The School for the Elite

Chapter 2: Coffee with Cream

I arrive to my shift five minutes early, thank goodness, and quickly change into my work attire.

"Hey, Vesper, it's your turn to man the counter," says a voice behind me, "I'm warning you though, the people coming in today so far have been a handful."

My friend, Gloria, with who I became acquainted after a week of working at this cafe, gave me a wink and bounded off, probably to wait on tables one and two. I sigh and head towards the main room, stationing myself behind the counter. I decide that while I'm doing this, I'll work on my English essay. It shouldn't take too long, since I already mentally wrote the whole thing.

As I am scribbling down my second body paragraph, I hear a bell jingle at the door and lift my head to peer at the customer. A boy, no older than myself, with white hair and very pale blue eyes walks through the doors. He practically looks like a human icicle. He doesn't go to my school, since his uniform is a beige-ish gray, but he certainly is in the same grade as I am.

"Hello, how may I help you?" I say, trying to sound polite. I force myself to make a more pleasant-looking face since my classmate had commented on my solemn complexion just hours before.

He ignores my question, instead glancing at the essay I have written down so far.

"What are you writing about?" He asks, yet his tone carries no curiosity. He glances back at me, looking bored.

"An essay," I reply.

"Huh. That's nice. " He says, his voice monotonous, and he looks at his watch.

I glance at my paper again, and continue, "It's about the theme of intellectual freedom in--"

He holds up his hand, as if that was enough to stop me. Turns out it is, for I am shocked enough by his gesture that I halt midsentence. He begins to say, "Sorry, but I was just asking to be polite. I don't really want to know all the details. I have to go soon, so I'll order quickly and be out of your way." He looks back at his watch, and huffs at it as if it was the bane of his existence.

I am stunned at his sudden comment, and my smile falters. I forget about trying to look tranquil and allow my usual resting face to take over my face. I nod and look at the boy, thinking that he was the most horrible, stuck up prick I had ever met. He probably didn't have to work a day in his life, with that fancy watch on his wrist and crisp semblance.

I suddenly become angered by him, and say "Well, you are the one who asked. If you were even a little bit decent, you would have saved me the trouble of explaining anything at all to you."

I clear my throat, and shift my attention to the register.

"So, what will be your order? You're busy, so you better hurry up."

He looks slightly taken aback, but doesn't flinch. Instead, his appearance remains collected as he quickly describes his order. As I punch it in, I nod at him to sit down until his order is ready. What a contemptible person.

As I am making his coffee, my head suddenly begins to pound. A headache now, of all times. It's probably because of that boy. I ignore it and continue making the black coffee with whipped cream the boy ordered. What kind of order was that, anyway? Was he an old man or a child?

I scoff at my thoughts and at his order, grabbing the whipped cream. I feel spiteful, so as I add the whip cream I let some slide down the side of the cup. The lid makes the cream spread around the rim, and I pretend not to notice as I call out his order.

"Black coffee with whipped cream? Black coffee, whipped cream?" I say a few times, waiting for him to look up. He's sitting at one of the small tables in the corner, reading some novel. He doesn't look up the first few times, what finally he closes the book and stands up.

"Thanks." He says, his attention focused on putting the book in his bag. He grabs the cup right where the whipped cream spilled over, and quickly retracts his hand. He stares at his hand, then the cup. He grabs a napkin and wipes his hand quickly, then wraps another napkin around his cup. As he cleans and wraps the cup, he gives me a sinister glare, clearly onto my antics.

My headache suddenly becomes horribly painful, but I hold in the grimace that threatens to spread to my face. Ignoring him, I look past him towards the next customer in line.

He hurries out the door, leaving a single quarter in the tip jar.