Can I be your favorite?

Chapter 1: Hangover Cure

Anika's POV

Only fifteen minutes into my shift, I've already imagined of three ways to steal the cash from the register. People who said leaving the country was the solution to all your problems obviously never left the country (they were probably idiots). That's Indian superstition for you, crazy and absolutely useless. Not that I regret my decision to leave home and travel halfway across the globe to study at the best institution for architecture, I simply regret being broke.

Damn it! Why wasn't I born rich?

Deep breaths. This will all be worth it in the end. Otherwise, burglary is still an option I am seriously willing to try. Honestly, with today's economy and inflation, I'm surprised more people haven't considered stealing a legitimate career option. If architecture doesn't work out, I could probably start a course on thievery: heisting one-o-one. I try to distract myself from my virtual life as a world-famous cat burglar, unfortunately my eyes travel back towards the cash stuffed register that inspired my imaginary scenario. I wish I was that register- stuffed with money. Dragging my eyes away from my dark temptation, I scan the ghost town of a café.

Café Wesley, right outside campus of U.W, university of Wesley (How original). Chairs made out of clear plastic that look uncomfortable but are surprisingly not. Tables each equipped with charging ports, camouflaged by the matching opaque white color countertop. The tables looked more like hollow rectangles, creating a makeshift storage unit where you could keep your belongings under the table. The walls are covered with hand drawn diagrams of motivational quotes as abstract art. For the most part of it, the café was surrounded with large glass windows, letting in natural light during the day. Furthermore, during the night the streetlamp on the opposite side of the street brought in a lovely orange glow. Even though it saves us a lot of money on electricity, it is a royal pain in the butt to clean up after a rainy day. To my left of where I lean on the counter, is a set of stairs that lead to the second floor. Upstairs has a similar set up compared to downstairs cafe. Except, lanterns are hung from the ceiling, matching the tables. There is a small balcony outside the air-conditioning, where people can enjoy the weather and take selfies, amazing for marketing. On the terrace, the tables were made of metal with a black coating and covered by a white umbrella. It fits in perfectly with the vibe of its surrounding and customers. Café Wesely is currently the trendiest place on campus. I guess that's kind of obvious considering the modern and sleek look the café portrays. This place was built by one of Wesley's alumni, who is now a nation renowned architect. Screw that guy. I'm gonna be ten times better than him once I graduate and become an architect myself. Richer too.

Plus, the café has free Wi-Fi, an added bonus to students who want to complete assignments or catch the latest gossip on Instagram. Therefore, you can guess how this place must be packed with students from my college. However, its Sunday morning, everyone's probably hungover from some party last night thrown by some frat house. Unlike me, who stayed in her room, studying for her exams- which were two months away.

I'm alone today. Jessica, who is supposed to be here with me manning the very register I can't seem to take my eyes off of, called in sick. Liar's probably in our dorm room, snoring away last night's alcohol. Whenever I look down at our uniform, I'm always reminded of her. She looks horrible in brown. That's all I'm gonna say! Her bleached blonde hair and pale complex clash horrendously with the brown apron and caramel shirt underneath it. The apron is embroidered with the café name and logo in the same color as our pants- black. I, on the other hand, with my tanned brown complexion, manage to make the outfit work. Add a little eyeliner and mascara- it highlights my brown eyes- and voila! I'm transformed from exhausted college student to above average Indian beauty. I am not exaggerating. People leave larger tips when I go all out. Who am I to refuse more money- I mean customer service?