The Latte Rebellion (10 page)

Then I thought again about the twenty-some-odd people who’d been staring at me in my paper bag mask, most of them earnest and enthusiastic. There was Miranda, who really thought we could accomplish something. Radha, who wrote a
poem.
To be honest, it felt good to be the center of attention. For my
ideas
to be the center of attention, instead of my Mexican J.Lo curves or my unfortunately placed towel.

At lunch, I took another look to see who exactly was wearing the shirts. Matt Lee was wearing his again, rumpled as though he’d slept in it. Ayesha Jones was wearing one. Rosanna Nasser, who was on the volleyball team. A rumored gang member named Quentin Rodriguez. One of the varsity cheerleaders, Shay Saintmarie. I couldn’t help feeling a little twinge of pride every time I saw one.

Later that day, I was rummaging in my locker for a missing assignment when I heard Shay say something to Kaelyn that really got my attention. I ducked down a little, hoping they would continue ignoring me.

“… Amber left right after they introduced everyone,” Shay said a little breathlessly, “but Stephanie stayed and said it was all weird and hush-hush, like the people leading the meeting didn’t want anyone to see their faces. Isn’t that crazy? Like a James Bond movie.” She flipped her relaxed dark hair, perfectly contained by a shimmery gold headband, back over one shoulder.

Kaelyn snorted. “Whatever. It’s just another stupid club. Who cares?”

My cheeks burned, but I kept rustling papers in my locker even though I’d already found my physics worksheet.

“They’re supposed to be planning something
really
major, like, I don’t know, maybe a party, but it’s still under wraps; at least that’s what I heard.
I
think it’s cool.”

“Well, I happen to think the cheer car wash is pretty major,” Kaelyn said acidly. “But you still haven’t told me whether you think
that’s
cool.” I couldn’t see her face from where I was hiding, but her tone was pure venom.

“Oh, come
on,
Kay-Kay. Seriously. You think I’d forget about that? I already made signs.” I heard a locker door slam shut, and from the corner of my eye I could see Shay put her arm around Kaelyn’s stiff shoulders as they walked off. I straightened up and stretched my neck, unable to keep a gleeful smile off my face. They’d been talking about
us
. We, the Rebellion, were literally the talk of the school.

On Wednesday, Ms. Allison came up to me after class as I was stuffing my English notes into my binder.

“Asha, may I speak to you for a moment?” She leaned on the desk next to mine, which had already been vacated, and let out a heavy sigh.

“Sure, I guess,” I said, putting my notebook into my backpack. Ms. Allison smoothed her navy blue skirt and tucked a lock of graying-blond hair back into her bun. I could see sweat stains under the armpits of her white blouse. She stared at a spot somewhere above my head.

“I see you’re wearing one of those Latte Rebellion T-shirts that are so popular these days.”

“Yeah, they’re cute, huh?” I smiled and hoped I sounded noncommittal. Why was she asking
me
? I mean, I was the only one left in the room, but still.

“They’re certainly unique,” she said. “Is it one of these new brand names?”

“Uh …” I thought frantically. “I guess so.” I really didn’t want any teachers prying into this. Plus, there was the fact that we weren’t supposed to exist in the first place, thanks to Roger.

“I hadn’t really pegged you as someone who cared much about fads.” She glanced at me sharply.

I swallowed. “It was a gift.”

“Well, some of the teachers and administrators have noticed that an awful lot of students are wearing these shirts. We were worrying that it has some sort of … significance.”

“Um … I heard someone say it was some kind of … an advocacy group.” I couldn’t believe I pulled that one out of my butt.

“Advocacy group.” Ms. Allison sounded skeptical. “Mrs. Eastman and I visited the website after school yesterday, and she thought it looked like a childish joke. I’m not so sure about that. We thought we might bring it up with Vice Principal Malone, since he’s advising the Student Council this year.”

“I’m pretty sure it isn’t anything to worry about,” I told her, trying to sound like it didn’t mean anything to me.

But the truth was, I was shaken. The last thing we needed was for Mr. Malone to start snooping around. If he made the connection—if he realized it was us—we’d get called into the office to explain ourselves. He might end up telling my parents, and on pain of lecture I’d have to spill everything, down to our underlying fundraising scheme. And then my parents would probably laugh, ho-ho-ho, what a cute idea, you little scamps, and promptly confiscate our earnings and put them squarely into the college fund, never to be seen again—which would totally defeat the purpose of having done it in the first place. No way was that an option. No way in hell.

We’d just have to stay anonymous, swear our charter members to secrecy, and hope nobody spilled the beans until our vacation money was safely squirreled away—or better yet, safely spent.

I reported the incident to Carey and Miranda later that night. We were sitting around Carey’s kitchen table, ostensibly studying and keeping an eye on her brothers while Dr.-Mr. Wong and Dr.-Mrs. Wong were at a dinner party.

“What did you get for number eight?” Carey put her finger down on the page to hold her place while she took a long gulp of hot chocolate.

“Plus or minus radical five,” I said. “And so then Ms. Allison said she hoped not to see any ‘trouble’ started by the sudden popularity of this ‘Rebellion business.’ ” I laughed, edgily.

“That’s not right,” Carey said.

“Well, I
know
,” I said. “It’s just a bunch of shirts.”

“And the most insidious social movement known to humankind, mwahahaha,” Miranda intoned. It was supposed to be funny, but I was kind of freaking out.

“No, I mean the math problem.” Carey pointed at my homework. “I think you forgot to—”

“Forget the math problem,” I said, pushing my notebook aside. “This is serious! What if the school administrators make the connection? Malone already knows Miranda and I proposed a club that was refused a charter.”

“This
assignment
is serious,” Carey insisted. “You can’t afford to get another C on a quiz.”

I shrugged and glanced at her sideways. “It was just one quiz. Mr. Martinez drops the lowest quiz grade.” Whereas, getting called into the vice principal’s office would result in a call to our parents, if we got into enough hot water. And then, bye-bye vacation.

“Dropping the lowest quiz grade is not the point. The point is … the point is, I am so not ready to think about getting into trouble for this. So. Not. Ready.” Carey stared determinedly at her math book.

“It’s not like we’re meeting on campus or anything. They can’t do anything to us. And they won’t find out who we are.” Miranda sounded a lot more confident than I felt. I was starting to be really glad she was on our side. We needed a cheerleader—and I didn’t mean Kaelyn.

“That’s true. There aren’t any identifying characteristics on the website. We even signed up for that private domain thingy.” I calmed down a little and managed to finish another calculus problem. “Which is a good thing. My parents would freak if they knew we were doing this.”

“Are you kidding?” Miranda put her pencil down. “Parents love this stuff. Even my mom was excited. ‘I’m so glad you’re involved in something worthwhile and socially responsible instead of doodling cartoons all the time,’ ” she mimicked, in a nasal voice with a slight Hispanic accent.

“Well, I’m not going to tell mine.” I knew what they’d say, and it would have five different kinds of “no way” in it. Students for Social Justice was okay, but I cringed at the idea of them finding out about the Latte Rebellion, and me having to explain why I wanted to keep doing it after the club proposal was shot down. They might support the ideas, but they would not be okay with me “wasting” money, or wasting time on what they’d consider a futile endeavor.

“Don’t tell my parents either,” Carey said. “Oh, and for god’s sake, don’t tell them about Leonard. I’m supposed to be at your house tomorrow night, studying.”

“You’re eighteen, Care; they can’t do anything.” Her parents, like mine, were protective, but surely they were used to the constant stream of would-be suitors by now. I didn’t see why
I
had to be her convenient excuse to see Mr. Snoogums. “Since when are you going out with Leonard?”

“Yes, dish, please.” Miranda put her chin in her hand and focused her attention on Carey.

“We’re not
going out
,” Carey said unconvincingly. She couldn’t suppress a tiny, self-satisfied smile.

“The hell you aren’t,” Miranda said, laughing. “Look at your face!”

“We’re just going to a comedy show at the University Theatre. And dinner first,” Carey added in an undertone.

“Going out to dinner!” I practically squealed. “Why didn’t you tell me
before
?”

“Because I knew you’d screech,” she said. “You know, I felt bad … after running into you that time.”

“Why did you feel
bad
? You can go out with whoever you want. You don’t have to tag along to my boring crap.” Even if that “boring crap”—i.e., Students for Social Justice—led directly to more inspiring ideas for the club, more popularity for the Rebellion, and, of course, more T-shirt sales. I took a sip of hot chocolate and tried to look like I didn’t care, even though my hands were trembling a little. “Knock yourself out.”

“Gee, thanks,” Carey said, sarcastically.

“Simmer down, kids!” Miranda said. “Why don’t we finish this problem set?”

I let myself be distracted, but the truth was, it really got to me. It wasn’t the fact that Carey was going out with Leonard the Tattooed Lamewad so much as my growing suspicion that Carey was losing interest in the Latte Rebellion, in the scheme we’d had so much fun hatching together. The suspicion, which I realized had been burgeoning inside my head for a while, that she wasn’t as interested as I was in seeing it through.

She hadn’t wanted to turn the Latte Rebellion into a club in the first place, after all. I knew she was more worried about getting a scholarship, about finally getting out on her own without three brothers hanging off her like monkeys. But this—clubs, activities, socially worthwhile endeavors—this could only
help
her get a scholarship, if she’d just put in the time. Time we would spend hanging out together, as an added bonus.

Instead, I felt like I was seeing her less than ever.

That night, although I kept thinking about Carey, I finally worked up the nerve to call Thad. I had no idea what I was going to say to him; I didn’t really have any questions about colleges, since I knew where I was going to apply and the deadlines weren’t for another month or more. But I felt like he’d asked me to call, like he might wonder why I hadn’t. And it wasn’t a chance I wanted to pass up.

So I dialed. After a couple of rings, he picked up.

“Hi, this is Asha, from the U-NorCal seminar,” I said in a rush, half-afraid he wouldn’t remember me.

“Oh hey, I was hoping I’d hear from you,” he said. “Thanks for helping me wind down after my trained monkey speech.”

“No problem. I specialize in inane, non-challenging conversation.” I squeezed my eyes closed and smiled so hard my cheeks ached.

We exchanged a few pleasantries, but my mind kept wandering back to Carey. I found myself asking Thad whether he and Greg had ever had any disagreements when they were figuring out their clinic plan.

“Not really,” he said. “We went back and forth for a while on which model we were going to use, and then I got kinda p.o.’d at him last week because he slacked off and did this slam poetry thing he’s into, but nothing major.” I could hear him smiling. “Why?”

“Oh,” I said. “I started this … thing … at school with a friend of mine. And I’m not sure she really wants to be involved now. I thought she was into it, but …” I cringed at how stupid I sounded, suddenly unsure I wanted to tell him about our ideas. What if he thought they were juvenile, amateurish? I pictured myself trying to explain the Latte Rebellion to him, and everything coming out all wrong.

But he might be interested, too,
said a quiet voice inside my head, which I quickly smushed right back down. Come on, I told myself. He knows nothing about you. You just met this guy, you talked to him for a total of ten minutes, and you think he even gives a crap? He doesn’t want to hear about your little problems.

In the end, caution—or was it fear?—won.

“I guess we just had different expectations of the project,” I finally said.

“Sorry to hear that,” Thad said, and because he didn’t ask for more information, I didn’t elaborate.

It was my dad who asked for information, once I’d said goodbye and flipped my phone shut.

“Who were you talking to? What’s this about a clinic project?” He leaned too casually on the door frame. I’d left my door open, and clearly he’d been eavesdropping.