I keep ten dollars with me at all times, strictly for emergencies and necessities like Fruit Stripe gum. Not frivolities such as eating in coffee shops.

But this day felt different. Anxious. And I was hungry. So, sort of an emergency.

Inside, Blackbird was crowded and too hot, but bread definitely was baking, and also pie, and coffee brewing. I stood in line before the glass case of cakes and scones, and on the bottom shelf, at toddler eye level, were baskets of the most intricately decorated sugar cookies I had ever seen—shapes of mice and owls and even ferry boats, frosted in perfect green and white just like the real boats, only with sparkling sugar and tiny frosted-icing words: Washington State Ferry. Works of art.

The line moved, but the girl in front of me, face in her phone, did not notice or step forward.

The girl at the register rolled her eyes. Black hair in a high bun, very pierced ears, black Sub Pop tank top. She was maybe Japanese American? And looked my age but couldn’t have been, because inked across both her forearms and shoulders were elaborate, beautiful tattoos that would have taken years—ocean waves, birds, and words, and across her clavicles, a pine branch with cones. Her name tag read Kira. “Next,” she called.

The girl in front of me also looked my age. She was taller than me, white, dressed in jeans ripped in a way that there was no point in calling them pants anymore. She wore a cropped shirt and had long, dark hair that reminded me of this one mom I lived with who was always getting Brazilian blowouts. This girl leaned against the glass and drawled, “Give me a latte, nonfat, no foam, like none, and let me see…” She took her time considering every single crumb in the case before deciding, at last, on “cookies.”

Basicest of the white basics, Zola called girls like this one.

Kira sighed. “Which kind?”

“Um…” Line Girl texted some more and knelt down to take a picture of the cookies. “Boats.”

“How many.”

“All of them.” Line Girl smiled.

Kira closed her eyes and exhaled. She made the latte, set it on the counter, and then assembled a paper box, lined it with tissue, and nestled all eight beautiful ferry boat cookies in two careful rows.

Ten years in nearly twice as many schools gave me sense memory for classic, run-of-the-mill mean-kid bullshit. This whole exchange had a familiar tone.

Here was the windup:

Line Girl paid with a twenty, Kira gave her the change in coins, and the girl dropped them into the empty glass tip jar beside the register.

The pitch:

Line Girl picked up the latte and the cookie box, smiled brightly once more at Kira, and turned to go.

The swing: