Cool for the Summer, Dahlia Adler [classic literature list .txt] 📗

Kiki has a podcast, Kiki on the Case, and has all these internet friends from this online forum dedicated to unsolved mysteries, plus the Asian American Students’ Association, whose meetings she attends whenever she needs a break from what she lovingly (I think) calls our Unbearable Whiteness of Being.

Gia has a boyfriend she’s practically married to and the very same cheerleading squad I quit.

Shannon does random sophisticated shit, like museum outings and French Club, and has a new boy on her arm every five minutes. She’s the kind of person who not only has a five-year plan but will definitely execute every single step perfectly, while still managing to be the absolute most fun person in the world to party with and the one who’ll have the perfect hangover cure in the morning.

What the hell do I have besides a few secret files on my computer all called some variation of TerribleWriting.doc? Would the four of us have stayed friends for as long as we have if Shannon and her plans hadn’t kept us together?

As for my summer friends, I haven’t exactly done a stellar job of keeping in touch: a “like” of Brea’s post about some yoga achievement here, a sad face emoji on a picture depicting Derek and Jack parting for the school year there.… At most there were a few texts between me and Keisha, casual reminders that a show we liked had its season premiere coming up. I’d had a great time with them all, but the closer Jasmine and I got, the further the others had faded into the background. I still scrolled through their pictures to see Keisha with the marching band friends she’d talked about all summer, Owen’s surfing action shots, and Carter’s Outfit of the Day posts, but without Jasmine to share them with, it felt like another life.

Without Jasmine, I don’t have OBX friends.

Without Shannon, would I have Stratford friends?

If I somehow got Jasmine back—if I even wanted her back—what would it mean losing when everyone else found out the truth?

I press a pillow over my mouth and scream in frustration. Damn my mother for starting me down this train of thought.

When I finally tuck myself into bed, I make myself think happy thoughts of Chase as I fall asleep, but I end up dreaming of an empty beach.

I wake feeling like crap the next morning, but while dear old Dad has agreed to subsidize my college tuition as long as I go to a state school, I’m on my own for the Larissa Bogdan Automobile Fund, so off to work I go.

The bookstore-slash-café is surprisingly busy on weekend mornings, which I guess is why Beth Rinker, a.k.a. the owner of the Book and Bean, was kind enough to take me in when I came crawling back. It officially opens at 9:00 a.m. on Saturdays, but I get there at 8:00 a.m. to prep the machines and display cases and get brewing behind the café counter.

That hour is unexpectedly pleasant, with no noise but the hum of the coffee makers and the smooth thwack of Beth shifting books. It gets even better when I get to make myself a steaming hazelnut-scented mug of coffee and top it off with a dollop of whipped cream. For Beth, I make it black—“like my soul,” she instructed me when I first started. One of many reasons I love Beth.

There’s a small line of customers by a quarter after nine, most of whom I recognize from the past few weeks: Alice, the mom who brings her twin toddlers, and refers to her regular order of an enormous black coffee with two shots of espresso as her “life essence”; Dave, the guy who buys exactly one small coffee and sits hunched over his laptop nursing it for half my shift, writing what I’m pretty sure (and I hope) is a spy novel, judging by the websites I’ve seen open on his screen for research; a goth girl, who mumbled her name the first time and never bothered repeating it, but always gets something sugary and frothy; and some days (though not often, because my mom rarely spends money on anything frivolous), there’s my mom and her “surprise me” order, though we both know only the most bitter of drinks will do.

The guy at the front of the line now, despite looking familiar, is someone I’m pretty sure I’ve never served coffee to. I’ve got a pretty good memory for regular orders, but I’m drawing a blank on him.

“How can I help you?”

He holds up a book, and I recognize the illustrated cover immediately. “You recommended this book for my daughter the last time I was here, and I wanted to say thank you. She absolutely loved it and begged me to come back for the rest of the series.”

The image makes me smile, though it’s bittersweet. Jasmine’s the one who originally recommended the Candy Buttons graphic novel series to me. When I happened to catch this guy asking Beth for a recommendation for his daughter who’s not a big reader, I had to swoop in and suggest graphic novels might do the trick. And, of course, I had to make some suggestions when he asked. Candy Buttons was a natural choice, since I’d already suggested Beth buy it for the tiny section that was almost entirely (the excellent but far more obvious) Raina Telgemeier and Lumberjanes. I mentioned a few more of Jasmine’s favorites as well, which Beth ordered for him on the spot. I couldn’t believe either of them had trusted me so readily, but here was proof I knew what I was talking about.

Or at least Jasmine did.

“We definitely have the second book here,” I assure him, “and I’m sure Beth will be happy to special order the third. It comes out next week.”

“I’ll go ask her right now, thank you.”

I expect him to walk away, but he doesn’t, and I realize he might actually want some coffee. “Did