now.”
Austin shook his head. “Huge. News.”
Lan passed her bottled water down the table. “Here. Calm down.”
Austin took a long drink. “Tiffany’s party,” he said as his breathing returned to normal. “It has to go on the front page.”
Eden sighed. “And why is that?”
Austin smiled. “Because it’s going to be on TV.”
THE SCHOOL WAS IN A KIND of pandemonium. The biggest party of the year was going to be taped for an MTV special. Anyone who had felt even a mild interest in attending was now foaming at the mouth, desperate for one of the exclusive invitations. Rumors flared up: no freshmen would be invited, all guests would be required to wear special wristbands, Tiffany’s parents were spending hundreds of thousands of dollars. For her part, Tiffany stayed quiet, simply smiling demurely and twirling her hair whenever anyone asked her about it.
Of course, the party was featured on the front page of Wednesday’s issue of the Cleary Chronicle while the student protest was demoted to the bottom corner. I was reading the protest article at Something’s Brewing when Eli showed up for work. I didn’t hear him enter at first, but then he cleared his throat and I looked up, startled.
“Sorry. Did you say something?” I asked. Eli had called in sick on Friday, so I spent my shift with Bonnie, who was trying to convince me to give crocheting a try. I already knew from my failed attempt at knitting that I was all thumbs with a pair of fat needles and a ball of yarn. I tried, but I couldn’t get the hang of it.
“I was wondering if you could make me a drink?”
“Sure, just give me a minute.”
I had read the article three times already, but I wanted to read it again.
“It says here that the protest was ‘mildly successful,’” I read aloud. “What does that mean, exactly?”
I gave the paper to Eli and turned to the espresso machine so I could make him my patented Katie Bar Latte. I wanted to pretend that nothing unusual had happened the previous Thursday, that he had not hurt my feelings in any way when he asked me to leave.
“It says that the protesters were able to delay removal of the mural. I guess that’s successful.”
“Mildly successful,” I said as I steamed the milk.
“Of course, if they were trying to make headlines, they were very unsuccessful,” Eli commented. “This party has everyone going mental.”
I stirred three kinds of syrup into Eli’s latte. “Personally, I would have liked more information about the gorillas.”
“Yeah? Like what?”
I handed Eli his drink. “Like, did they ever catch this guy? Has he struck again? Why gorillas? What’s the whole point?” I had searched online to find the answers myself, but since the last gorilla had been spotted in Beulah a week earlier, there hadn’t been anything new.
“Sounds like you’re heading up an investigation,” Eli joked. “Are you helping out your dad or something?”
“I do not work for my dad!” I shouted.
Eli looked at me like I’d just slapped him, which I suddenly had the urge to do.
“Sorry,” I said, lowering my voice. “It’s just that people seem to think that I snitch, which I don’t.”
“Okay,” said Eli.
I didn’t feel like he really believed me. “My dad and I have a deal—he doesn’t ask and I don’t tell.”
“I get it.”
I was embarrassed. Eli hadn’t done anything intentionally cruel, and here I was, going off on him as if he’d insulted my family.
“I’m sorry for snapping at you,” I said finally. “My dad’s job is kind of a sore spot with me.”
Eli smiled. “It’s okay, really. I understand. It’s my fault for making a bad joke.”
A minivan pulled up to the window. The driver was a haggard-looking woman and the backseat was full of shrieking kids. “Do you have anything non-caffeinated?” she asked wearily. Eli was already pulling fruit juice out of the fridge as I typed in the order. We prepared five cups of apple juice for the kids and a double espresso for the mom in record time and handed the woman her drinks along with a full stack of napkins.
“Looks like she’s having a rough day,” Eli commented. I could tell he was trying to lighten the mood and change the subject, and I decided to let him. “So, we were talking about the gorillas, right?”
I smiled. “Sure.”
“And you were about to tell me what you really thought of them.”
“Was I?” It was flattering, I thought, that Eli seemed to really want to know my opinion. The truth was, I wasn’t sure what my opinion was. Listening to the morning debates at school, I knew I didn’t agree completely with Tiffany, although I could see she had a point. I liked Brady’s ideas more, but I couldn’t say why.
“You know,” I said finally, “I don’t have much of an opinion about the gorillas. But I do have an opinion about the person who’s making them.”
“Really?” Eli leaned back against the counter. “Let’s hear it.”
“Okay, well, I was thinking about how someone decides to create something. I don’t understand why he did it, but obviously there’s thought and talent behind it, and it takes a kind of courage to do that, to just put something out there for everyone to judge.”
“So you think he—or she—is courageous?”
“Yeah, I guess I do.” I waited for more of a response from Eli. I wasn’t used to blurting out my thoughts like that, and part of me worried that he’d laugh at me, but all he ended up saying was “Interesting.”
A car pulled up, we filled the order and things were quiet for a few minutes until I broke the silence between us.
“Eli, do you think everyone is naturally creative?” It was something I’d been thinking about a lot lately. Everyone seemed to have something outside themselves that made them happy. Mom had her cakes and Lan had her orchids. I watched the other students at school, all of whom seemed to have something they loved, whether it was sports or music or movies. Even Tiffany Werner, with all of her pretentious flaws, had a passion for jewelry. Lately, I’d begun to feel like I was missing out on something. I didn’t have anything, really, that I felt passionate about. I liked different things, but I didn’t really love any one hobby or activity or distraction.
“I don’t know if everyone has a creative outlet,” Eli said, looking thoughtful. “But I think everyone should have something they love to do. I don’t know if it has to be creative, though.”
“Like sports?” I asked.
“Yeah. I mean, playing football isn’t considered creative, really, but it does involve thought and feeling and dedication. That’s an outlet of expression, right?”
“Right.”
“Why do you ask?” He stood up in preparation for a car that had pulled into the parking lot. The driver was examining the menu posted just before the drive-through window.
“I dunno. It was just something I was thinking about. I don’t really have anything like that.”
“You make a great latte.”
“Pouring liquid into a cup is not a talent,” I muttered.
“There’s got to be something you love.”
I thought about all of the things I had tried to do in my life. There was ballet, but I wasn’t graceful enough and it killed my toes. I took a