Mr Coffee (Sophomore Year, shortly after Ebon's first attack)
I felt my way down the stairs, yawning and rubbing sleep gunk out of my eyes. It was Sunday, which meant I got to sleep in, but I was also gonna have to come up with an alibi for when me and Richie went on patrol later. Maybe call up Daisy, spend the rest of the morning with her, but tell Pops it was the whole day? Yeah, that'd probably cover my afternoon.
Downstairs I found Sharon leaning on the kitchen counter, her head buried in her arms.
"Uh, Shar?" I hoped to God she wasn't crying, that she was just sleepy and waiting for coffee.
Sharon groaned. "Why does everything have to break all the time?" She sounded angry, real close to tears.
"What do you mean?" I asked, aware this was a risky move. She might get mad at me, or worse, cry.
"The coffee maker, the clock, the TV, everything!"
I winced. Those things were my fault, but it wasn't like I could help it. Fortunately Sharon didn't see my guilty face as she wiped her nose on her sleeve.
"I can chip in," I said. "I got some money saved up." 'Some' was an understatement.
Sharon shook her head. "It's not that, it's just..." She hiccuped, took a calming breath. "It was Mom's."
"Oh."
I looked at the old coffee machine, probably older than me and Sharon combined. It was more yellow and brown now than white and gray and most of the letters on the logo and the settings had rubbed off, but you could still make out the flower inside the O of Coffee.
"I bet Richie could fix it," I said without thinking.
Sharon just sighed, not questioning Richie's improbable fix-it skills. "Aunt Linnie gave us a new one for Christmas year before last. It's in the garage."
"Oh, yeah." I remembered it now, and the very weird reaction it had got out of Pops. I guess I'd never put two and two together until now.
"I still think about her a lot," Sharon said, not meaning Aunt Linnie.
"Yeah, me too." The two of us stared at the busted coffee maker for a little while.
"You want some instant?" I said. Pops always had some on hand just in case he didn't have time to brew a real pot.
Sharon blinked, seemed to pull herself back from the past. "Sure."
I got out two packets, dumped them into two mismatched mugs, added water and stuck them in the microwave, which miraculously still worked.
"It's just..." Sharon started to say, then trailed off, staring into space.
"Just what?"
"Just, when I was little, she always worked real early in the morning. I'd go down and sit on her lap. It'd be dark and quiet outside, and I thought that was so cool. Like everybody else in the whole world was supposed to be in bed, but we were special and allowed to be up. Even if all I got to do was sit there and watch the coffee drip and listen to the radio."
I laughed. "What about the guy on the radio, was he special too?"
Sharon smiled, almost laughing as well. "I was like five. I don't think I understood the radio guy was a real person."
The cups went around a couple more times in the microwave, then the machine binged and I took them out.
"Since when do you drink coffee, anyway?" Sharon asked as I added a bunch of sugar and creamer to mine.
"Since, like, last week."
"Well, whatever. Don't let Pops know. He thinks it'll stunt your growth." We sat and drank coffee for a minute, then Sharon glanced at the clock. "Shoot. I gotta go. I'm meeting Jenny for test prep." She took a gulp of coffee, made a face and went back upstairs.
I sat at the kitchen table, nursing my coffee and staring at the gross old machine on the counter. I'd never say it to her face, but I was glad Sharon had told me that. About her and Mom and getting up early. It made it so the coffee maker, or even just coffee in general, was a special thing for her. Kinda like how a couple will have a song that is "theirs." And then later if they break up, maybe that song would remind them of all the good stuff. Or maybe not. I'd never had a song with anybody so I was only guessing.
My Mr Coffee thing was my hair. It was kinda stupid really, which was why I didn't want to tell Sharon or anyone. A few days before the riots, I'd asked Pops if I could get dreads. He'd said no, so I asked Mom and she told me, 'Virgil, it's your hair, you can do what you want with it.'
Looking back now, I think she was just tired and didn't want me bugging her, but at the time it had felt like, wow, I'm so grown up, I can pick my own clothes and my own hair. I didn't actually get it done until last year, when Pops finally deemed me responsible enough to not let them get gross.
"Later, V!" Sharon shouted, the front door slamming behind her. Once I had heard the car pull away I went back to my room and grabbed my shockvox, called Richie.
"Hey, bro. You busy?"
"Nah. What's up?"
"Can you do me a favor and fix something?"