The Latte Rebellion by Sarah Jamila Stevenson Page B

hysterically, at the same time that my eyes stung with unshed tears. On top of my fear that I wouldn’t have a college career after today, now I wasn’t sure I’d have a best friend, either. But I had to stay calm. It was only nine o’clock, the next coffee break wasn’t for another hour, and there was still a long way to go.

4
    Welcome to a very special Students for Social Justice seminar!” The auditorium erupted into rowdy applause, and the club president, the short guy with the long blond ponytail who’d led the earlier meeting, made a shushing motion with his hand. I looked sideways at Bridget, ready to make a sarcastic comment under my breath, but she was staring raptly at him. I looked at him again. His hair was dull and ratty under the fluorescent lighting, and he had a big smudge of blue marker on his forearm from where he’d brushed against the dirty whiteboard behind him.
    Nope, didn’t see the appeal. When I glanced back at Bridget, though, I was surprised she wasn’t actually drooling.
    On my other side, Miranda—who’d been dragged to the meeting with almost no visible reluctance—was equally transfixed, though without the goo-goo eyes.
    I sighed to myself.
    “Without further delay,” ponytail-guy said, “please give a warm welcome to Greg Androvich and Thad Sakai, who drove here all the way from UC Berkeley to discuss Community Outreach and Social Responsibility.”
    I didn’t even look up. The first ten minutes were all about thank-yous and what-an-honors and names of professors I didn’t know but the audience seemed to. I spent the time productively by doodling the Latte Rebellion logo in black ballpoint pen on the back of my hand.
    Then, a few minutes later, a booming voice took over at the podium, eliciting a lot of enthusiastic noises from the audience. I couldn’t help sneaking a peek. Greg, the first speaker, was dark-blond and lanky with little round glasses. He was talking passionately about a series of community clinics that he and Thad wanted to put together for rural and poor neighborhoods. They were modeling it after a clinic in East London.
    London. I thought about that for a minute.
    Big Ben. The Tower of London. Culture, nightlife, and guys with really hot accents. In short, a prime vacation destination. If our T-shirt scheme really took off … could we get as far as England?
    I got a little sidetracked daydreaming about cruising down the Thames River, but when Greg yielded the floor to Thad, I started doing some rapt staring of my own. He had short, dark, spiky hair with the tips bleached, tan skin, bright blue eyes, and a quick impish grin. Carey would have called him an “über-hottie” for those eyes alone.
    To be honest, I didn’t hear a word he said, and after the seminar concluded I stood there next to my seat musing alternately about the apparent superior attractiveness of college guys, and the potential cost of plane flights to England. I wasn’t sure how long I stood there spacing, waiting for Bridget to finish glomming onto the Students for Social Justice ponytail guy. But I was snapped right back to reality by Miranda, who had materialized in front of me as if by magic. She was congratulating the first speaker, Greg, and Thad was standing right there next to him. Smiling. At me.
    Miranda smirked at me knowingly. “So, what did you think? Pretty riveting stuff, right?”
    “Glad you guys liked it,” Greg said. He seemed to be pretty taken with Miranda; he couldn’t stop looking at her waist-length braids. Thad, meanwhile, seemed to be waiting for me to say something.
    “It was great,” I said, a little dazed. What did I have to say to him ? Apparently nothing, since I stood there like an idiot. His eyes were very, very blue.
    “Thanks,” Thad said, beaming. “So, do you guys go here?”
    “We’re just here for the seminar. We’re seniors at University Park High here in town,” Miranda blabbed, before I could think of something more impressive. I