The Latte Rebellion (2 page)

1

Summer vacation, so far, was an epic failure. A truly monumental waste. Hot, interminable days that melted one into the next. The monotony of lying around baking in the heat broken only by the further monotony of work. Money we weren’t allowed to spend (because it went straight into the college fund), earned at retail jobs we yearned to quit (because they were embarrassingly menial, excruciatingly boring, and swarming with mallrats, half of whom went to our school).

Then there was the unfortunate confrontation at the Inter-Club Council pool party.

That was what planted the seeds of the Latte Rebellion. But when I really sit down to think about it, it started a hell of a lot earlier than that.

Take this incident that happened a couple of weeks before, at the end of junior year: Carey and I were crammed into the auditorium bathroom before graduation, touching up our hair and makeup along with the other top-ranked juniors who got to march in the Honor Guard. Kaelyn Vander Sar—who had blossomed from mildly catty to full-blown bitch on wheels after we started high school—said, “Oh, Carey, you look so
cute
in that white dress. Like a little Japanese cartoon character.”

Kaelyn turned to me, blotting her shell-pink lipstick with a tissue. “And
your
dress—wow. It takes some guts to wear something like that. I guess you have to have Mexican J.Lo curves to pull it off.”

I stared at her, one hand going reflexively to my hip, where I’d just tied a gauzy scarf that
I
thought was not only sassy but also accented my waist. Evidently all it did was draw attention to my butt.

The heat rose behind my cheeks, my head filling with any number of things I could tell her.
Carey is NOT Japanese. And J.Lo is not from Mexico—she’s a Puerto Rican American. That is not even CLOSE to the same thing. There are these things called maps; you should look at one.
And,
am I dreaming or did you just say my butt was big?

But in the end, I didn’t say any of it. It seemed futile. Kaelyn just didn’t get it. Maybe she really did think she was paying us a compliment. Or worse, she could have been deliberately trying to provoke us. We weren’t exactly the best of friends, after all.

Anyway, because she had to bring up J.Lo, I obsessed about my round butt, round shoulders, and round face the whole time I was standing out there in front of the school, and Carey stood there in stony silence, convinced that being five feet tall made her a midget and pissed at
me
for not setting Kaelyn straight. It was a bad situation. But it wasn’t an isolated incident, not by a long shot. It was just one of many. And they all seemed to culminate in that scene at the pool party, the summer before our senior year.

After Roger Yee stalked out of the party, everyone heard the squeal of tires and the growling engine as he pulled out of the parking lot in his rich-boy, tricked-out Honda. Carey and I looked at each other. She walked the few feet across to my lounge chair and sat down next to me as the small crowd dissipated, already distracted by someone else’s gossip-inducing faux pas.

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” I said, laying my head on her shoulder. She smelled like chlorine and the vanilla-scented lotion I gave her for her birthday last year.

“Yeah,” Carey grumbled. “Waste of a perfectly good latte.”

“Besides that,” I said, “I was thinking it’s too hot out for this kind of behavior. And I was thinking I’m glad you’re here. Who else would defend me by flinging refreshing beverages? Who else would care enough? I mean,
I
barely care.”

“You
should
care.” Carey frowned, absentmindedly finger-combing her short, light-brown hair, still damp and wavy from our dip in the pool. “It’s serious. Roger shouldn’t say that kind of crap. And the way he was leering at me. It was gross.” She shuddered, delicately.

“I know. It was uncalled-for.” I gave her an exaggerated smooch on the cheek, then leaned back. “He’s an ass. It makes me want to buy a billboard and stick it up in his yard. A billboard with little pictograms:
Turban does not equal towel. U equals ass
.”

She laughed, a short bark. “Or a stone tablet carved with
Thou shalt not be a massive jerkwad
.”

“Exactly,” I said. “I mean, you’re the one always telling me I need to express my anger more effectively. I think we could channel our entire scholastic career’s worth of annoyance at Roger into one well-placed piece of signage.”

Carey sighed. “As if we could afford something like that. My parents would not be thrilled if we spent our work money on a billboard. Plus, unlike you, I have to share a college fund with my brothers. I probably need to get a second job.”

“Oh, come on—I think it would be a worthwhile expenditure for such a quality human being as Roger Yee,” I said, unable to hide a smile.

“He is so not worth the time and effort.” She frowned at her empty cup. “Let’s get refills, shall we?”

We picked up our cups and headed back to the drinks table for more iced latte, making our way past the Art Club officers, who had set up camp conveniently near the caffeine supply.

“At least the coffee here is free,” I said, waving at our friend Miranda Levin, who was VP of the Art Club. “We don’t have to shell out for our latte habit.”

Carey snorted. “It’s the only good thing about this clique-fest, besides the pool. I mean, there’s Miranda, and Shay’s nice enough for a cheer clone, but look at these people. Look at Kaelyn Vander Sar.”

“… Vanderslut,” I fake-sneezed, trying to make her laugh.

“Asha. God. You’re as bad as Roger,” she said, swatting me on the arm. “Is name-calling really necessary?”

“Sorry, sorry,” I said. “Please continue.”

“Anyway, as I was
saying.
Check out the Queen of the Bimbocracy and her fleet of loyal toadies.” She pointed surreptitiously at the bikini squad on the other side of the pool, now featuring one less fawning beefcake since Roger’s departure.

“Now who’s name-calling?” I set our clear plastic cups on the table and topped them both off with fresh iced coffee.

Carey smiled wryly at me. “She only wishes she had ‘Mexican J.Lo curves.’ ”

I studied her face for a moment. “You’re really bothered about this, aren’t you? You know, we really
could
do something with our cash. It’s our money.”

“Yeah, here’s an idea,” Carey said, a little sarcastically. “We could print instructive T-shirts that say,
No, I am not Mexican. Neither is J.Lo. Thanks for asking.
”

“Ha ha. I can think of way better things to spend money on,” I said. “We could pay for enough gas to drive to some little beach town where there are a ton of cute eligible guys who are all rich Internet millionaires. Who needs college?”

“You,” Carey said. “Me. So we can get the hell out of here and away from Roger. That’s what we should be spending our money on.”

I reached for the pitcher of half-melted ice cubes and dropped a few more into my cup. As I watched the smooth, tan liquid rise up the sides of the glass, wishing we could just leave and forget about senior year, something clicked in my brain.

“Or,” I said, “we could do something
really
fun.” I stood up straighter. I’d just felt the stirrings of an idea, one I suspected might be the most brilliant plan I’d ever had in my life. Goodbye, Summer of Epic Hellish Boredom.

Hello, Latte Rebellion.

“Does your bright idea happen to involve coffee?” Carey said, as we gathered our stuff and got ready to ditch this overrated hot dog stand.

“Oh, does it ever.” I couldn’t help grinning from ear to ear. “Now, take this latte we’ve been drinking. What does ‘latte’ mean to you?”

Carey started laughing, and laughed all the way to the car before she was able to get a grip. “Are you listening to yourself? I mean, did you actually hear what you just said?”

“No, wait,” I insisted, unlocking the car doors. “Think about it. Latte. It’s two things. Coffee mixed with milk. Sometimes with cinnamon on top. Just like us. We’re living, breathing lattes.”

“Okay, now you’ve lost me,” Carey said, looking at me skeptically over the top of her sunglasses.

“I’m serious,” I said. “You’re half-Chinese and half-European. Caucasian. Whatever. I’m half-Indian, a quarter Mexican, and a quarter Irish. We’re mixed up. We’re not really one or the other, ethnically. We’re like
human lattes
.”

“Oh, killer simile. Brav-
o
,” Carey said as we pulled away from the curb and headed down the palm-tree-lined street next to the pool. “A-plus. Save that for the AP English exam.”

“Perfectly blended, comes in all shades,” I said, smiling mischievously.

“
Please.
No more metaphors.” Carey curled up on the passenger seat, her feet under her. “Not that those ignorant mall junkies even know what a metaphor
is
.”

“Yeah,” I said, fervently, “and that’s why I agree with you about getting the hell out of here. Beach town, Disneyland, whatever. Something. College isn’t soon enough. We need a change of scenery.”

“No kidding.” She left a maddeningly long pause, then sighed. “So let me guess. Your ingenious plan involves a vacation.”

“A post-graduation outing. If you ask me,
that’s
what we need.” I thumped the steering wheel for emphasis.

“Okay,” Carey said. “Maybe. You might be winning me over. But the latte thing. What does that have to do with anything? Are we funding this trip with coffee sales?”

“I don’t know yet. Maybe. But the latte should be like our totem. Our good-luck charm. Our symbol of liberation.” I glanced at her out of the corner of my eye.

“Who even needs a symbol?” she said, half-closing her eyes. “Let’s just go somewhere with cute, brainy, ambitious college guys, please. And good food.”

As we continued discussing it, it seemed only fair. We’d been working our butts off. Tutoring every Saturday all last year; Key Club, Mock Trial, and Honor Society since we were freshmen, which was why we’d been at that stupid pool party in the first place; and straight A grades, if you counted the occasional A-minus. We deserved a vacation. Something low-commitment and high-relaxation, like a cruise to Mexico, which would be downright easy to organize. Easy as pie—or a pumpkin-pie-flavored latte.

And we started to take the latte idea even further. That evening, we were lying on Carey’s back patio when she asked with mock seriousness, “What does latte mean to
you,
Asha? What … does it mean … to
YOU
?”

I laughed and said, “It means the ultimate coffee beverage! Not just coffee, not just milk. More than the sum of its parts.” I sat up in my lounge chair. “A new beverage for the future!”

“Through blending, it becomes better! Stronger!” Carey added. “More latte-licious.”

“That’s it,” I exclaimed, suddenly not laughing anymore. “That is
genius
!”

“Um … what’s genius?” Carey was looking at me like I’d grown an ear out of my forehead.

“That’s our
marketing angle
,” I explained impatiently. I was thinking too fast for the words to even make it out of my mouth. “For raising the money. The latte can be more than just a good-luck charm. It’s our whole
brand
.” I paused and waited for Carey to switch gears.

She shook her head, a little manically. “And we’re marketing … what, exactly?”

“It doesn’t matter. We could be selling dog collars or lip gloss or …
whatever
. But we could appeal to mixed-race buyers and call it—the Latte Girls, or something.”

“The Latte Girls sounds so Baby-Sitters Club,” Carey said, rolling her eyes. “But I see what you’re saying.”

“Of course you do,” I said. It was so simple, it was downright brilliant. And it all fit together like it was meant to be.

Clearly, though, we had to do a bit more thinking. So far, all we had was a half-formed idea floating around in our heads about “latte as a concept” (big surprise, considering how much of it we were drinking), and how we could use that concept to raise money for our trip without relying on something totally overdone, like opening yet another coffee stand in a town full of cafés. The market for actual lattes was already saturated. Plus, who really wanted to sweat over an espresso machine all day?

That was where the really inspired part of the plan came in. Thinking of the pool-party incident and our conversation afterward, it came to me like a flash: we could sell T-shirts. Everybody liked T-shirts, especially people at our school, who seemed to buy every school- and sports-related T-shirt known to man. All we had to do was come up with a catchy design. We already had the killer marketing idea. And we had the rest of the summer to work on the details.

Enter the Latte Rebellion Master Plan. By the time school started in September, we’d written the Latte Rebellion Manifesto and started designing a logo and website with the help of Miranda, our art guru. Carey, our tech whiz, got the site up and running on October 1st, complete with links to our virtual shop on NetPress. The logo we’d thought up was plastered across the top of the website: a coffee cup with steam forming the shape of a hammer and sickle.