Tutored by Allison Whittenberg Read Free Book Online Page A

little was a venti? How big was a grande? Why couldn’t they just say small, medium, and large?
    “I’ll have a tall half caf, leave room for cream, please,” Wendy said.
    The barista, who had an exaggerated flip to her hair and an easy smile, nodded, then looked at Hakiam for his order.
    He thought fast and said, “Nothing.”
    The barista’s sunny smile didn’t lapse. She went to make Wendy’s order.
    “Don’t you want a water, at least?” Wendy asked Hakiam.
    He shook his head without meeting her eyes.
    There was a couple of dollars and change in the tip cup—talk about courting robbery. That was something you’d never see down the other end of Lancaster Avenue. Everything that could be stolen was kept under lock and key.
    The girl with the flip to her hair came back with Wendy’s drink. They headed for seats.
    Wendy wasn’t a tall girl, but she had a long, slender back, which Hakiam enjoyed watching as he walked behind her. Since there were no more tables available, they took seats on the sofa by the window.
    Wendy set her cup on the end table. “Funny, when you asked me for coffee, I was sure you were going to have some too.”
    Hakiam gave a half grin and put a dollar and change back in his pocket.
    Wendy took a sip and asked him, “Don’t you like coffee?”
    “I’ve never done this before,” he said.
    “You’ve never done what before?”
    He looked at her hard for a good moment or two, then said, “Skip it.”
    She observed him for an equally long period of time and said, “I’m not sure what I’m supposed to be skipping.”
    Silence.
    More silence.
    Wendy stirred her coffee.
    More silence.
    Hakiam looked outside. The coffee shop was on the corner of a busy intersection. The light had just changed and a mass of people trekked from one side of the street to the other. He peered back at Wendy with a blank, washed-out expression. This was an improvement, because he was doing his best to suppress the scowl that he customarily wore.
    “So,” she said, “what’s your favorite movie?”
    “Huh?”
    “What’s—your—favorite—movie?” she said again, slowing down her words.
    He still had no answer.
    “Mine is
Twelve Angry Men
,” she said.
    There was another pause. Then, she started carrying on a conversation with herself that went like this:
    “
What’s that about, Wendy?
    “Well, I’m glad you asked me that, Hakiam.
Twelve Angry Men
is about a jury that believes it has an open-and-shut case. But one juror—Henry Fonda, he plays the architect—he thinks that the young person on trial for murder deserves at least some deliberation and votes not guilty.
    “
Why is that your favorite movie, Wendy?
    “Well, I’m glad you asked, Hakiam. It comes on American Movie Classics all the time. I like issue-oriented films, like that one and
The Ox-Bow Incident
and
Inherit the Wind
.”
    At that point, she ran out of steam. She seemed weary of all the back-and-forth with herself.
    He gave her another blank look.
    She frowned. “You probably go for fast cars over character development.”
    “No, I’m listening,” he assured her.
    “I also liked
Boyz n the Hood
.”
    “What are you doing watching that?”
    “I told you, I like issue-oriented movies.”
    “What was the issue in that?”
    “Senseless street violence, poverty, the high homicide rate among young African American men …”
    “You need a movie to tell you that? You ain’t know nobody who was murdered?”
    “No. You do?”
    “I know a couple.”
    Wendy wanted to ask the who, what, where, and why. Instead, she just took another sip of her coffee.
    Hakiam stared at the way Wendy’s beige-colored lipstick left a half kiss on the rim of her cup and sighed.
    More silence. “You go to church?” he asked.
    “Not since my mother died. Why do you ask?”
    “I don’t know. I was just asking things like you were asking things.”
    “Do you go to church, Hakiam?”
    “Hell, no.”
    Wendy laughed until she realized she was