Shea

My twelve-hour shift at the café goes late into the night on Sunday. Thankfully, I'm not late for school on Monday morning. It's been two weeks since I started classes at Boucherie, and I haven't missed one. I think this qualifies as a new low for me. But if I want that scholarship, if I want to even dream about getting into Boston University, I need to keep my grades and work ethic up. It won't be an easy task. Finding a balance is how I'm going to win this battle.

Exhausted from lack of sleep and the looming onset of sore muscles, I pull my baseball cap down and lean forward in the uncomfortable plastic chair. I bury my face in my arms and count down the last seconds of class. I have one more class after this, and then I'm free for the day. Skipping class would have been much easier. And because I'm in a shitty mood, I blame KJ for everything. He's the one who provided insight on improving my behaviour. I think his words are getting to my head.

When the bell rings, I make a beeline for French class. Harrison follows me—I can hear her ratty sneakers squeaking against the linoleum. Damn whatever underlying force synced our schedules. Damn them to hell. I'm tempted to make an appointment with the school counsellor and have her rearrange my schedule. Being as far away from Harrison as possible is the remedy for my headache. She's the student who raises her hand whenever the teacher asks a question. The kind who always scores in the nineties on her tests. She's a modern, real-life Hermione Granger. It drives me nuts.

I make it to class, and the room is already filling up. There's a scarce number of unoccupied desks for me to choose from. I choose the one that's closest to the back. Teachers rarely notice me texting my buddies at KSS when I'm sitting in the back of the classroom. I usually sit beside KJ, but he decided to sit with a different friend today. Besides, I think he's still pissed at me.

Five minutes tick by before the bell rings. I pull out my notebook and textbook. They're going to act as buffers while I doze off. I toss two pens on top of it. If this looks real, no one will question me.

Class ticks by in microseconds as Mrs. Lapointe blabs on and on about verbs and nouns. I'm ready to slam my head into the wall. French is a waste of time. I'm never going to need this language because I'm never going to move to a French-speaking area. It serves me no purpose. I'm also bored as hell. I'm wishing I had some Ativan to knock myself out.

"Can anyone tell me the verb for 'to be'?" Mrs. Lapointe asks.

That's when I notice there's something off about this class. Harrison isn't here to answer the question or ignite a class discussion. I glance around the room, surprised. I could've sworn she was following me down the hallway after Calculus. Huh. Hopefully she got sick and decided it was best to go home. I'd call that a blessing in disguise. Suddenly, this class doesn't seem too bad.

Feeling smug, I raise my hand.

Mrs. Lapointe, dressed in blue jeans and a pink blouse, calls on me. "Shea?"

"Être is the verb you're looking for," I reply, tapping the eraser of my pencil against the desktop.

"That's correct," she smiles. She turns around to write it on the whiteboard.

My smugness escalates. Maybe French isn't as bad as I thought.

But my happiness dissipates when Brenna walks in five minutes later. She obnoxiously states she had an appointment with the educational advisor. She also gives Mrs. Lapointe a note. And you know what else? The teacher just smiles—smiles at Harrison like she's the definition of a perfect student and ushers her to join the class.

And just when I thought my mood couldn't get any worse, I realize how full the class is. It's so damn full that the only empty seat is the one next to me. I stifle a groan, wishing I could throw myself out the window. Having every single class with her is bad enough, but sitting next to her? I'd rather cut my own balls off than spend a moment next to her. We're enemies, both on and off the ice, and I doubt that's going to change.

Harrison's not happy with the seating arrangements, but she's not one to make a scene in front of her fellow peers. She gazes at me with indifference as she sits down, pulling out her notebook and pen. With no hesitation, she begins writing notes. I notice that she glances at my blank notebook, and I have to suppress a snicker. Was she going to consider asking me for notes? Because even if I was taking notes, I wouldn't give them to her.

More time passes, and before I know it, Mrs. Lapointe completes her "lesson" and jumps right into discussing the final project. It's replacing our final exam.

"Exams are a waste of time," she says. "They don't allow you to show what you've learned or how you display it. So, instead of a final exam, I'm going to pair you up and assign a different topic to each pair." She glances around the classroom. "And, to make this fair and easy, the person you are sitting with will be your partner."

The whole classroom groans, complaining about how they wanted to pair up with friends.

My head snaps up. Harrison drops her pen, her violet eyes widening. "Oh, hell no," I hear her mutter.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" I mutter.

Out of morbid curiosity, we glance at each other. She looks as disgusted as I feel. At least we agree on something.

Mrs. Lapointe continues to explain what our final projects, depending on which one we're assigned, will look like. She continues on until the bell rings. When it does, Harrison gets up so fast her chair almost tips over. She leaves behind her backpack, pens, and notebook and walks right up to Mrs. Lapointe. After playing hockey against her for so many years, I can tell a lot about her current mood just by her body language. Her stance stiff, back ramrod straight, and fists clenched at her sides. It's the same body language she displays when the refs don't call a penalty. She's pissed.

Tired of drama, I stand up and shove my belongings into my backpack. Although I hate to admit it, I'm just as pissed as she is. There's no way in hell I'm pairing up with a girl like Harrison. Fuck that. I'll do the project on my own if I have to.

"Shea," Mrs. Lapointe calls. "Will you please come to my desk? It appears you, me, and Brenna need to have a chat about your partnership."

"For fuck's sake," I mutter, slinging my backpack over my shoulder. These types of conversations are a waste of my time. But then I hear KJ's words replay in my head. I make a mental note to whip his ass later. His stupid voice keeps defacing my personal philosophy—to not give a shit.

"What?" I ask.

"It appears you and Brenna have some... issues about working together. Am I correct?"

I bite back a bitter laugh. Everyone in the Okanagan knows how much Harrison and I hate each other. We're like the Canadiens and the Maple Leafs—an epic rivalry that will last for eternity. We're oil and water. "That's an educated guess," I shrug.

"I'm not working with him," Harrison seethes, jerking her thumb at me. "No way in hell. Please, Mrs. Lapointe. Shea and I can't work together."

"Sadly," I reply, side-glaring Harrison. "I have to agree with her. We'll end up killing each other."

Mrs. Lapointe shakes her head. "I'm sorry, but you have to work out your differences if you want to pass this class. If I allow you to switch partners, then that means I must do the same for the class. Bending the rules will leave people out. It would be unfair. I hope you understand."

"Damn it," I mutter.

Harrison rolls her eyes like a five-year-old caught in a hissy fit.

Mrs. Lapoint continues on. "Don't be pessimistic. I know you're both excellent hockey players. My suggestion is to talk about similar interests and see where that goes. It may improve your relationship. This project isn't due until the beginning of January. I know it seems like a lot of time, but it will slip away. Start now and ease into it. You'll be thankful, trust me."

I suppress another sardonic laugh. Is she on crack? We hate each other. I don't think bonding over a French project is going to improve our relationship.

"Fine. Whatever," Harrison grinds out. "We'll find a way."

She storms back to her desk and gathers up her belongings, leaving me with our teacher, wondering what the hell we're going to do with this project. I have the powerful urge to make a case against Mrs. Lapointe, but she seems adamant about her rules. We're not getting any slack in this situation.

We're stuck together.

*  *  *

When I arrive at the café, my cousin, Noah, is already dealing with an influx of customers. There are people dressed in suits and skirts and blouses who need their dose of coffee to make it through the rest of their shift. Students from Okanagan College are bent over their homework and snacking on scones.

Tatiana's Café is in Kelowna by the Landmark buildings. It's known as the business hub area, with its tall, reflective buildings and several restaurants. We're the only coffee shop in the area, meaning we're also one of the busier places.

I sneak in through the back door, hanging my jacket and backpack up in my locker. My apron is hanging up next to the kitchen door. I grab it and pull it on, taking my sweet time. I'm tired from hockey practice and school—I could use a nap right about now.

"Yo, Smith," Noah calls. "Get your ass in gear, man. We've got orders piling up. I need help."

"I'm coming, Smith," I reply.

Tatiana's Café has been in the family for generations, meaning it's changed a lot. When I first started, we were in a much more traditional location—I mean, it's been around since before they built the Landmark buildings! It was when Kelowna was smaller. Back then, we used to sell coffee and small snacks like muffins, cookies, et cetera. Over time though, my grandma, the one and only Tatiana, decided that we needed to adapt to society's "flow." We now serve lunches, including sandwiches and soups, and loaves of bread and our own brand of coffee that's only available in the Okanagan. It's steady income because it's one of the older buildings, which is something people in Kelowna gravitate to; they like places that are well-known and will be worth their money.

When I step into the spacious work area, I'm overwhelmed by the number of people. The tables and booths are full, several people are waiting in line, and five people are waiting for their takeout coffees. I don't know how Noah's been able to handle this on his own.

"Took you long enough," he says. He grabs my wrist and pulls me over to the cash register. "You can take over here. I'm going to make these coffees—we all know how much you hate it."

I snort, spinning my ball-cap backwards. Ironically, Noah is the one who hates coffee... But he can make a better cup than I can. And that's probably because I like mine black, no cream or sugar. KJ always tells me it's a visual representation of my soul.

Pasting a fake smile over my tired lips, I turn to the next customer. "How can I help you today?"

The first two hours are insane. Noah and I run around like chickens that have just had their heads cut off. If I'm not dealing with a customer at the till, then I'm making sandwiches and filling bowls with our daily soup. If Noah isn't making lattes and giving people shots of espresso, he's in the back, baking more cookies and muffins. It's hectic.

By the time things slow down, I'm on the verge of falling asleep standing up. I can barely think of going home and making dinner for Chelsea, let alone picking her up from her friend's house. We might have to revert to Timmie's for dinner. Chelsea loves their grilled cheese sandwiches.

"Thanks for dropping Chelsea off at school this morning," I tell Noah. Things have calmed down, so I'm tackling the pile of dishes. I set a dry coffee cup on the shelf above the coffee machines. I grab the next cup and begin washing it.

"It's no big deal, man," he shrugs. "Chelsea is my cousin. I'll help whenever you need it." He pauses and side-glances me. "Are things still nasty at home?"

"Yeah," I sigh.

I'm hoping to catch a break for the next couple of weeks, though. Dad has left for Seattle on a business trip, and Mom is on vacation with two friends from college in Vancouver. Chelsea and I will be able to relax, but I'm going to need Noah's help. My schedule clashes with Chelsea's. He tells me he's okay with it, but I feel bad. Noah has a life outside of work. I feel like I'm taking it away from him. "I appreciate it," I yawn. "How's your first semester at Okanagan College?"

Noah shrugs. "It's okay. Biology pisses me off. I feel like I wasted four hundred dollars—it's a review of grade eleven. The parties are fun, but still meh. Many people are still transitioning from immature idiots to adults."

I wrinkle my nose. "That's bullshit. How do they get away with that? You shouldn't have to pay four hundred dollars for a bio class if it's only a review." I try to come across as unimpressed when I'm actually terrified. I'm calculating how much money I have in my bank account. If a single bio class costs that much, then God knows how much the entire program is going to cost. My stomach flips.

"It is what it is," he sighs. "It'll all be worth it, though. Once I have my degree, I'll be out of here and working as a paramedic. At least I have basketball to count on. School would be overwhelming without basketball."

I glance around the building, taking in the birch flooring, the brass accents, the pendant lighting, and the backsplash of hexagon-shaped grey and black tile. Suddenly, the room feels smaller, and Noah's words echo in my head. I rub at the kink in my neck. What happens if I can't make it to Boston University? What happens if I don't carve a spot out in the NHL for myself? What happens if I'm stuck taking care of Chelsea?

I exhale. No. I have to stay focused. My options are slim. I need to make it to the NHL so I can provide for my sister. That's all there is to it. I have to hope something will work out in my favour and give me a chance to make it to the NHL.

"Yeah," I agree, my voice shaky. "I love Grandma's café. It's perfect for relatives that need work, but it's not a permanent job. This is textbook money. This isn't housing or insurance or food money."

Noah raises an empty cup in my direction. "Cheers to that."

I give my cousin a tight-lipped smile. If a miracle occurs and I make it to Boston, how long before a scout picks me? How long will before I'm making enough money to look after Chelsea and myself? More importantly, who will look after her when I'm gone? I can't throw her on Noah. I can't leave her with our dysfunctional parents.

Sighing, I set the cup on the shelf above me. 

Playing hockey in Boston is feeling more like a dream than a reality.

But even as doubt reverberates through my body, I can't help but feel that pinch of hope. I have the mindset and skillset to make it. Hockey players have fire in their hearts and ice in their veins. The burning passion inside me is too potent to give up. So, for now, as I continue to wash and dry the dishes, I grasp onto that passion and hope, telling myself everything is going to be okay.