The Latte Rebellion by Sarah Jamila Stevenson

Author:Sarah Jamila Stevenson
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: young adult, teen fiction, fiction, teen, teenager, multicultural, diversity, ethnic, drama, coming-of-age novel
Publisher: Flux is an imprint of Llewellyn Worldwide Ltd.
Published: 2010-12-31T16:00:00+00:00

9

I rubbed my temples, trying to ignore the shrill-voiced girl yelling into the microphone about injustice and single motherhood. After Darla had showed up looking like a Japanese pop star crossed with Bugs Bunny in drag, we had endured over an hour of ranting, raving, and rhyming. Greg had already had his moment to shine, but he was being upstaged by all the people who seemed to spout one-liner after one-liner, making the crowd hoot and holler.

Miranda had watched his entire performance with her chin cupped in one hand, her expression rapt and considering. I had a bizarre vision of a double date with the four of us, Greg in his stupid hat and me in my paper bag mask, and shuddered.

Miranda glanced at me. She jerked her head toward the door and raised her eyebrows questioningly. I nodded, relieved. Poetry slams were not for me, I decided. It was just too much noise and bluster, completely different from when we were busy creating the website or going to planning meetings; at least then there was a tangible product. And it didn’t give me a splitting headache.

I put on my sweater, glancing at Thad regretfully. He saw that Miranda and I were getting ready to leave and put his hand up to his ear in a gesture I couldn’t for the life of me interpret. Was this some kind of Berkeley-style goodbye wave? An activist “fight the power” thing? Should I do the same thing in return—put my fist to my ear?

Miranda poked me and pulled her phone out of her pocket, waving it in front of my face. God, I’m such a dork. I smiled weakly and nodded. I wanted, really badly, to lean back in and return the hug Thad had given me when I first walked in, but a girl with a bullring-pierced nose and red knitted snood had already honed in on our seats. Plus, to be honest, I didn’t know if any attempts at flirting would be successful, since it was something I was frustratingly incompetent at. Or maybe he was just thinking of me as, say, a little sister—horrors! So I settled for a wave—a regular one—and what I hoped was a sultry smile. I’d have to find out later, over the phone, if it had had the intended effect.

The following Tuesday night, I called Carey. It had been one of the weirdest weeks of my life, and not just because of the rally (surreal as it was to see Darla in something other than an anime T-shirt).

The only other time Carey and I had been angry at each other for this long was in eighth grade, when we both had a crush on Roy Anderson and I decided to do something about it by asking him to the Halloween dance. She was so mad, I got the ice-queen treatment for eight days straight.

But on the night of the dance, Roy tried to freak-dance with me, called me a bitch when I wouldn’t, and then proceeded to swap spit all evening with the school’s most notorious slut.

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