Summer of Love by Emily Franklin Read Free Book Online Page A

cups his hand like a megaphone near his mouth. “Come surfing tomorrow — there’s a group of us going.” I nod and give him the thumbs up. “Ask Arabella — she knows the details!”
    I bet Arabella does know the details. Even though she’s my friend and I love her — and I am so appreciative of the apartment and he general presence, it’s a little hard for me to totally accept that she’s made a name for herself already on the island while I am still new. Of course I’ve been here for all of five hours but the island doesn’t feel like it’s mine yet. Maybe after I get settled in at work — if I ground myself in grounds — heh.
    Top reasons I know I am not going to commit to a life in the service industry:
    1) I cannot get “would you like sugar in that?” out of my head
    2) Asking people if they prefer one or two percent, full fat or skim is only fulfilling in the sense that it gets them off your back for a millisecond until they insist on seeing just how much froth is on top of their cappuccino
    3) Despite the fact that I’m decent at multi-tasking (e.g. I can steam milk, plate a side salad with sautéed pumpkin seeds and chevre while answering the phone and repeating for the twelfth time that we’re “open until we’re not” — the catch phrase Doug and Ula invented that I think is rude but they find cool) the job I have only makes my condition worse.
    My condition being SIMH. Sym-huh. Stuck Inside My Head.
    “But it’s not like you’re working in a library,” Arabella says when I tell her my career concerns. “And it’s not like you’re going to be serving coffee for the rest of your life.”
    “I know — but…” I look out at the sidewalk from the window in the kitchen while Arabella slathers on her nightly face mask. “And I’m not trying to be melodramatic…”
    Arabella mimes violin playing and continues to spread thick algae-colored goop around her cheeks, forehead, and all the way down her chin and neck.
    I turn to her and undo my hair from its restaurant restraint (not a hairnet but an old rubber bracelet of Mable’s that I sometimes wear on my wrist, other times in my hair). I let the red mass of it fall across my bare arms, covering my face until I’m peering out a hair curtain. “With singing, I get to express myself. And it’s just that I’m so caught up in my own thoughts that it occurred to me tonight as I slopped out my millionth latte, that if I don’t find a job where I actually do that — express myself — I’ll just be one of those mumbling people.” Arabella raises her eyebrows underneath the sludge and her face mask shows signs of cracking. “No, I’m serious. You act and get out all of your emotions or you redecorate and have this visual way of getting your ideas across. But what am I supposed to do with my life so that all of this…” I point to my head like it’s a container, which I suppose it is.
    “You could teach,” Arabella says and watches to see if my ranting and raving is finished for the evening. The red retro clock she hung up near the surfboard mounted as a desk reads just past midnight. I closed the café when a solid fifteen minutes had gone by and no one came in. But did I lock the door? I think so.
    “Teaching is a possibility,” I say like I’m done with college and ready to go out into the real world. “But I’m not sure.”
    “Well, lucky for us both that you don’t have to decide tonight. Now — I’ve got four more minutes of being frog woman and then I’m rinsing it off and going to bed.”
    “Me, too,” I say. “Minus the frog stuff.”
    Arabella peers out the window, looking at the bluish moonlight that casts an eerie glow onto the empty cobblestones. Down the street, bars are open, drinkers and dancer and drunken duuuudes (those prepster party people who end up elongating every vowel) are still only halfway through their Saturday night. Luckily, the café is situated far enough away from the noise that we’ll