His hair was sticking up, he looked utterly exhausted, and yes, he was acting like a tool.
I was fairly sure he didn’t know my name, either, despite the fact that we’d
gone to the same elementary
school, middle school, and high school. Yet there was something sweet about him as he looked at Angie,
who was laughing along with me.
“What?” he said, bewildered.
“The sizes are for drinks,” she said. She put her hands on his shoulders and aimed him toward the
pastry case, where six identically plump muffins sat at attention. “The muffins are all the same.”
“They’re muffins,” Christina agreed.
Tobin blustered, and at first I assumed it was more of his act.
Hapless counter-culture-boy, thrust
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