Free The Latte Rebellion by Sarah Jamila Stevenson Page B

street. She was still staring out the side window, drawing squiggles in the condensation on the glass with one finger.
    “Have you even looked at the guest book on the website?”
    “Not since you first put it up. Why?”
    “Well … it’s interesting. One person was all ‘you go, girls’ and that kind of thing. I think it was Miranda’s friend Ayesha. And then someone else was like ‘people like you need to go back where you came from.’ Can you believe that?”
    “Wow,” I said, my voice coming out in a squeak. I hit the brakes jerkily and pulled up to the curb in front of Carey’s house, reeling. Who would say something so blatantly offensive and ignorant? It felt even worse than what Roger had said. At least he wasn’t afraid to own up to his dumb comments. This could have been anyone. It was the Internet , for cripes sake. I felt a little sick. “Why didn’t you mention this before? That’s crazy.”
    “No kidding,” Carey said, opening the car door. “You need to take a look, then tell me if you want to form a club.”
    I blinked, not sure why my eyes were suddenly stinging. I couldn’t tell if I was shocked, affronted, or enraged—or some unholy combination of the three.
    “Carey, if there are still psychos out there who think brown people should ‘go back to where we came from,’ then we really should form a club. Maybe the Latte Rebellion is sorely needed. Maybe we have real work to do.”
    Carey snorted and got out of the car. “Sorely needed? Now who sounds crazy?”
    I didn’t care how it sounded, though. I knew this was the right thing to do. I mean, seriously. Go back where you came from ? If people were actually spewing that garbage now , in the twenty-first century, there was zero doubt in my mind that something had to be done. As Carey herself liked to say before getting on the soccer field, the best defense was a good offense.
    “Hi, Mr. Rosenquist,” I said a little shyly, shaking his hand as Miranda and I arrived outside the Student Council office. I’d never had him as a teacher, but he was famous around school for being younger than most of the other teachers—in his late twenties—and for doing a lot of unconventional projects in his psychology classes. Miranda said he’d be interested in the Latte Rebellion club, and she was right about that.
    “Asha, right? Call me Chris. Ms. Allison speaks very highly of you.” He grinned. Ms. Allison was my English teacher this year, and as far as I could tell, she hated her job, so her liking me was news to me. “I’m flattered you’ve asked me to help with your club. It sounds very avant-garde.”
    I wondered what, exactly, Miranda had told him about it. “Well, we’re glad you’re willing to be our advisor,” I said nervously. “Thank you.”
    “Not a problem, not a problem.” With a flourish, he pulled our neatly rolled-up paperwork out of the pocket of his leather jacket. “My John Hancock’s already at the bottom. Let me know when you want to start holding meetings.”
    “We’ll keep you posted,” Miranda said.
    “Can hardly wait.” Mr. Rosenquist gave a little wave and strode off toward the teachers’ lounge.
    We opened the door to the Student Council office, where we were meeting with a representative from the Inter-Club Council and one of the ICC teacher advisors to get the Latte Rebellion approved as an official student organization. But as soon as I saw who was sitting behind the round table in the cramped, institutional-green-painted room, I felt my stomach drop to the bottom of my lucky tennis shoes.
    Wouldn’t you know it. Our Inter-Club Council representative was Roger Yee. He was sitting there smirking with unrestrained glee, and I knew immediately that this wasn’t going to go well. And Vice Principal Malone, sitting next to him, was just plain scary. Ms. Allison may not have liked her job, but Mr. Malone didn’t seem to like students .
    “Have a seat,” Mr. Malone said impassively. I handed