Free The Latte Rebellion by Sarah Jamila Stevenson

where, if you just ignored it, it would go away. “Nothing. Just … I’ll tell you later.” Leonard came back with two clear-glass coffee mugs and a plate holding Bridget’s bagel. I was about to put a couple of quarters in the tip jar when I noticed another jar next to it. Taped to it was a slip of paper that said “Rebellion Collection,” with a crude pen drawing of our logo. Next to it was a stack of our flyers.
    “What is this?” I pointed at it, incredulous.
    “Oh, Carey and I thought of that,” Leonard said. “We thought it’d be a good way to get a few extra donations for the cause.”
    “Oh really . Well, thanks, but I think we’ll be okay with the T-shirts.” I crossed my arms and glared at him.
    “Hey, don’t knock this idea so soon. You might need the Rebellion Collection to pay for overhead costs, if you don’t sell enough shirts.”
    Bridget laughed. “Unbeliever! You wouldn’t be saying that if you’d seen the shirt.”
    “Believe me, I already ordered mine. I can’t wait,” Leonard said dryly.
    I’m sure you can’t , I thought. I’m sure you can’t wait to get into Carey’s pants. If you think she’s going to fall all over you just because you said you’d help with the Rebellion, then you’re in for a surprise.
    Then again, judging from Carey’s intense interest in his tattoo, maybe Leonard was the one who needed to watch out. And maybe I’d just have to let Carey chew him up, spit him out, and get over him.
    “This shirt is amazing ,” Miranda said, reverently. “It’s really cool.”
    “The v-neck looks good on you,” I said, packing away the remains of my lunch and wadding up the paper bag.
    “Thanks.” She beamed and turned around in a circle to show it off.
    “The Latte Rebellion thanks you ,” I said with a satisfied smile. “We wouldn’t even have the shirts without you. And you’re helping us augment our London fund.”
    Miranda had been enthusiastic, earlier, when I told her about my idea to try to make it as far as London, but she’d been just about delirious when I agreed to maybe form a club after all.
    “This is so perfect,” she’d said, jumping up from our table in the quad and pacing back and forth behind me, her long braids swinging. “Our school needs this, if we ever want to move past these dated, static racial categories. I mean, if you order a latte, it’s not just going to be a latte. It’s going to be a soy milk half-caf, or a double with no foam, or a single with a shot of vanilla and a sprinkle of cocoa. Tons of ingredients, tons of options.”
    I thought I’d had the monopoly on goofy coffee metaphors, but when combined with the jargon about “static racial categories,” Miranda had reached new heights of absurdity. Absurdity so classic it would go straight onto the Rebellion website.
    “I’m half-caf, double strong,” I said, flexing my biceps Arnold-style and grinning.
    “That doesn’t even make sense,” Carey said. “Those cancel each other out.”
    “Come on, guys, I’m serious. With the Latte Rebellion, you can be whoever you want to be, because we’re all mixed up.” Miranda sat back down next to me, but I could tell she was still fidgety. “Even the President can’t disagree with that.”
    “Yeah, yeah.” I was still smiling, but when we tried to get Carey to be more enthused about the idea of a club, it didn’t go quite as well. I told her about Thad and Greg’s presentation, and she accepted the London proposal without comment, but as I expected, she was hesitant to add anything new to her schedule. Plus, things were still a little tense between us since our run-in at the café with Leonard. Every time I promised myself I’d talk to her about it, I always ended up convincing myself it would be better to just let it go.
    It was easier, and less awkward, to talk about the Rebellion instead, even if she wasn’t on board yet with the new plan.
    “I know it sounds like more work to hold meetings,” I said