Blog of a Teenage Superhero

Chapter Fifteen: Internet Fame and Americanos

The September afternoon is cool and the wind is brisk. Seagulls caw as they swoop in lazy circles over tourists' heads. Couples in Christmas sweaters kiss over steaming cups of hot cocoa and tea, and the kids sucking down ice cream suck down ice cream ironically.

"You know," Max says as we approach a hot beverage stand. "I still can't get into drinking coffee on the beach. I can't get into being on the beach when it's cold." He flumps back his hair. It's messy and dark, feathers of it caught in the breeze. Though the sky is bleached a creamy white, his smiling face is masked in creeping shadows.

"Mmm-hmm," I say. At the stand, a teen wearing a green apron thumbs through a yellow-edged copy of Jane Eyre, never looking at it. She's smiling at Max. "Hi," I say. "An Americano with caramel drizzle for me and a honey-chamomile tea for the hipster."

"Hey!" Max nudges me in the ribs. A white flash sears my eyelids. "I'm not a hipster, I'm—"

"Literally the most mainstream guy I've ever met?" Tears burn the backs of my eyes. The edge of my lip wobbles up painfully. Smiling, so it seems, is best suited for people who aren't trapped in cycles of debilitating pain.

"And that'll be... 14.89 for the lovebirds."

"Ridiculous," I say, already reaching for my wallet. 

"Highway robbery, you mean." Max places his hand on mine, his smile crooked. "I got it."

My pulse pounds in my fingertips and my palm is slick and cold with sweat. I push his hand away. "I'll pay."

"No, no, I'm sure you need the money more than—"

"So help me, Max Preston!" I wrench my faux leather wallet out of my back pocket and slap down two crumpled tens. "I don't need your pity. It's a cup of tea. I ravaged your kitchen, okay? Give me this."

His face goes pink. "I don't pity you."

Whistling, the barista hands me back my change. I slip it into the tip jar when her back is turned. "Yeah," I say. My arms cross over my chest reflexively; I don't even realize they're there until I glance down. "So why are you here?"

Some dating 101: this is pretty much the worst way to treat your crush. A part of me knows this and hates all the other parts of me for it. Max is cute and he means well, but he is a Preston. Even his stupid well-meaning comments make me feel demeaned. What did his father tell him about my family? What does Max think of my dad? What does Max think of me?

"I talked to my dad."

"Oh." I drum my fingers on the counter. A seagull with sand in its feathers swoops down beside my shoe, pecking at a crushed ice cream cone. A tinier smile plays out across my lips, rather painfully, but he hairs on the back of my neck are standing up and my fingers are drumming the counter.

"You can hang out at my place. It's okay. Like, I get the stuff between your dad and mine, and—hey, are you laughing?"

"I'm...remembering." I stiffen my shoulder and swallow the squeaky chuckle. I wave back at the barista. "Excuse me, miss?"

"Hmm?" She turns around with a frothy cardboard cup in one hand. Wisps of white steam curl question marks through her fingertips. She sets Max's tea in front of him and holds my coffee for a second too long, squinting at me, as if deciding whether to hand the coffee over or splash it in my face.

"Do you have any back-copies of the Journal?" I force a smile and pull out another five. 

She hands me my cup, snatches up the five, and flings a heap of papers onto the counter. A big orange puff of dust mushroom clouds into the air and sends me spiraling into a coughing fit. "Take one. Take all of 'em. We don't even sell 'em anymore."