Sticky Situation

“OMG, this can’t be happening. No. No. No. No. No….”

My hands cover my mouth while I gape at the blank and seemingly newly-painted wall in front of me, not caring whether I’m making a scene in this small café.

My older sister pulls my shirt back and hisses. “Riley, stop flipping out. It’s just a wall.”

I swing around, look her in the eye and whisper, “It’s not just a wall, Colbie.”

Realizing that my eyes are starting to water, my sister softens a bit. She pushes me towards our table and says, “You go sit while I ask around.”

I slump in my chair and watch my sister approach the new barista on the other side of the counter, gesturing to the blank wall on her left.

True. I’m a very sentimental person. I keep everything I can—receipts from special events, notebooks from elementary, my old uniforms, gifts and letters from friends. I am a self-confessed hoarder of memories and now I’m panicking because some of my best memories used to be on that wall.

The wall is a ten-foot by five space here in my favorite coffee shop. It holds a collection of poems, haikus and messages written by the locals. The best part? Everything is anonymous. No one signs anything. No one asks who wrote the beautiful and tragic poems, but a lot of people relate. It’s a great way to vent without being judged.

My sister is still talking to the barista. She’s probably asking where the notes are and if she could get the ones I’ve posted— which would be tricky because, like I said, the notes have no names on them. And, to be honest, I don’t think I can own up to some of the messages I’ve posted. I just want to see them again—feel the twinge of unease as I read about my sloppy first kiss or feel indignant as I read about my sister losing her v-card to her douchebag of a boyfriend who dumps her a week after.

If the Mean Girls have a burn book, I use the wall to release my pent up frustrations about life, post my dreams and fantasies, share memories with strangers and just revel in the freedom of expressing my thoughts and feelings.

And now that wall is blank. No more messages. With the Post-its gone, I can’t seem to remember other things that I’ve written. And that frustrates the hell out of me.

I sigh wearily as my sister sits down in front of me. She looks as glum as I feel. She holds out her hand to me and I take it, scooting a bit closer and putting my arms on the table.

“The new owner thought the space by the wall had been underutilized for years and it was time to upgrade. Setting up more tables and chairs seemed like a good idea.”

I look at the wall again and, yup, there is an additional four-seater table right there. Huh.

“Exchanged additional four chairs for the freakin’ wall,” I mumble.

Colbie smiles at me. “We don’t own the place so don’t get snippy.”

She lets go of my hand and takes a sip of her iced latte.

Due to my freak out earlier, I haven’t really checked out the place and I’m only now getting a good look. The name is the same—Mugs and Hugs—but that’s about the only thing that hasn’t changed. The walls that used to be olive green are now coffee brown—how fitting. The single pendant lights on the ceiling are replaced by spotlights directed on specific walls accentuated with coffee-related quotes. The tables, although the same old wood underneath, are now topped with glass—ugh. I release a long breath as I realize that this comfy, small-town coffee shop that I love so much has turned into the same coffee shops I see back in the city.

I think this place appeals so much to me because it looks and feels different. And although I know the coffee machines used here and in the city are pretty much the same, this place is special because it feels like summer. When I’m here it feels like I’m in a different world—a world I only get to visit once a year. At least, it used to feel that way.

Summers are supposed to be the best time of the year. Apart from the fact that I can wake up in the middle of the day and not get scolded, I had no classes to rush to and I get to be in my favorite place in the entire world—my mom’s hometown. Summer is also a great time for my parents. They get the house in the city all to themselves while my sister and I get sent off to stay with my aunt for a couple of months. Yet here we are. Day one and it’s not at all a great start to my summer vacation.

I sigh again, still annoyed with the current situation.

Colbie slaps her hands on the table. “You are not putting up bad vibes on our first day here. Don’t you let that”—she points to the empty wall—“ruin summer.”

I bit my lip. “I’ll need a few hours to get over it.”

She leans back on her chair. “You could have written those down on your notebook, you know. It’s your fault you didn’t preserve your memories”.

She emphasizes the word “memories” because, unlike me who wants to always remember, she likes to forget. Too many regrets, this girl.

But she isn’t finished. “God, I hate it when you romanticize every freaking thing. You get heartbroken with the smallest things. I hate to imagine you getting your heart literally broken.”

She shakes her head.

I smirk. “When I literally get my heart broken, I’d die. You know what literally means, right?”

She throws her used napkin at me. Yuck.

“You know what I mean, smartass.”

My sister and I are really close. She’s nineteen and I’m seventeen. We’re about the same height and we sort of look alike, but she’s way prettier in my opinion. She’s got that guys-can’t-take-their-eyes-off-her looks while I have that she’s-not-ugly-but-yeah-she-looks-okay thing going on.

My fashion sense is non-existent that’s why I rely on my fabulous sister’s skills when I need to dress up—which has been a while. Actually, she always offers her services even when I think I don’t need them.

I love her to death, but as she scopes out the coffee shop I want to smack her. She’s obviously searching for a summer fling—always does. If I romanticize about notes and memories and stuff like that, she likes romance. She’s a sucker for falling in love, falling out of it then trying to find it again.

I sit here shaking my head, trying to get over the fact that my most-prized memories on the wall are lost. I will have to go home and try to list down everything that I remember posting there so I can breathe a little easier. My sister’s right. I’m such a weirdo.