The Latte Rebellion (16 page)

“Thank you all so much for coming,” Leonard continued. I was still amazed he could get people to listen to him so intently. “We have an exciting event in store for you all tonight, starting with our keynote speaker Dr. Adina Malik, and ending with a world-class poetry slam.”

Now everybody clapped and whistled.

“But first, my friends and fellow latte lovers, we have a very special introduction in store for you. Please join me in welcoming the mastermind of the mixed-race movement, today’s voice for the Rebellion of the future, our own Agent Alpha!”

This time, the applause was deafening. The room rang with whoops; people stomped their feet and clinked their spoons against their cups. I got up and the noise made me dizzy. I clutched at the podium as if it were a walker and I was an old lady with a broken hip.

Gradually the room quieted down. I pulled the microphone down a little and cleared my throat, the sound echoing around the room embarrassingly loudly. Everyone was staring at me, waiting. Then I glanced at Miranda standing by the window and blinked in surprise: there was Thad, standing just a few feet away, both of them smiling encouragingly. Of course, Thad couldn’t know it was me, but even so, the fog in my brain dissipated somewhat. It was replaced by a tiny stirring of anticipation, just enough to prod me into action. I wanted
him
to be impressed by my speech, even if nobody else was.

I reached into my back jeans pocket and got out the folded piece of paper that passed for a speech.

“Greetings, Rebellion Organizers, Sympathizers, and Friends,” I began, in what I hoped was a strident and impressive voice. I took a deep breath to continue, but was interrupted by applause. I felt like I was in a movie. Or—did I dare even hope?—like I was standing in front of the senior class giving a graduation speech as salutatorian. Unfortunately, thinking about graduation speeches reminded me of Carey—and the fact that she should have been here, and wasn’t. It was just Miranda, and me, and here I was with a paper bag on my head. Not to mention sweat running down the back of my neck.

“Thank you,” I said. “We appreciate your support.” I looked down at my notes.
We have an exciting evening planned, blah blah friggin’ blah.
Good lord. Rehearsal for graduation, my ass. This was most definitely not high school; far from it, in fact. But I’d prepared a litany of stock phrases and meaningless clichés worthy of a ninth-grade class president—and not a very creative one at that.

I frowned. I folded up my note paper again and took a deep breath.

“Friends, it has been over five months since the inception of the Latte Rebellion; since I, Agent Alpha, along with Lieutenant Bravo and Captain Charlie, first outlined the basic tenets and put them on the web so the world could understand our point of view—a point of view that is often ignored, or subject to inaccurate and ignorant assumptions.”

The room was nearly silent, listening. I couldn’t bring myself to look out, not even at Miranda, who knew exactly how little I’d been thinking about justice and equality when we’d first come up with the Rebellion.

While earlier I’d been sick and tired of the paper bag hat, now, just like at that first meeting, I was kind of glad for it.

Are you that scared?
said the little voice inside me again. Yes. Yes, I was. But it wasn’t going to keep me from saying what I knew I needed to say. What I
wanted
to say.

“The world must acknowledge us,” I said forcefully, quoting from our manifesto. “The world will appreciate us. And we have done a lot that’s worthy of appreciation. We are artists and activists, businesspeople and leaders. Students who want to create a better world. We,” I concluded vehemently, “are latte.”

I had to pause for several whoops and whistles, and shouts of “Respect the Latte!” But, slowly, the noise of the room finally drowned out that annoying little voice in my head and I found myself grinning under my bag, finally feeling the excitement that had the audience buzzing.

“Tonight’s spokesperson for latte ideals, our keynote speaker, is Dr. Adina Malik, a professor in the American Cultures department right here at UC Berkeley. Dr. Malik is an expert in the very causes that the Latte Rebellion holds dear. She is the author of
Uncut, Undried: The Complexity of Race in America
, and has spoken on the subject of mixed race and multiculturalism at colleges and seminars across the country.” I paused. This felt … kind of good. I was almost done, and I had managed not to make a fool of myself. Just like at that first Mocha Loco meeting, everyone was listening to me, and not only that, they were smiling, nodding, clapping. Even Thad. I was a little dizzy again, but this time it wasn’t from nervousness. It was much more like exhilaration.

“One of the ideas the Latte Rebellion posed early on was ‘ask not what the brown can do for you, but what you can do for the brown.’ Dr. Malik will now enlighten you with her response to that question, with her ideas on what you can do for the brown, in her speech on
Faces and Races: The Browning of America
. Please welcome Dr. Malik.”

As the crowd clapped enthusiastically and Dr. Malik gathered her notes and came up to the podium, I slipped to the back of the room and out the door, according to plan. I walked to the bookstore a block away, trying to ignore the weird looks I was getting for having a paper bag over my head, and rushed into the tiny one-person bathroom, backpack in hand, locking the door behind me.

I thought I’d feel relieved to get my speech over with, and I was—but I was also riding high on an unfamiliar, thrilling surge of energy. I crumpled up the paper bag and shoved it into the garbage, feeling a smile spread over my face at the thought of being myself again. I pulled a sweatshirt on over my Latte Rebellion T-shirt and took my hair out of its ponytail. I even changed my shoes from the vintage brown Doc Martens I’d been wearing to a pair of black tennis shoes, in case anyone had memorized my wardrobe.

With my shoes safely stashed in my backpack, I wiped the sweat off my face and neck with a wet paper towel, touched up my lip gloss and headed back to the café. I loitered outside until a couple of people wandered by and decided to go in, and then I followed them so I wouldn’t attract as much attention. Once I was in, I slipped around them to get over to where Miranda and Thad were standing. I felt like a secret agent. A real one, that is.

Dr. Malik was talking about identity and living on the borderlands of multiple cultures. Miranda was totally entranced, so all I did was nudge her to let her know I was there. She caught my eye for a second and smiled.

Thad, on the other hand, grinned widely when he saw me, and before I could worry about whether I should shake his hand or what, he pulled me into a quick hug that left me feeling warm all over again. Okay, more than warm.

“Glad you could make it,” he said, smiling slyly at me. Had he guessed my role? Recognized my voice? I tensed a little. What if he had? If so, he didn’t bring it up. “I was looking forward to seeing you again.”

Now I was
really
blushing hard.

“It’s nice to see you, too,” I whispered.

“Can I buy you a coffee?” He put a hand on my arm just for a second, but long enough for me to wish he’d just leave it there and forget about buying the coffee.

“You don’t have to,” I said.

“
Shhhh
,” someone behind me said.

“I practically insist. I’m getting myself another one anyway. Save my spot?”

“Sure.” I stared after him as he sauntered toward the counter. He wasn’t wearing a Rebellion shirt; just a black T-shirt over a long-sleeved gray shirt, and jeans. Jeans that looked mighty nice. I glanced at Miranda, who gave me a wink and a knowing smile. I narrowed my eyes at her, and she grinned and turned back toward the keynote speaker. It was obvious Miranda had said something to Thad about me while I was out of the room—something that prompted that public display of affection. I just wasn’t sure what, and maybe I didn’t want to know.

“Thanks,” I said, as Thad returned with two paper cups—lattes, of course. He smiled again but didn’t say anything more, just turned his attention to Dr. Malik, who seemed to be reaching some sort of crescendo because her voice had gotten very loud, breathy, and excited.

“Clearly, brothers and sisters, if we have learned anything from the past hundred years, or even the past ten—it is that we have a calling.
We
, as the population of the future, the future of the human gene pool! It is
we
”—this was punctuated with an emphatic thump on the podium—“
we
who must bring this message to those unwilling or unable to be here today. Let us leave here tonight full of energy, full of passion, full of camaraderie as we go forth with linked arms into the future!”

The room exploded. People got up from their chairs, some of them standing on their seats, and the air was filled with whistles, whoops, and resounding applause. The walls reverberated with it. I clapped more sedately, as did Miranda and Thad. When I glanced at him, he gave me an ironic smile. Again, I wondered if he’d guessed who I was.

When the cheering and chaos died down a bit, people started to mill around during the twenty-minute break before the poetry slam started. Leonard, Darla, and a few more of the college-aged Latte Rebellion people were standing near the podium with Dr. Malik, congratulating her and shaking her hand. There was now an unbelievable crowd at the coffee counter, and some people had retreated outside to loiter on the sidewalk or have a smoke, talking excitedly.

“Unbelievable, huh?” Miranda linked arms with me, grinning widely.

“Yeah.” Unbelievable was right.
Surreal
was even more like it, maybe. “Um, what did
you
think of the speech?” I asked Thad.

“Interesting stuff,” he said. “I’m in Dr. Malik’s
Mixed Race in America
class, so I’m used to her rhetorical style.”

“Oh,” I said, feeling self-conscious all of a sudden. I might have
sounded
like I knew what I was talking about up at the podium, but now that I was unmasked and unprotected, and talking to Thad face to face, I felt like I didn’t have anything to say. And I wouldn’t know about rhetorical style if it came up and pinched me on the butt.

“So, did either of you sign up for the poetry slam?” he asked casually, after an awkward pause.

“Nope,” Miranda said. “Maybe next time.”

“Speak for yourself,” I told her. “Maybe
never
is more like it.”

“I didn’t either,” Thad said, “but Greg’s going to be in the first round. You guys remember him, right?” He gestured at the front of the room, where some of the slam participants had gathered. “At least that speech turned out pretty okay. I’ll get my extra credit, anyway. And I knew you’d be coming, so …”

I ducked my head self-consciously, embarrassed but pleased. “But you look like you’re, um, mixed-race. Or …”

“Yeah, I guess I am. A little of this, a little of that.” He smiled.

I laughed. “I know the feeling.” I felt something release inside me, and I relaxed for the first time all evening.

Thad grinned at me, his eyes meeting mine. “Are you two going to at least stay for the slam? If you stick around, you’ll get to experience the poetic stylings of Greg ‘the Rhyme Schemer’ Androvich.”

“Definitely,” Miranda said. “I love that striped hat he’s wearing. Very geek chic.” We all laughed. “Seriously. I would wear that.”

“I’d believe it,” I said, glad the attention was off me for a minute so I could think straight. “That would so go with your black-and-white striped socks.”

“Sure, if I wanted to look like an escaped parolee.”

“Nah, I think it’d be more ‘Cat in the Hat,’” Thad insisted. “That’s better, isn’t it?”

“Um …” Miranda and I looked at each other, and I tried not to crack up.

“Okay, so how exactly does a poetry slam work? I’ve never been to one,” I said. “Should we, like, sit up front or something?” I hoped not. Maybe Thad was a big poetry fan, though.

“Not unless you want to,” he said. “I’m not into the whole audience judging thing. I’m really just staying for Greggo. He wants to get onto the Berkeley Slam Team, but he just started performing this year. With competition like The Pinoy Paladin, it’s tough to get a spot.” Thad nodded at a short, dark-haired, bushy-browed guy in a black leather jacket and backwards baseball cap standing off to one side, looking over a battered piece of paper.

“Well,” said Miranda, “should we just stay here?”

“Sure. Then we can be close to the door if we need to take off. I’m supposed to be back by eleven.” I hunched my shoulders, embarrassed. But before I could try to save face, Leonard went up to the microphone again and boomed an announcement out into the room.

“Attention, ladies and gentlemen! Quiet, please.” He tapped the mike, and an annoying crackly thud echoed out into the ruckus. Miranda, Thad, and I slid into the nearest available chairs. “Thank you, people. Without further ado, it is my privilege to present you with the emcee of the first annual Latte Rebellion Poetry Slam, Ms. Diva ArchMinority!”

The room erupted into applause yet again as an attention-grabbing figure made her way to the podium. She was wearing a low-cut, spangly red dress and black go-go boots, and had her hair piled into an elaborate up-do that was probably a wig. She was wearing black, elbow-length, fishnet gloves with the fingers cut off and glamour-girl makeup.