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The happy face at the end of the sign is mocking me.

No. I have to get this essay submitted. Without scholarships, I won’t have a chance at affording tuition even if I get in.

Another pang of anxiety streaks through me— I haven’t heard back from UCLA yet, and it’s driving me wild.

I can’t— I can’t stay here in this cramped house with my mom and all my aunties and cousins.

I’ve got big dreams and I’m getting out of here.

I’m going to save the world. This is the next step of the Plan and I need to do it.

I bite my lip, thinking quickly as I power walk out of the library, my heart pounding rapidly against my rib cage. I have to find another option, and fast.

“It’s okay, there’s still time,” I mutter. I repeat it again until I’ve convinced myself. Do you hear me, universe? There’s still time. Please. I just need somewhere to connect, somewhere to sit—

I look down the street; should I go back to the car and try to drive somewhere?

No, I don’t have enough time … My brain swirls with panic, and I can feel my nerves starting to fray with every thought, my heart racing and the worry and doubt starting to seep in.

I can feel the thoughts starting to get away from me already; if I don’t turn in the scholarship and I don’t get any of the others I applied to, I’ll be stuck with no prospects of how I’m going to pay for college and the Plan is going to fall apart…

Focus. I need focus. And coffee.

Wait. This is Main Street—there’s a bunch of shops and diners and an indie coffeeshop or something like—yes! There. I see it: a sign shaped like a coffee cup, just down the street.

I run, my backpack bouncing against my back as I narrowly avoid pedestrians and an angry bicyclist who shouldn’t be riding on the sidewalk anyway.

Main Street is wider here; this is the old part of town. Oak trees that have seen better days line the pavement, and a big divider with dried, brown grass lies in the center of the street. brOWN IS THE NEW GREEN , the sign declares. Drought as usual.

The coffee cup sign stands out against the fading, long-out-of-business storefronts.

There’s a shimmer of air pulsing around the sign, or maybe just the shop itself.

Wow, it really is that hot. There’s no name on the sign; it must be new.

Then again, I can’t remember the last time I was this far down Main Street.

I exhale a sigh of relief at the hand-lettered OPEN sign at the front of the shop and push my way in.

The door jingles merrily as I enter; low jazz music plays softly, a light piano accompanying a wistful saxophone.

There’s a polished grandfather clock standing proudly in the corner, whose hands tell me I still have at least ten minutes.

I can feel my panic start to subside. As my eyes adjust to the soft, warm light of the coffeeshop, I notice immediately that it’s empty.

A small place, with a couple of booths along one wall, a few round tables, and some squashy armchairs in the corner. Perfect.

I set down all my things and head to the counter, blinking at the chalkboard menu. It looks incredibly complicated. Apparently people must customize their drinks all the time. The shop’s flavors are cute, themed around moods or something, like “Slow Me Down” or “Rewind” or “Wake Me Up.”

“Espresso, espresso, espresso…,” I mutter to myself, but I can’t find it anywhere on the menu.

“Be right there with you,” says a voice underneath the counter. I can only see a blue baseball cap as its owner’s head digs for something. “You know what you want?”

I don’t have time to decipher this menu or to chitchat about this coffeeshop’s hipster specials. My heart is skyrocketing with panic, and words start tumbling out of me. “Sorry, I’ve never been here before, but can I just do an iced coffee with two shots of espresso…”

“You want a Pick-Me-Up? House special.”

“Sure, I just need to get this done… I’ve got a scholarship deadline in the next ten minutes so I gotta…”

The voice is amused. “No worries. I’ll bring it to you.”

I set a twenty on the counter before darting back to my table. “Thank you so much! Keep the change!”

There’s an unsecured network called Mr. Freezy’s, which I don’t think twice about connecting to. I exhale with relief when I see the connection symbol light up. I roll my shoulders back, load up the Fields Forward website, and log in. I can do this.

I set my TARDIS on the table for luck. I fly through the digital application, doing a quick review of my short answers and making sure all the files are uploaded correctly.

A silvery mug is set down next to me. I take a generous sip. It’s some heavenly concoction of espresso and iced coffee. There’s a hint of vanilla and cinnamon, and something else, a bright flavor that makes me perk up right away. No wonder it’s the house special; it’s amazing.

A calming peace settles over me. The music is a soft, constant murmur, quick and encouraging, and with every sip of my coffee, I have new determination to finish.

5:56.

I give the whole application one more once-over and then press SUBMIT . The website reloads, and I get a cute thumbs-up image and a canned confirmation message. I slump back in my chair. Done.

I close my eyes, watching a swirl of colors dance behind my eyelids, counting slowly. I can relax for a little; only a minute, and then I’ll get out my to-do list and evaluate what else needs to get done tonight.

Thank you, universe.

There’s a laugh, bright and tinkling. “Wow, when you said you really needed to get it done, you meant it. You finish?”

I throw my arms into the air and whoop victoriously.

There’s a chuckle. “Congrats.”

I open my eyes and look up right into a pair of bright brown eyes, warm with amusement.

Wow, really, thank you, universe. The girl is incredibly cute, with a heart-shaped face and a smile that seems perpetually sunny.

Wisps of black hair escape from her baseball cap, framing her face with soft tendrils.

“I’ve never seen you here before. You go to Devonsford? ”

“San Pablo.”

“Mm-hmm,” the girl says, drawing out the sound thoughtfully. “I’m Kat.”

“Brenda,” I say, suddenly nervous.

Kat grabs the chair next to me and spins it around. She’s wearing a white crop top and baggy vintage denim overalls, revealing an expanse of golden-tan skin at her side as she sits astride the chair backward and regards me with a grin.

I can’t think of anything else to say, even though I know I’m known for rambling and usually saying too much.

I rack my brain for something, anything to say, something cool, but the only thought running through my head is cute girl cute girl cute girl , and I keep getting distracted by the slope of her bare shoulders, the easy warmth of her smile.

Kat glances at my empty cup and smiles. “You like the Pick-Me-Up?”

“Yeah, definitely, thank you.” I give her a sheepish smile in return. “What’s in that, by the way? It’s really good. I feel like it was exactly what I needed.” I’m not lying. It was like magic—the calmness and focus that settled over me as soon as I took a sip.

Kat grins. “It’s my specialty. Technically the shop specialty, but I find that Pick-Me-Ups aren’t always effective if you add sugar, so I used vanilla instead, and I added a shot of Willpower, too. Looks like you needed it.”

She slides my money back to me across the table. I glance at the slightly crumpled green bill sitting on a paper menu I hadn’t noticed earlier. Sammy’s Coffee and Pick-Me-Ups it reads across the top.

“No, seriously, keep it and the change,” I insist. “You literally just saved me right now.”

One of Kat’s overall straps slips off her shoulder, dangling as she shrugs. “Don’t worry about it; it’s on the house. Plus, you finished your scholarship, and it’s your first time here.”

I can feel blood rush to my face as I try not to stare at the high, rounded curve of her biceps, and I glance back at my laptop quickly, trying to resist the urge to clap my hands to my face to hide. I always turn bright red when I’m embarrassed—or interested in someone. I hope I’m not too obvious.

Kat doesn’t seem to notice, just gestures at my keyboard, lifting an eyebrow. “This is cool. Where’d you get it?”

“Huh?” I glance at my keyboard cover. It’s a bit dirty, but the bright neon green is still visible and looks absurdly bright in the soft warm colors of the coffeeshop.

“Oh, that was a present from my friend Erica. She knows I’m a klutz and was like ‘this way you can be cute and in the event you spill something, you won’t totally ruin your life. ’”

I pick at the cover, lifting the corner a little to show it’s removable. “So, ah, you go to Devonsford?” The high school across town is one of San Pablo’s bitter rivals; even though we’re both public schools, Devonsford is in a much nicer area of town.

“Yeah,” Kat says. “It’s not bad. I used to go to San Pablo, but I transferred a couple months ago to Devonsford.” She shrugs. “My dad’s happy; they’ve got the best advanced spelling program in the city.”

I nod. I knew competitive spelling bees were a thing, but I didn’t know you could take a class in it.

But I definitely know all too well about trying to get into all the advanced classes, even though my mom says she’ll always support whatever I want to do, I still feel that pressure.

To make her proud. To show that her sacrifices were worth it.

“Are you first or second gen? My grandparents came over in the ’80s when my mom was a kid, so technically I think that makes me second gen since I was born here. ”

Kat chuckles. “I always get first and second confused. Like, are you first gen if you’re born here or when you settle?”