Tiffany Tumbles: Book One of the Interim Fates by Kristine Grayson Page B

gave up a long time ago.”
    “Which I’m going to do if you don’t stop flirting,” says the guy behind me. “And then I’m coming back and talking to your manager.”
    Josh rolls his eyes at me, then hands me fifty cents. I put the fifty cents in the tip jar, wishing I had more money (okay, so I like this servant) and go over to the little window where you’re supposed to wait for your order.
    The guy behind me orders a triple shot of something caffeinated with a spurt (his word) of liquid sugar, which means he hasn’t learned the language of coffee, which, my mom told me, is one of the first things that marks you as a Northwesterner. You have to have the lingo down. Which I pretend like I do. Because without magic, I really don’t want to call too much attention to myself. At least as someone different.
    The coffee machine guy sets the mocha in front of me, and I take it, thanking him, then head to my favorite table. I crack open American History , but I’m not really looking at it. I find the dang thing confusing. Apparently everybody knows who this George Washington is and what he did except me. (When that came out in class, the looks I got were incredulous [which is another word I learned last week, only that one in English class] and I felt like a total loser. When the losers think you’re a loser, then you’re really lost.)
    I stare out the window, wondering what the heck a dream is or a goal like Megan was talking about when that Josh kid comes over and straddles the chair across from me. He isn’t wearing his green coffee shop apron anymore, and his hair, in the back, is sticking up like it got tangled when he took the apron off.
    He hands me a chocolate-dipped cookie.
    I take it, frowning.
    “You forgot it,” he says. “Unless it’s a tip or something.”
    “Oh,” I say, and delete the curse I was going to add. Because my curses are weird here. I said “By the Powers” the other day and some teacher in the hallway looked at me like I’d grown fangs.
    He sets the cookie between us.
    I swallow hard. “You can have it if you want.”
    “You look like you need it.”
    What does that mean? How does a person who needs a cookie look? Pathetic? Interesting? Pretty?
    “Thanks.” I take it, break it in half (keeping chocolate dip on both pieces) and hand one to him.
    He grins. “So, I couldn’t find any rock band named Interim Fate on the web.”
    I shrug. “We weren’t very famous.”
    “I guess.” He leans his chair back and grabs a to-go coffee cup from the napkin/sugar packets/stirring stick table. Apparently he left it there, a ploy maybe, so he could sit at my table.
    And I didn’t even notice. Daddy would’ve yelled at me. The magical must be aware of everything around them , he would’ve said.
    But I’m not magical anymore and he’s not here, not that he ever was. Just a naggy voice stuck in my head.
    “So how come you’re downtown on a Sunday?”
    “I got an appointment with my therapist.” The words come out before I can stop them.
    “On Sunday?” he asks. “Now I know you’re yanking me.”
    Yanking. As in yanking my chain, not that anyone has a chain. I’m just learning the slang and not entirely understanding it.
    I could lie to him, tell him, yeah I’m yanking you, but I don’t want to. This is the first conversation I’ve had with someone interesting in a while.
    But I also don’t want to be that pathetic girl who has a therapist. You know, the one in all the movies who is so hopeless that no one can rescue her: not her family, not her therapist, not even our heroes who are the last people to try.
    “She flies in from L.A.,” I say, hoping the flying-in part mitigates the therapist part. Even though she doesn’t fly. She just kinda pops in, like Nicole Kidman in that Bewitched movie.
    “You’re kidding,” Josh says, and he sounds impressed.
    “I wish,” I say and close American History .
    “Then you come here for a much-needed cookie,” he says, biting