Bananas are berries, but strawberries aren't.
The inventor of the frisbee was turned into a frisbee after he died.
The inventor of the Pringles can is now buried in one.
And as weird and creepy as these silly facts are, I have no idea why I'm saying them.
Let's just say spilling useless facts at the drop of a hat—or most times with no hat-dropping action involved—is my brain's way of coping with stress.
I work part-time at a small café after school every day, and since the holidays, I'm there full-time—from morning until closing—cleaning, taking orders, and generally doing everything except cooking or making coffee.
Let's just say my cooking philosophy is simple: if it doesn't explode or set off the smoke alarm, it's a success.
Considering that I'm practically banned from the kitchen, with a sign on the door that reads, "Out of reach for Daisy Thompson," you might say I've had little to no success rate so far.
My life's basically predictable. Open doors, clean the café, take orders, and help wash dishes. And all that for 50 bucks a day. Believe me, it's not every day you find that kind of job when you're basically a walking tornado of disaster waiting to happen.
Things were supposed to go the same way today—the clean, take orders, and wash routine.
That was until I pulled up by the café this morning to find a thousand cameras parked by the shop's door, with people in black-and-white and multi-colored outfits prancing around in a state of organized chaos.
Right then and there, I had one question:
The FBI wears navy blue or black, right?
Because if they weren't here to arrest me for stealing chocolate bars off the counters on marathon sales Saturdays, what were they here for?
Sheila, the college girl who works the bar with me on Wednesdays, Fridays, and Saturdays, danced up to me, her face twinkling and her eyes bulging. She's tall and pretty, just like Tori, and she gets excited over the little things in life, like a new packet of Choco-Chamos, her favorite cereal, and can practically do three cartwheels and spins over a ball of soda. Knowing her, she could probably just be all wound up about the different ways to make your coffee brown.
"OMG, Daisy, you would NOT believe!" she squealed, shaking me so hard I saw stars.
"Believe what? Tell me Albert Einstein's in there!" I yelled, and she shot me a strange glance, frowning.
I know. I'm gifted at sucking the light out of people with excessive weirdness.
"He's dead, Daisy," she said, and I held my shoulder high.
"I'm still of the opinion that he ran to the Caribbean and hid in a submarine under the sea."
Okay, weird much?
Work, brain! Work!
"Anyway, what's up? Did the FBI find out we sell a cup of coffee for double the price? We're the only café on this street. We have the right to monopolize…"
"There's a shoot going on!" she yelled, breaking into my rambles. I squinted.
"A what?" I gasped, wide-eyed. "A shoot? Who's shooting?" I let go of my bag, running up to the first cameraman I could grab. I held him hard on the shoulder, shaking him frantically. "We've done absolutely nothing wrong! Consumer exploitation is not punishable by death!"
"What is wrong with you?" he yelled, shrugging me off. Sheila grabbed me by the arm, pulling me back.
"What are you doing, Daisy?"
"They're trying to kill Mr. Cameron! Are you just going to stand there and watch?"
"Kill Mr. Cameron… Oh, Daisy, you silly girl," Sheila said, nudging me. "I meant a photo shoot. A fashion campaign. And it's all happening in our café!" My eyes widened, and I held her hand, squealing and skipping.
"Really?"
"Yes, really."
"Let's go see!" I grabbed her hand, and we skipped inside, forcing our way through the massive throng of people standing outside the café. Onlookers gathered around, taking pictures and shooting videos. Our once invisible café was the in-spot of the town. Just for today, though, but it still meant a lot. Sheila held onto my hand as we squeezed our way in. At the front door, though, an all-too-tall, burly woman the size of two people and my two left feet (I still don't know how that fits) stood, barricading the entrance with the grumpiest frown on her face.
"Hello?" I beamed, holding out my hand.
Seriously? I need TREATMENT! "I'm Daisy, and this is Sheila. We work here…"
"No outsiders allowed," she said, staring at the signboard behind me. I cleared my throat.
"Uh… we actually work here, miss…"
"No outsiders allowed," she repeated in that same gray monotone. I bristled, and Sheila stepped forward, pulling on her cheekiest grin.
"I'm Sheila, and she's right. We work here…"
"No outsiders allowed," she repeated once more, and I stared at her, frowning. She didn't seem… human. She stood too straight, too rigid. She wasn't even blinking. I waved my hand in her face, and she didn't flinch once. I beamed and nudged Sheila, who beamed back.
"Did you know that in China, 30 percent of bodyguards, waitresses, and café cleaners are humanoids…"
"She's a robot, Daisy," Sheila whispered back. "I get it. Let's sneak through her."
"Sure," we tiptoed closer, and I peeked at her once more. Still rigid. Thank heavens. We moved a tad closer, trying to force her out of the way. She stood even more rigid and harder. Sheila let go and held her waist, heaving.
"Are robots supposed to be this heavy?"
"Well, considering the fact that they're made of steel and titanium the size of approximately 10-20 kg, they have to be." Sheila shot me an exasperated look.
"So what do we do?"
"Push her out. Come on," I said, wrapping my hand around her waist. "Give me a boost." Sheila drew close, wrapping her arm around the robot, and together we huffed and puffed, pushing her. I spotted a little doggy chain on the pocket of her dress and dangled it, giggling.
"The robot carries a doggy chain, Sheila," I said. "Weird, huh?"
"Daisy, you're supposed to be helping!" Sheila panted. I laughed and dangled the doggy chain once more. Sheila stood up a tad straighter and glared at me.
"Daisy!"
"Okay, okay, I'll stop," I pouted. "One more push?" She glared, and I made my fingers smaller, squeezing one eye shut. "One more teeny-weeny push?" She glowered, and I held up my hand in surrender. We wrapped our arms around the robot once more, and sneakily, I gave the doggy chain one more slap, and it tumbled down to the floor.
With a ringing phone attached. Since when did robots have phones? Phones that actually rang and ACTUALLY fell out of their pockets?
How long had I been asleep last night?
I squinted at it, at the screensaver,
It was the robot woman. Sheila stared at me, and we bit our lips, gasping and looking up.
Robot woman was glaring down at us, cheeks red and eyes glazed.
OH… Oh.