Copyright © 2013 by roastedpiglet (of Wattpad)
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c h a p t e r t h r e e
[ h o w t o b e j u l i e t ]
It wasn't even for a few hours, but I wondered if I were secretly a barista from my previous life, and that this was what I was meant to do. Which was, of course, a joke—because I finally saw the twist to the story: I was not hired as a barista. I was not hired as a waitress.
I was hired as some sort of temp whose job was to make whipped cream.
Gripping the spatula for dear life, I spurred it round and round the mixing bowl, the smell of fresh creamer filling my nostrils, my sudden desire for coffee continuously growing by the second.
"Are you doing well?" I heard Clifford ask me.
I immediately looked up from the mixing bowl, still stirring vehemently, as I met with the eyes of the person who hired me. "I'm doing fantastic!"
"So fantastic that you're getting whipped cream all over your apron?"
Curling my eyebrows, I looked down at my apron and true to his word, it was filthy with cream. I stopped mixing the ingredients and dropped the spatula with a bang as I grabbed the nearest towel and rapidly dabbed at my apron, worried that I'd ruined my uniform so quickly.
Well, technically, it wasn't even my uniform per se, but that just made things worse.
I heard Clifford chuckle, before I felt the towel being snatched away from me. "Don't rub it so hard. You'll only make things worse." I would've thought that judging by his statement Clifford was raging, but his tone was the complete opposite—soft, gentle, and even with a hint of amusement.
So I digressed, and looked at him strangely. "You're not mad?"
He looked down at me too, still holding the sticky towel. "Should I be?"
I shook my head fervently. "No! But I—I'm still sorry."
"Don't be," he said, before turning his back to get rid of the towel.
He never returned even after I counted to ten—my character Vivienne always counted to ten when she was waiting for something, or someone. It was something her father taught her—and so I was left with gripping the spatula for dear life once more and mixing until its features resembled dough.
Deciding it would be time to take a taste of what I was stirring, I put the spatula up to my lips, and took a small bite. Alright was what it was, not too sweet but sweet enough to drown the bitter taste of coffee. I was about to transfer it into its designated cylinder, until someone called out my name.
It was my employer, rushing towards the back kitchen, his hair—which was only carefully gelled minutes ago—now a disheveled mess, slight panic and despair patently straining his tone. "You've got to help."
"Help? With what?"
Clifford hurried towards me and removed my apron from around my neck, throwing it to the side table. I didn't notice the different clothing he had on his hand, and quickly, as though it was a burning flame and it hurt him, he draped the clothing around my neck and said, "The barista we have has her mother due in a hospital, and she has to go. No one else could fill her position but me, but that means I have to stop serving in the counter. I can't have only two waitresses out there. So go out! Serve. A girl named Reese will help you out once you go."
"What?"
"Go, go."
"But—but—but," I protested, finding the right words. "I'm not sure I'm good at waiting tables. I don't—"
He rolled his eyes, looking impatient. "How about you just go out there and serve? Find Reese and you're good to go. Come on, let's just talk about this later."
Talking about it later was the last thing I wanted, but he was looking at me with a stern expression, telling me I basically had no choice but to follow him or else I'd be screwed. Feeling as if there was no choice left, I bobbed my head in defeat and darted outside, to the opening of the cafeteria itself, where I felt a little intimidated all of a sudden.
Scanning the area, my eyes made a beeline for the nametag that said, "Reese." Apparently she was looking for me too, because the moment I spotted her, she was already looking at me.
When I reached her post, she immediately began talking. "I know we haven't been introduced properly—I'm Reese and you're . . . who? But anyway," she said, her hand flying to my hair strands and brushing them off my apron. "That's Juliet's apron, so your nametag obviously reads the same name. I acknowledge that you may be surprised at what's being hurled at you, but just follow me and you'll be fine. Do you understand?"
"Yes . . . ," I said begrudgingly.
Reese smoothed the folds on my apron. "Okay, good. Now, that's your post over there," she said, pointing to a nearby cash register a couple of feet from hers, "and you just have to click whatever they say on your computer screen. Oh, snap, wait. Do you understand computers and stuff?"
"Of course I do," I snapped, mainly because I lived in an era where computers are basically food, and partly because back when I was still studying, I loved transfusing computer codes. Although I wasn't as good as I was back then due to lack of practice—especially since I only focused so hard on computer codes because of a teacher whom I desperately wanted to impress – I think I could still understand computers well.
"Well, okay. That's minus one problem. Anyway, after processing their receipt, you shout their order over to your right, where the back barista's kitchen is. Give the customer a number stand, and when Clifford comes over with the order, serve it to the customer. Okay?"
"Wait," I said, as a realization finally formed inside my head. "I thought I was only a waitress. Why am I handling the cashier as well?"
The brunette in front of me just shrugged, saying, "In Macy's Coffee Shop, you have to multi-task."
When a customer suddenly approached her cash register, it was as though I didn't exist at all, so I was left to walk over my own post. Surprisingly, no one was coming up to me, to such point that I found myself tapping my fingers impatiently on the counter table. I was about to remove my apron and run out of the shop in frustration—why put me up in such frenzy when no one noticed?
But that was the exact moment someone came up to my counter, and with a low tone, said, "Would you mind if I ordered here?"
I looked up from the computer screen in front of me and saw who it was—actually, what he looked like. Blond curls softened up around his head, not waggled enough to reach his eyes which were oceanic green, his irises holding a grey streak. Either way, they were captivating, and held mine in a bold hold. He was comforted with an American tux that suited him, a tie loose around his neck. He cleared his throat, and that was when I realized I'd been staring. But he was smiling kindly, and offered to repeat, "Would it be okay if I ordered here?"
"Uh—of, of course," I stammered, my hand scrambling off to the computer screen. It was pretty simple, the computer screen codes, and after a minute or so of exploring its capabilities, I was already an 'expert' of the machine.
Before I could blurt out what exactly he wanted to order, he was already on it, opening his mouth after flashing me another smile. "I'd take a latte. Macy's American Latte, to be exact."
The computer screen looked like a battlefield of weapons, different-colored boxes scattered around, but as Reese said, it was pretty self-explanatory, as there were labels like Receipt Processing and Orders List. My finger flew to the latter label, and in front of me appeared the different categories of Macy's menu. Right there, on the very top, was Macy's American Latte.
I curved my hands round my mouth and turned to my right, shouting only as necessary, "American Latte!" and informing the man of the cost to pay, him giving me the money needed as response. I grabbed the first number stand I saw on the side of the cashier, and stretched it towards the man, which he took with grace and politely said, "Thanks . . . Juliet."
The unfamiliar name stopped me in my tracks. At first I was confused and had a sudden desire to slap the man across his cheek for mistaking me to be another woman, but then I realized that today, right now, I was another woman. I was Juliet, a proxy, to be exact, but Juliet for the day all the same. I wanted to clear that to him, but before I could open my mouth to voice out any form of protest, he was already on his back, the number sign—which appeared to be 20—the only thing that could be seen from my view.
It wasn't long before Clifford appeared and pushed a tray towards me in the counter. I took out the receipt from the cash register, placed it beside the latte on the tray, and balanced it with just one hand, trying to find the man with the number twenty. Damn, I knew I was supposed to wait and see where he sat for easier service. I knew—
"Number 20's right here," a voice piped up from somewhere beside me, sounding amused.
I turned my head to the voice and ogled down to see the man looking up at me, and true to my surmise, he looked just that: amused. "I'm right here," he said again, picking up the number stand and waving it as gesture.
Flushed, I took it from him and gently slid the tray onto his two-seat table. I offered him a courteous smile before whirling around, only to be held back by his voice, saying, "I haven't seen you round before, but something tells me I'll have to die first before I could forget a beautiful face like yours. Are you new here?"
Wait. That was so incredibly cheesy it had to be a pick-up line. It was a pick-up line, wasn't it?
When I wheeled round to face him, I got my answer: a set of pearly white teeth flashing, attempting to woo me first-hand, topped with a singlehanded wink. I heaved a sigh. I wasn't fond of these kind of people. I didn't want to judge like the granny back in the bookstore, but he was the kind of person who'd woo a girl he barely knew using his charms he thought would work on anyone, even a female dog.
I wasn't sure what coiled the wire in my head, but a fuse lit and when it does, something burns. "Of course you haven't. I'm not even Juliet, but I do have work to do. If you'll excuse me, please."
When I thought it would be the end of it, even before I got the chance to turn my heel and return back to my post, the man before me uttered, sounding a bit shell-shocked, "Your name's not Juliet? Who are you then?"
The moment I recognized how he'd dropped the formal façade was the time I allowed myself to study him further. What appeared to be such a formal, uptight, goody-two-shoed man now dissipated into the classic: young, wild, and free.
And then without knowing it, I was suddenly talking. "I'm Mia. I'm supposed to be a barista, but then my employer told me that I needed to transfer to the cash register instead, and so here I am. I don't even know why I couldn't be a barista instead. Waiting tables sure isn't what Clifford told me a while ago when he hired me and I can't understand—"
"Are you serious?" he asked, looking like he was about to have a good laugh, amusement practically spilling from his lips. "Well, that's cool. Has anyone told you you're cool?" That was when he stood up, and extended his hand. "Call me Alex."
Slowly, I took his hand, and he shook it. "Nice to meet you?" I supplied.
"Likewise," he responded shortly, dropping my hand politely, still keeping his manners intact. And then he grinned. "You're not just shitting me, right? You're really Mia and not Juliet?"
I almost rolled my eyes, but I couldn't hide how taken aback I felt when someone who appeared as decent as him could cuss out in public, to a complete stranger he'd only talked to. "Why would I lie about my own name?"
He took a pause, green eyes staring right back at mine, eyes that seemed lost, but it was instantly washed away as his grin furthered. "Well, you're basically a walking liar with an apron that sponsors a name that isn't yours."
"That doesn't mean I'm not proud of my name!" I said, indignant.
"If you were really proud you wouldn't have accepted wearing an apron that sponsors a different name."
I narrowed my eyes at him, beginning to change again my impression of him. Seemingly having noticed this, Alex jumped right on cue. "I'm kidding," he said, chuckling a little. He sat back down and wrapped his fingers around the warm mug, still looking at me. "Although I'd really like to chitchat with you for a bit more, you have work to return to, right? I can't keep you forever, which is really a shame, let me tell you, but I'll see you soon?"
Finding it only decent and friendly, I smiled, bobbed my head, and said, "Okay," before spinning on my heel and returning to my post.
When I was positioned once again in my post, I couldn't help but think of one thing. Maybe leaving the townhouse didn't seem so bad. I got a job for the first time, in fact, so easily that it didn't require any of my paperwork, and I even earned a new acquaintance—definitely better than being a complete hermit back at the loft.
I couldn't help but think that leaving the townhouse entailed good things, most of which were already hurtling their way towards me. But good things meant there were bad things coming, and I could only brace myself for the storm after the calm.
But until then, I'd enjoy being Alice and step around carefully, so I wouldn't fall into the rabbit hole and meet with the impending doom on the other side.
Or maybe, you know, I could just fall down for the heck of it.
"Um, hello? I said one Cocoa Strawberry, please?" the customer before me demanded, her hands on her hips.
I snapped out of my trance. With a deer-in-headlights expression, I gave a guilty smile. "Oh. Right. Right away."
She merely rolled her eyes, as though thinking, well, it's about damn time.
Author's Note:
Oh my gee, Mia seems so happy I'll be so guilty for what I'll do to her later. [commence evil cackle]
I've been saying this a lot, but I mean it every time. Thank you so tremendously much for reading How to Fall in Love!
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Cookies x muffins x cupcakes
Myka
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