Joan
Streetlights reflect off the wet pavement, casting glowing stripes of yellow and blue over the road and sidewalk. I jog through the rain, awkwardly clutching my bag under my coat to prevent water from dripping inside and hurting my computer with my precious term projects and internship application on it. No stupid storm will put my master’s degree or a summer internship at NASA in jeopardy.
I reach the Clockwork Cafe and Bakery, the place my roommate, Nisha, recommended. I’ve never been here before, but I need a change of scenery. Something outside of the MIT campus, outside of Cambridge and the typical student cafes full of stressed-out undergrads cramming for finals, where that mood of last-minute panic permeates the air like a gas leak.
So I took a quick bus ride over the river to this quiet street in Back Bay. Sandwiched between a tiny health food store and a bookshop that closes at five p.m., the cafe’s wooden sign juts out from the tall brick building, dangling under a working clock. I smell fresh bread and espresso the moment someone opens the door to leave. I grab the door to step inside, push my hood off, and pat my blond pixie cut so I don’t get hedgehog hair. I can already feel tufts sticking out on the back and top. I probably look as frazzled as I feel.
A few people sit at the mismatched tables. A skinny dude with giant glasses and a scruffy beard working on a laptop. Two people about my age on what looks like an awkward first date. Some others I don’t bother to look at. Antique odds and ends clutter the shelves on the walls: books, toys, teapots, old clocks set to different times. High on the wall behind the register hangs a menu board listing teas and espresso drinks in artistic chalk lettering, accompanied by drawings of coffee mugs and tea bags. Below that, floating shelves of glass jars contain different types of loose tea. Baskets of rolls and muffins under a plastic shield line the counter, separating the seating area from the kitchen. Mumbling voices mingle with the clinking of cups on saucers, spoons in mugs.
Behind the counter is the kitchen—a bright, open room where a tall, slim man with his dark hair in a bun kneads a giant wad of dough. He looks to be in his late twenties or maybe even early thirties. The lines in his forehead and around his eyes don’t completely fade when he relaxes his face. His eyebrows knit together, dark eyes glaring as he scans the room.
“Where the hell is Luna?” he says to a petite young woman with chin-length dark hair.
“Probably out watching the rain,” the girl says in a dainty, musical voice. She leans against the counter behind him, turning a pink china teacup over in her hand.
The man curses and punches the dough, leaving a fist-shaped indentation. His olive complexion and eyes look just like the girl’s. I wonder if they’re siblings.
“Just clear the tables, that’s all I ask,” he grumbles before noticing me. His eyes widen briefly. “Gabby, help her!” he hisses at the girl, jabbing his finger in my direction before turning and storming out the door at the back of the kitchen.
“Oh,” Gabby says, looking at me for the first time. A tiny gold star on a chain sparkles in the V-neck of her slightly faded pinstripe dress. Her fine features light up with surprise, like she had no idea there was anyone else in the room. Putting her teacup down, she steps up to the register. “What would you like?” she asks, eyes sparkling.
I scan the menu and rows of tea, debating whether I need a big or small hit of caffeine. “Um, Earl Grey and a lemon scone, please. To stay.” Small hit. At least to start.
Gabby presses a few keys on the register. I’ve counted out exact change and drop the coins in her extended hand. The drawer pops open, but instead of depositing the coins right away, she examines each one before plinking it in the correct slot.
“Oh, this one was minted in 1963,” she says, inspecting one of the quarters. “That’s quite old for a quarter.”
What the actual hell?
She drops it into the register, now scrutinizing a penny. “Oh! This is from the seventies, so it’s real copper. Did you know modern pennies are just zinc with a copper coating?”
“I think I’ve heard that, yeah.” I look behind me to make sure a line isn’t building up. It isn’t.
“I’ll start your tea,” Gabby finally says, smiling at me. I nod, then grab a plate from the stack, select the biggest scone in the basket, and pick one of the smaller tables to set up my computer.
“I can do this,” I whisper to myself as I open my laptop. I click the file “A New Age of Space Travel: Possibilities for Exploration Beyond Mars,” by Joan Sanders. I’m supposed to present this project to a panel of NASA reps tomorrow morning, and I’m nowhere near finished. This project is kicking my ass.
It’s not like me to leave something to the last minute, but this project has freaked me out from the beginning. After all, I’m only a first-year master’s student competing against doctoral candidates with IQs higher than the number on my student loan statement. But that summer internship has my name on it. I knew it the second I saw the announcement on my advisor’s door, still warm from the printer.
I need something that’ll stand out. If there’s anything that’s shocked me about MIT, it’s how much I don’t stand out. I sailed through my undergrad, picking everything up easily, but grad school is different. MIT is different. This is where the big kids play. And I’m only finishing up the first semester of my master’s program in astrophysics.
I take a deep breath and put my fingers to the keys.
Typing sentence by labored sentence, I nibble at my scone as I flip through my notes. I startle slightly when a pair of hands places a mug of steaming tea on my table, a woman’s hands with the same olive skin as the two people behind the counter. I assume it was the girl who was making my tea.
“Oh,” I gasp. “Thank you…” I look up and forget what I was about to say.
It’s a different girl, mid-twenties maybe, perhaps a year or two younger than me, dripping wet, with silvery hair that falls just past her shoulders. She wears a soaked blue apron over a sleeveless flowered dress that’s thin and faded. How is she not freezing? Her lips part slightly, giving her a dazed look. My breath catches in my throat. She has the lightest blue eyes I’ve ever seen, almost the pale silver color of her hair. They stand out like shining stars against her olive skin. At first I wonder if she’s blind, but her eyes focus on me for a split second and she smiles softly before her pupils slide away from mine, looking right past me. Through me. Without a word, the girl turns and drifts away, arms limp at her sides, dripping a trail of water behind her.
This must be Luna, the girl the guy was so grumpy about. I shrug it off and get back to work, taking my time with the tea and scone. The scone is amazing. I look up at the guy in the kitchen, who’s wiping down the counters, wondering if he bakes all the cafe’s pastries and if they’re all as good as this. I could eat here every day.
Gabby, the girl from the register, carries a stack of trays past him and says something that makes him roll his eyes, but he smiles. The corners of his dark eyes crinkle. He hasn’t had a shave in a while and his nose is a little pointy, but the effect isn’t at all unpleasant.
Stop getting distracted, Joan. Work. NASA. Move it.
I drop my eyes back to my screen and drag out another sentence. My silver charm bracelet clinks on the keyboard, the tiny sun, moon, star, and rocket charms tinkling as I type.
Eventually, I’m the only one left in the cafe. I’m not sure what time they close, but I get the feeling I should pack up. I finish the last sip of now-cold tea, leaving the dregs in the bottom, before closing my laptop and slipping it into my bag.
When I straighten, my heart jumps into my throat. The silver-haired girl stands by my table, holding my plate and empty mug.
“Holy sh—” I exclaim, then stop myself. I hadn’t even heard her coming. This girl has a gift for sneaking up on people. “Um, thank you,” I mumble, shrugging into my coat and swinging my computer bag over my shoulder. She doesn’t answer, but stares down into my mug, frowning. Suddenly, I’m very uncomfortable.
“Thanks,” I say again. I stand and move around her to get to the door. I look back just before I step outside. This time, she looks straight at me, eyes wide, gripping the mug so hard her knuckles are white. My stomach churns. I yank on my hood and step into the rain.
Shivering in my coat, I stride down the street to the bus stop, wishing I’d brought gloves. It’s almost May. Shouldn’t it be warming up soon? I reach into my pocket for my bus pass when I hear the screech of car tires behind me.
I don’t have time to turn or scream.
Then, someone slams into me from behind, knocking the wind out of me. We fall to the pavement. Sharp pain shears up my arm, palms, knee, and the side of my face as the sidewalk shaves off my skin. My left wrist snaps and I cry out. Behind me, I hear a crash, the crunch of metal on stone. Rubble rains down on us.
Then, the world is still.
The person on top of me breathes hard. I finally take a gasping inhale. Oddly, I catch a whiff of fresh bread.
“Ow…” I wheeze, too shocked to say anything else.
The person who pushed me scrambles up. “Are you alright?” says a man’s voice.
I hiss through my teeth as I roll over, cradling my wrist. A face swims into focus above me—dark hair, cheeks and chin covered in stubble, brown eyes wide with concern. It’s the guy from the cafe, still in his white apron. He offers a hand, which I take.
He helps me to my feet. My face and palms sting, but my wrist throbs with white-hot pain. I take a deep breath, pinching my eyes shut.
“You’re bleeding,” Cafe Guy says, reaching back to untie his apron. He pulls the strap over his head and hands it to me. “Here, use the clean side for your face.” He looks grimly over my shoulder.
I turn to see a black Mercedes, half buried in the window of a brownstone boutique. Shattered glass and chunks of brick litter the pavement. A streetlamp flickers above us, illuminating the wisp of steam curling from the front of the car.
A person slumps in the front seat, still.
Cafe Guy approaches the car and I limp along beside him, apron dangling from my hand. “Sir?” I choke as we reach the driver’s window.
It’s a thin, sandy-haired man in his early twenties, wearing a baseball cap and flannel shirt. He doesn’t stir.
“He’s not moving,” I tell Cafe Guy, scrambling for my cell phone with my good hand. “We need an ambulance.” I pat my pockets, but I can’t find my phone. It must have come out of my pocket when I fell.
“I’m on it,” he says. He pulls out a phone, and his voice fades in my ears as he talks to an operator.
“Sir?” I say again. I touch the driver’s shoulder and wiggle it. The man falls limply to the side, light eyes blank and glassy.
“Oh, god.”
Cafe Guy hangs up the phone. “They’ll be here in five minutes…” His voice trails off as his eyes fall on the man in the car.
I crouch, the impact of the last few minutes finally hitting me. I feel sick and dizzy. Pain blooms in my wrist and I feel it start to swell. I shut my eyes tight, but I still see the man’s dead, flat eyes.
A hand grips my shoulder. “Come sit down,” Cafe Guy offers. My eyes well with tears of pain and shock. I allow him to guide me to a bench in front of one of the stores a few doors down, where I can’t see the man in the car. People across the street stop and stare, whispering to each other. Sirens scream in the distance. My vision swims.
Through the yellowish haze of my sight, I see two figures running toward us—one small and dark-haired, carrying something, and the other taller with silver hair, a step behind her. The girls from the cafe, Gabby and Luna.
“Here,” Gabby says, wrapping a blanket around my shoulders.
I’m too nauseous and tired to protest. Luna drapes another blanket over my lap, blank eyes staring straight ahead. I close my eyes.
“Help’s coming,” Cafe Guy says.
“The driver…”
“We can’t do anything for him. The EMTs will take care of it.”
I do my best to curl into a ball, letting my head droop until my chin touches my chest. I want to thank him, but I can’t think straight.
“I’m Thiago,” he says. “Thiago Cardoza. And these are my sisters, Gabby and Luna.” I look up at him and he smiles tightly, like he’s not used to smiling. I smile back, or try to.
“Joan,” I respond. Dizziness overtakes me and I squeeze my eyes shut. Through my eyelids, I see flashing blue and red lights approaching from down the street.
