The Girl and the Grove Page 4

  Leila looked down at the scar on her hand, tracing the jagged, white line that trailed along the natural patterns on her palm.

  “Is it still happening?” Sarika asked, looking at her, eyes full of worry.

  “No,” Leila said, shaking her head, her curls jostling about. “It’s gone. They stopped a little after I texted you.”

  “Oh my God, did you see what Toothless posted, about his internship essay?” Sarika said, and Leila found herself grateful for the immediate change of subject. Sarika was good at reading her like that.

  “Internship essay?” Leila asked, grinning.

  “He’s trying to be a landscaping person in the park or something.” Sarika laughed loudly. “The perfect job for that guy, I swear! He won’t have to interact with a single human being.”

  “Did you read it?” Leila asked, curious.

  “Of course not!” Sarika scoffed. “I should have flagged it as spam or something, but it’s our solemn duty as board administrators to be better than the trolls.”

  “Mm. So true, so very true,” Leila said, shaking her head in faux respect.

  They sat there on the couch for a beat in silence.

  “So do you want to read it right now?” Leila asked, smiling.

  “OH MY GOD YES!” Sarika exclaimed.

  They both pulled out their phones, laughing together madly, and Leila forgot about the whispering as they both flipped to the board.

  THREAD: Internship Essay, Some Thoughts?

  SUBFORUM: COLLEGE + GRADUATE SCHOOL

  Internship Essay, Some Thoughts?

  Posted by Toothless

  JUNE 18th, 2015 | 2:04PM

  Hey all. It should really come as no surprise to any of you who know me that I’ve applied to be an intern with the city’s park service, helping maintain Fairmount Park. If you’re not from Philadelphia, it’s one of the biggest and the best urban parks in the United States. Anyhow, they’re doing some new hip essay thing, where you only have to write like 250 words. So I promise it’ll be short and painless. Thoughts appreciated.

  “As someone who was born and raised in the Philadelphia region, I’ve come to admire the Fairmount Park system not just as an urban oasis, but as an emotional refuge. I come from a family of doctors and lawyers and other clichés, and since graduating high school, have been pushed to pursue the same path. But like the trees that grow in the deepest parts of the city’s patch of wilderness, I refuse to be held back. My roots know where they want to go, and I’d like to take hold in Fairmount Park and help maintain the city’s wild treasure.”

  RE: Internship Essay, Some Thoughts?

  Posted by NY in PA

  JUNE 25th, 2015 | 3:04PM

  Best urban park system? Don’t you mean Central Park in New York City?

  RE: Internship Essay, Some Thoughts?

  Posted by Toothless

  JUNE 25th, 2015 | 3:06PM

  No.

  RE: Internship Essay, Some Thoughts?

  Posted by Toothless

  AUGUST 5th, 2017 | 2:04PM

  BUMP. Hey everyone. So way back when I applied for this internship with the city, and never really updated it with much. But I got it. Two years later, but still. I got it. Thanks to everyone who sent me private messages with notes and suggestions, and to NY in PA, you can go eff yourself.

  _____

  “Ah,” Sarika said, her mouth twisting up. “It’s an old post from forever ago that he bumped up, look at the time stamp. Looks like he was just not-so-humble-bragging or whatever.” She clicked off her phone and tossed it onto the sofa.

  “Kinda sad that the only person who replied was that jerk with the comment,” Leila said, flicking at the screen.

  “Psh, is it, though?” Sarika replied. “He’s usually the one that’s the jerk. He deserves to get sassed. He’s the worst.”

  “Good for him, I guess,” Leila said, shrugging. It was hard to feel terribly excited for a guy on their message board who was so overly negative about absolutely everything all the time. Anytime someone had a happy announcement or planned a board get-together, he was there, trolling away, being a buzzkill. The board was supposed to be a happy reprieve from school and foster life. There they could rant and rage about the things that bothered them in the outside world, like the environment, local policies, and area parks, without being attacked by people in that outside world for wanting to share an opinion.

  And the worst part was, he sometimes had interesting things to say, like this rough-draft essay of his. But of course that sort of stuff always got overlooked because no one liked him. Months ago, he mentioned saving that birch tree in his backyard. If Leila had to choose a second favorite tree, after her willow, it would be that one.

  It was a tree that made soda. How do you not love that kind of tree?

  Leila always shook it off. He was just some faceless Internet stranger, and it annoyed her that it was so easy to get worked up over someone she didn’t even know a single thing about.

  “Yeah, I guess,” Sarika said grudgingly. “That guy is a tool.”

  “Tool!” Leila exclaimed at this, getting off the couch. She turned to Sarika, who stared at her quizzically. “Well, tools. Before I heard, well, you know”—Sarika winced—“I was planning to go plant Major Willow in the yard back here. Want to help me?”

  “Oh yeah, totally!” Sarika said, grabbing her phone and stuffing it in her pocket. “You have any work gloves?” She held out her hand and wiggled her wingers, displaying bright-magenta nail polish decorated with bits of glitter.

  “I’ve got you,” Leila said. “Let me grab Major Willow, and we’ll head out.”

  _____

  Leila wiped the sweat from her forehead and stretched, feeling pleased with herself, and resisted the urge to flash Sarika a scowl. There hadn’t been any gloves in the box of gardening tools, and she wasn’t about to waste another minute leaving Major Willow in that pot, even if it meant having to dig in the yard herself while Sarika gave her a mini photo shoot.

  “I really like this one,” Sarika said, pushing herself off the small porch swing in the yard, eyes set on her phone as she walked over, smirking. “See?”

  She held out the phone, which showed Leila bent over fussing in the dirt, her butt up in the air.

  “Give me that!” she shouted, laughing. Leila grabbed Sarika and wrestled the phone out of her hand, the two of them laughing, and then flipped through the remaining pictures. She stopped and smiled at one as Sarika looked over her shoulder.

  “See, now this one isn’t bad,” Leila said, smiling and nodding. The photo showed her squatted down in the yard, digging in the small patch out back with one of the trowels. She was smiling, her hair looked great, and even her simple outfit, jeans and a loose-fitting, upcycled t-shirt from a nearby local thrift store, looked good.

  “Maybe we can post that one on the board. I bet Toothless would be into it,” Sarika said with a wink.

  “Oh hell no.” Leila rolled her eyes.

  “What?” Sarika shrugged, her face a feigned expression of innocence. “I’m just saying, you are kinda nice to him sometimes. You guys direct message ever? Hm?” Her voice went up higher and faster with each little accusation. “Little private chat sessions? Just the two of you? Swap a few pics?”

  “Sarika, please don’t make me bury you under the tree.”

  “Okay, okay,” Sarika said, hands up. “Maybe we post it for the others, though, just a little update on your sapling.”

  “Still no,” Leila said, shaking her head. “Just a photo of the tree, thanks. I prefer to keep things anonymous on the Internet.” She didn’t need a bunch of faceless strangers knowing what she looked like, especially when a lot of them lived here in the city—at least, according to the board and the sub-space they posted in.

  She grabbed her trowel, walked back over to t
he sapling, and patted the soil down before staking the tree in place so it wouldn’t move on a rainy or windy day. She gently tugged at the small willow tree, and, satisfied it wouldn’t move, clapped her hands together to shake all the dirt off.

  “She looks good,” Sarika said, walking up behind her, placing her well-manicured hand on Leila’s shoulder.

  “Yeah she does,” Leila said, smiling. She reached back out and ran her fingers through the young willow’s leaves and thin branches, still bunched up in a green ball. For a moment, just a moment, she thought she felt the little tree rustle, like it was stretching up to greet her touch.

  “Looks kinda like your hair, only green,” Sarika said, before Leila could say anything.

  “Oh wow, shut up,” Leila said, playfully swinging at her best friend.

  The wind around her whispered, the tone almost playful, whimsical, merry. She closed her eyes and shook her head, trying to block it out.

  “You okay?” Sarika said, taking a step forward.

  “I’m fine,” Leila said. “I’m fine, it’s alright. It’ll pass.”

  Sarika hugged her close, and Leila whispered.

  “Tree. Soil. Wind.” She paused. “Friend.”

  Sarika gave her a little squeeze.

  If she could survive uprooting, she could survive this new home.

  She looked over Sarika’s shoulder at the tree, and her best friend held her tight.

  They would both survive.

  Sarika Paprika

  @TheSarikaPaprika

  Heading to @AdamsPhillyCafe with my girl @WithouttheY for the morning until lunch-ish. Come and get it! #SarikaTheBarista

  8/9/17, 7:47AM

  37 Retweets 87 Likes

  Chris @ChristoferYurie9m

  @TheSarikaPaprika @AdamsPhillyCafe OMG @LaurenGibs you see this? Let’s go!

  Leila @WithouttheY7m

  @TheSarikaPaprika @AdamsPhillyCafe Why you gotta put me on blast? I’m getting like a million notifications.

  Leila @WithouttheY6m

  @TheSarikaPaprika @AdamsPhillyCafe WHY DID YOU RETWEET THAT NOW IT IS EVEN WORSE.

  Sarika @TheSarikaPaprika5m

  @WithouttheY @AdamsPhillyCafe LOL

  Adam @AdamsPhillyCafe2m

  @TheSarikaPaprika well the place is already starting to fill up. Great work.

  III

  Leila tossed her backpack onto a polished wooden table in Adam’s, a nonprofit café on the edge of Philadelphia’s Brewerytown neighborhood that employed foster kids. She slid onto the upcycled wooden bench, a reclaimed church pew, that sat along one of the windows. Adam’s had a hip, earthy feel, and the entire café was painted in warm colors and decorated with art made by its patrons and workers, who were almost always one and the same.

  Exceptions to the regular clientele came when people knew Sarika was behind the barista station, whipping up creations that otherwise weren’t on the café’s menu.

  Like right now.

  “Listen, I’m not judging or anything,” Sarika shouted over the roar of the café’s ancient, dying expresso machine. The old, metal, box-shaped monster made a cacophony of hisses and squeals as steam pushed out a valve on the opposite side. “Oh my God this fucking thing!”

  “Sarika! Serenity, please,” Mr. Hathaway snapped, peeking his head out from the small kitchen behind Sarika. The little, blonde mustache under his nose was already pushed up to the side as his mouth shifted up irritably. “Remember, we’re here to learn how to communicate with—”

  “With people,” Sarika said. “Not with dying machines that refuse to let me finish this double mocha latte with a triple shot of expresso.”

  “Well if you would stick to the menu of—” Mr. Hathaway started.

  “If I stuck to the menu of just plain coffee, iced coffee, and tea, we wouldn’t do any business!” Sarika exclaimed while pressing an espresso bean holder into the whining machine, and cranking it in.

  Leila stifled a laugh, watching the scene unravel from her seat, as Sarika shouted back at poor Mr. Hathaway. She made herself comfortable as the two of them battled, locked in their usual routine. Adam’s was practically their second home, and not just because Sarika worked here, slinging coffee whenever she could, but because it was meant to feel like a second home for teens like them.

  Leila nuzzled into the hard wall along the back of the once-church-pew-now-coffee-table-bench, and sighed as Sarika fussed with something behind the machine, causing steaming hot water to burst from the front. The steam hissed with an explosive smell of espresso beans and misty water, like someone had spilled a cup of coffee in the summer rain.

  “Hey!” Sarika shouted at a random customer waiting in line, who looked up at her in surprise, pulled from his staring-at-his-phone trance.

  “Would you come in here, if it was just plain coffee and tea?” Sarika asked. A number of anxious-looking people stood behind him, and Leila held in another laugh as their eyes darted about awkwardly in that trying-to-look-casual but please-don’t-talk-to-me kind of way. Sarika leaned over her countertop, staring at everyone, and Leila smiled at the sight. Her best friend, intimidating a room full of people, leaning over the wooden countertop like a beautiful gargoyle.

  “Uh,” the man started.

  “No,” Sarika interrupted, pointing at him. “He wouldn’t. You do the best business while I’m here.” She smacked the machine and it let out a loud wheeze. “And you know it.”

  “Okay, okay,” Mr. Hathaway said, waving a hand at her from inside the kitchen. “Do your thing.”

  When the crowd died down, Leila slid out of her favorite corner and headed up towards the barista station.

  “So, like I was saying,” Sarika continued. She glanced up at Leila quickly before smacking the machine while she cranked at levers and adjusted values, like a mad scientist behind a doomsday device. “I’m not here to judge. You’re my best friend and I love you. But is this really the way you want to spend your last day before everything starts up? I know it’s only summer programing, but really? Here? This café?”

  “I can hear you over there,” Mr. Hathaway grumbled. Leila and Sarika laughed.

  “It’s either here or at home on the boards,” Leila said, shrugging. “Or wandering around the neighborhood alone. I promise, I’ll get out more when enrichment or summer school or whatever it’s called starts. I’ll make some new friends from a different school or something.”

  “Eee!” Sarika let out a squeal that rivaled even the loudest noises the espresso machine could possibly make. “I should stress that it’s enrichment, and not summer school, though. And I seriously can’t wait. Don’t make too many friends. I’m selfish, and want you to myself.” She continued fussing with the machine. “Why don’t you grab an iced coffee or something, and we’ll hang when rush hour officially ends? It’s winding down but I’m sure more people are coming.”

  “Rush hour never ends when you’re on the floor!” Mr. Hathaway shouted from the backroom, amidst the clatter of dishes.

  “I know it!” Sarika yelled back.

  Leila smiled and grabbed one of the ready-made cold brew coffees, another one of Sarika’s many contributions to Adam’s, and made her way back to the bench.

  She sighed into her cold cup of coffee, nuzzling her back against the reclaimed wood wall, watching her friend hand out lattes and espresso shots and other cups full of caffeine as more people filtered in. She was totally in her zone, and it was beautiful.

  The door to the café chimed, and Leila turned to watch the next businessman or businesswoman walk in, but what she saw almost made her spit out her cold brew.

  A boy slightly older than Leila walked in, all cool and calm, a handful of fliers in his hand and a staple gun in the other. He approached the giant bulletin board located right next to the front door, where scores of fliers, postcards, and busi
ness cards clung, offering up services for this or that, meetings, and events. He turned to look over at the register, squinting.

  “Do—” Leila started, barely a whisper.

  “Hey, Mr. Hathaway, is it okay if—” the boy started, a gruff edge to his voice, like he smoked a lot of cigarettes and was already paying for it.

  “Yes, go right ahead, Shawn,” Mr. Hathaway shouted back, still hidden in the kitchen.

  “Thanks!” Shawn said. Before turning back to the bulletin board, he locked eyes with Leila. Her heart quickened for a moment, and sped up even more when he fixed his long, chestnut-colored hair, adjusting it with the hand that grasped the steel staple gun. He gave the impression he was invincible, with his dark-green eyes and freckled skin. His hair, cut down to his chin, tumbled back down around his face, moving right back into the position it was in earlier.

  “Hey,” Shawn said, nodding at her, the motion opening another button on his—she suspected purposely—wrinkled dress shirt that already had two undone, showing a glimpse of his smooth, slightly sunburned chest.

  Leila died.

  With that open button she died a thousand deaths.

  “Wha . . . oh, hi!” Leila stammered.

  “Thanks,” Shawn said, smiling to reveal a lopsided grin that was undeniably cute.

  “For what?” Leila asked.

  “You were going to, you know, say something? Maybe ask if I needed help?” Shawn motioned, nodding back at the register and the barista bar. Leila followed his line of sight, and caught Sarika staring at the two of them, smirking. Sarika gave her a playful look and went back to fussing over the machine. This was going to be a conversation later.

  “So yeah, thanks for that,” he continued, still grinning.

  “Oh yeah, n-no problem, really,” Leila muttered.

  “Cool,” he said, nodding. “Well, see you around? Grab a flier, maybe come help change the world?” He stapled a few pieces of paper to the bulletin board in a practiced, quick motion, chk-chk-chk, and pointed at her, making a clicking noise with his mouth. “Later.”

  Leila scowled as he walked out the door. The moment was ruined.