The Casquette Girls (Book 1)

14. T-Minus One

October 20th

"Why don't you guys just have plain New York coffee?" Isaac asked, pushing the tips of his dirty-blond hair out of his face. An assortment of colorful hemp bracelets covered his left wrist along with a military-looking watch, and the sleeves of his dirty gray T-shirt hiked up just enough to reveal that his biceps weren't as tanned as his forearms. As soon as his shoulders relaxed, his hair fell back in his face. He pushed it behind his ears again as if on autopilot.

Today was really no different from the last eight; only today I was having trouble suppressing the urge to drop-kick him as he asked for a refill.

"Oh, I know where you can get some plain New York coffee," I said.

His big brown eyes lit up.

"In New York. I'm sure they would looove to have you back."

He started laughing. "Are you sure you're from around here? Aren't southern girls supposed to be hospitable?"

I wanted to jump across the counter and strangle him. Instead of getting angry, he was actually being congenial for the first time. Is this how New Yorkers are? Be mean to them, and they like you back?

"So, where are you from?" he asked.

I was still a little taken aback by his nonobligatory chatter.

"I'm from around the corner." I knew exactly where this conversation was going. I'd had it a hundred times with tourists over the years, but it had never truly annoyed me until the question came from him.

"You were born around the corner?"

"Well, technically, I was born in a hospital a couple of miles away, but I was raised my whole life, minus the last two months, around the corner from here."

"You don't sound southern," he replied in his usual know-it-all tone.

Films and TV shows almost always got the New Orleans dialect wrong, further perpetuating the incorrect assumption that we all have a twang. It was a pet peeve of all native New Orleanians. Even though Isaac was correct—my accent did sound nearly identical to his—I scowled, not wanting to be disassociated from my hometown, especially not now.

"Are you some kind of expert on southern dialects?"

"Uh, no. I just thought—"

"You just thought we'd all sound like Scarlett O'Hara?"

"I guess. I don't know . . . You seem to really love this place."

"Well, yeah. It's messed up right now, but you're an idiot if you can't see why I love this place."

His smile cocked. I call him an idiot and he smiles?

"Maybe you could show me around sometime? Take me to see some of the things that were so great?"

"Are so great. The city isn't dead!"

"Right . . . I guess I've only seen the dead parts."

He was not helping his cause.

"So how about it?"

Is this some coy way of asking me out? And like that, my defensiveness flipped into nervousness. I slammed his coffee mug down, sloshing the contents over the rim. "Sorry, I don't have time. Too busy trying to keep things from dying."

"Fine, sorry I asked."

He went back to his table, jammed his headphones on, and started furiously moving his pen.