The Latte Rebellion by Sarah Jamila Stevenson Page A

really,” he said. “We went back and forth for a while on which model we were going to use, and then I got kinda p.o.’d at him last week because he slacked off and did this slam poetry thing he’s into, but nothing major.” I could hear him smiling. “Why?”
    “Oh,” I said. “I started this … thing … at school with a friend of mine. And I’m not sure she really wants to be involved now. I thought she was into it, but …” I cringed at how stupid I sounded, suddenly unsure I wanted to tell him about our ideas. What if he thought they were juvenile, amateurish? I pictured myself trying to explain the Latte Rebellion to him, and everything coming out all wrong.
    But he might be interested, too, said a quiet voice inside my head, which I quickly smushed right back down. Come on, I told myself. He knows nothing about you. You just met this guy, you talked to him for a total of ten minutes, and you think he even gives a crap? He doesn’t want to hear about your little problems.
    In the end, caution—or was it fear?—won.
    “I guess we just had different expectations of the project,” I finally said.
    “Sorry to hear that,” Thad said, and because he didn’t ask for more information, I didn’t elaborate.
    It was my dad who asked for information, once I’d said goodbye and flipped my phone shut.
    “Who were you talking to? What’s this about a clinic project?” He leaned too casually on the door frame. I’d left my door open, and clearly he’d been eavesdropping.
    “It’s just this … guy I met at that club meeting I went to with Bridget,” I told him. “He’s working on a community clinic project.” I smiled a little, thinking about Thad, but my smile turned to a grimace when I thought about how utterly non-smooth I’d been on the phone.
    “A guy?” My dad shifted and peered at me as if he suspected I wasn’t telling him the whole story.
    “ Yes, Dad, a guy . Jeez, do you have to interrogate me about everyone I talk to?”
    “Asha, please. I’m just asking a question. I’m trying to take an interest in your life.” He sighed and straightened up. “I know you’ve been busy with school, so I’m glad you had a chance to do something with Bridget. I just don’t want you to get distracted.”
    “When was the last time I got distracted?” I was now extra glad my parents didn’t know about the Latte Rebellion. “I’ll be fine. Remember, you gave me that speech about time management when I started high school. I won’t let guys distract me.” I fidgeted on the bed, then added under my breath, “Like any guys are ever interested in me anyway.”
    “Let’s not start that,” Dad said with an exasperated sigh. I didn’t want to start down that road either—that way lay madness and melancholy—but Dad really hated it.
    “Just … keep your eyes on the prize, kiddo, and don’t blow it,” he said shortly, and left. I shut the door after him and flopped back on the bed. Relieved, yes, but to be totally honest, I was still thinking about Thad. Awkward phone call or not … something about him made my innards fluttery and my brain gooey. Or maybe it was the other way around.
    Either way, I realized that I didn’t really have the grounds to accuse Carey of anything Leonard-related when I was just as clearly guilty of letting myself get—as my dad would put it—sidetracked. Unfortunately, this was not one of those realizations that made me feel like a weight had been lifted from my shoulders.
    I adjusted the paper bag on my head; my forehead was sweating and I hoped it wouldn’t soak through. A month to the day after the first Latte Rebellion meeting, we were holding the second official meeting, back at Mocha Loco with its increasingly familiar burnt-coffee smell. It was just like before—a couple of our posters hanging on the wall behind the table where we were sitting, the three of us sipping our lattes and waiting to get started under the watchful gaze of our cartoon alter