For Keeps by Natasha Friend Read Free Book Online Page B

.” He slides the handled thingy into a slot, clicks it into place, and presses yet a third button, which causes brown liquid to squirt out the bottom. “Voilà!”
    “Looks complicated,” I say.
    “Now we steam the milk.”
    “There’s more?”
    “Cappuccino-making is an art, my dear. Art takes time.”
    “Ah,” I say.
    I watch as Van Gogh continues his tutorial. When he’s finished, he hands me a cheery yellow mug overflowing with froth. “Taste.”
    “Since when do we have mugs? . . . Wait—is this from one of the mystery boxes in the basement?”
    “Taste.”
    “I’m not really much of a coffee drinker.”
    Bob huffs a sigh. “Just try it.”
    “Fine.” I take a sip, get a nose full of foam.
    “Well?”
    “Not bad.”
    “See?” Bob is smiling, triumphant. Whenever he shows his teeth, I marvel at how tiny they are. Tiny and perfectly square, like a two-year-old’s. “Customers are going to love this!”
    I am not so sure. “Who drinks cappuccinos with their ice cream?”
    Bob shakes his head, exasperated. “There won’t be any ice cream. We’re phasing it out.”
    “What?”
    “Hello? How many European-style cafés do you know that serve ice cream?”
    “I don’t know,” I say. “I’ve never been to Europe.”
    Bob purses his lips. “Well. Europe is about to come to you.” He tells me to close my eyes.
    “Why?”
    “Just close them.”
    What is it with the eye closing around here? First Liv, now Bob. I don’t know why people insist on—
    “Ta-daaaa!”
    He’s holding up a wooden sign—yellow with brown lettering and a couple of biscotti painted on—simple, yet elegant. Fiorello’s Café .
    I have to ask, since Bob’s last name, I happen to know for a fact, is Schottenstein.
    “Please.” Bob grimaces. “Schottenstein Café? ” He tells me about the year he spent in Italy when he was in his twenties, about the café downstairs from his apartment. “Every morning I would wake to the smell of espresso and pastries. . . . Fiorello’s. . . . It was heaven.” His eyes get misty for a moment. “Best year of my life.”
    This makes me wonder if there was a girl involved, some Italian beauty he shared his biscotti with. But I don’t ask. Because then Bob might feel compelled to tell me the story about how he got his twentysomething heart broken, and I don’t want to feel any worse for him than I already do. So instead, I nod.
    “Anyway,” he says, “I’ve always wanted to open my own café. . . . Nobody ever thinks I’ll do things, but this time I’m actually doing it.” He reaches under the counter, whips out a flyer: FIORELLO’S CAFÉ! GRAND OPENING! “See?”
    “Wow,” I say. Because he looks so proud of himself right now. And because, even though Bob is a nutcase, he’s a nutcase with passion. And that kind of makes me want to root for the guy.

    I wake in the middle of the night, sweating.
    I had this dream that Matt Rigby came into Fiorello’s for a cappuccino, and when he took a sip, his whole head got covered in foam. I kept trying to wipe the foam off him with a towel, but it kept growing back. His mouth would open, trying to tell me something, but I couldn’t hear what he was saying because the only thing that came out of his mouth was more foam.
    “Spit it out, babe,” I kept saying. (God knows why I was calling him “babe.” I’ve never called anyone “babe” in my life.) And anyway, Dream Matt didn’t listen to my sage advice. He just kept frothing at the mouth like a rabid squirrel.
    Ha! What a stupid dream.
    I can’t believe I’m still sweating.

Five
    THREE WEEKS INTO school, one of the soccer guys announces he’s having a party. The whole girls’ team is invited. We’re all bonded now, apparently. Ever since the scrimmage, it’s been fist bumps and high fives in the hallway. Also a lot of jokes about coed naked mud wrestling. From the amount of innuendo in the air, it’s obvious there will be hookups on Saturday night, even if no