How They Met and Other Stories. David Levithan
barista looked offended by this plea – I was violating the Starbucks Code of Customer Behavior. But she would be violating the Starbucks Code of Employee Behavior to tell me to piss off, so we were at a standstill.
Arabella chimed in with a “Pleeeeeeeeease,” and that’s what did it. Starbucks Boy leaned in, took the cup out of my hand, and said, “No problem.”
Then he smiled. At me. The kind of smile that feels like there’s a wink attached to it.
I ordered an iced chai, then paid with my hard-earned (well, unearned parental) dollars. Arabella and I shifted over to the pickup counter, where Starbucks Boy was already waiting with her vanilla milk. Frustratingly, a Starbucks Boy never wears a name tag, so you just have to imagine his name is Dalton or Troy or Dylan. As my Starbucks Boy handed Arabella her drink, I observed that he gave her the same smile he gave me. I realized how stupid I was being, thinking his attentions were anything more than routine. Then, when he handed over my drink and our hands accidentally touched, I forgot that realization entirely.
Arabella picked out one of the superlong straws to sip her milk with, and I drank the minute’s worth of liquid that had been given to me with an afternoon’s worth of ice cubes. When we were finished, I stole one last glance at Starbucks Boy, who was making some foam. I almost went up and purchased a mini bundt cake just to get another view, then I dismissed myself as too silly for words (this was a full conversation in my head) and ushered Arabella (who’d lost interest in her drink after six carefully spaced sips) outside. I proposed a stop at the Central Park Zoo, and she acted like she was humoring me by saying yes.
I found myself wanting to impress her, like we were on a date. I rattled off facts about polar bears and penguins, and was excited when she seemed mildly interested. She started asking me the names of each of the animals – not their scientific names, but their proper names, like Freezy or Gertrude. I gave her the answers, making them up as we went along, and it took a good dozen species before Arabella figured out I was kidding.
“The emu is not named Clifford,” she said. “Clifford is a dog.”
“Did I say Clifford?” I backtracked. “I meant Gifford. Like Kathie Lee.”
“Who’s Kathie Lee?”
“Kathie Lee’s the sea otter. Let’s go see her.”
I had thought it wouldn’t be any problem for us to get back by two, and because of that I didn’t bother to check the clock on my cell phone. I was shocked when I finally saw that we only had twenty-five minutes to get home.
“You forgot lunch,” Arabella said as we headed home.
“You didn’t tell me you were hungry,” I replied, and then immediately felt the way any adult feels when he or she picks an argument with a six-year-old – namely, stupid.
“I was,” Arabella said, and that was that.
We got back with three minutes to spare.
“Don’t worry,” Arabella told me as I made her a pb & j sandwich in the kitchen. “Manolo’s always late.”
I nodded and asked her who Manolo was.
“My French tutor,” she replied. Then she asked, “Do you have a boyfriend?”
I was about to bitch and moan – the usual response – but then I realized who I was talking to. Only in New York (and maybe San Francisco) could a six-year-old have gaydar.
“How do you know I’m gay?” I asked. I genuinely wanted to know. My wardrobe wasn’t infused with pink or rainbows, and I certainly hadn’t been very flamboyant in her presence. I wondered what my tells were.
“The way you look at boys,” she said. “You’re gay.”
The doorbell rang. Arabella made no move to answer it.
“I’ll get it,” I said. It took me a minute to walk to the door, but two minutes to get the locks open.
“The top one first and to the left,” the voice on the other side of the door said. “Then the middle one to the right. Then the bottom one, twice around to the left. Now turn the knob.”
When I finally got it open, I found a guy a few years older than me, wearing a winter sweater on a summer day. He had Harry Potter glasses and a Beatrix Potter body.
“Bonjour,” he said.
“ ’Allo,” I said, trying to sound Cockney but ending up sounding Klingon.
“You must be Astrid’s successor,” he continued. “I’m charmed to meet you.”
“And you must be Manolo,” I said. “Or do you prefer Manny?”
At that last word, he shuddered.
“Manolo,” he said. “Is la fille ready?”
“She’s in le kitchen. ”
“Can you tell her to meet me in the study?”
“My pleasure.”
I watched him stroll off without another look in my direction, then poked my head into the kitchen.
“Your Frenchman’s here,” I said. “I’m going to head home.”
Arabella put her sandwich down and said, “That’s fine. I won’t tell Mom about lunch as long as you remember tomorrow.”
I told her she had a deal.
The next day was much the same, only I was wearing better clothes. I had a suspicion that Arabella was a daily-ritual kind of girl, and if I was going to see Starbucks Boy again, it wasn’t going to be in khakis and a button-down.
If Elise or Arabella noticed my more casual attire, neither mentioned it. Instead Elise mentioned that Ivan – the math tutor – was coming at three.
Figuring it might mean extra money – and also figuring I had more than a fair grasp of first-grade math – I told Elise, “If you want, I could tutor Arabella. You know, stay later and do it.”
Elise stared down her nose at me. She had to angle her head to do it.
“I’m sure you’re very intelligent, but we prefer Arabella’s tutors to have graduated college.”
“Ivy league?” I asked, tongue in cheek.
“Preferred, but not essential,” Elise replied, tongue nowhere near cheek. “We had a lovely girl from Smith, but she went away to India with her new lover.”
I didn’t think it would win me the argument to point out that I wasn’t going to be running off with any lovers anytime soon. I made a mental note to teach Arabella some really stupid knock-knock jokes as retribution.
As I’d predicted, we followed the same morning routine: reading in Arabella’s room until ten (once again, I didn’t bring my own book, but this time it was deliberate – I enjoyed reading hers), then a stroll down to Starbucks. I kept looking at my reflection in windows as we walked there, checking to see if my hair was flat or if my shirt was billowing the wrong way. Arabella was telling me a story about a girl in her kindergarten class who had eaten a crayon and said it tasted like chicken. I tried to follow.
All of my prayers and fears were answered, because Starbucks Boy was working the register when we walked in. There were two people in front of us, and I obsessively paid attention to the way he talked to them – genial, but nothing special. When we got to the front of the line, he smiled a little wider (I was sure of it) and said, without missing a beat, “One iced chai and one vanilla mocha decaf latte, hold the mocha, in a purple cup, right?”
Was I dealing with some kind of Starbucks Savant, or had he thought my order yesterday was worth remembering? Melodramatic as it may sound (and it certainly felt melodramatic), I considered that my entire romantic future might hinge on the answer to that question.
The trouble with flirting with someone at