“Can I take your order?” The barista was a bottle blonde, wearing more makeup than anyone should, and incredibly tall - though here, she would probably be called a Venti. Thin, too. I couldn’t see her eyes, but I was willing to bet they were bloodshot. She seemed like the type of person who had been running her hands through her hair her entire life.

      “Yeah, um, let’s see,” I began, clicking my tongue at the menu. Here came the awkward part. Well, awkward for me. Probably just annoying for the line of tween girls slumped behind me against the glass pastry case. When was I going to learn? I had spent every afternoon at Starbucks for the two months since I’d been given this assignment and still took a solid three minutes to place my order. But over the past week, I had developed a rather effective system: just ordering the most ridiculous-sounding option, usually of my own invention.
      “Okay, I’ll have the...” I craned my neck, struggling to read the menu. Some of the names I had to read about four times over to understand. Some I read four times over and understood less. The only name I was sure of was Kimberly, the one I had given myself for the day. After about thirty seconds of almost audible eye rolls from the girls behind me, I bit my lip and said in the snottiest voice possible, “Yeah, so I’ll take the... iced, half caff, ristretto, venti, four-pump, sugar-free, cinnamon, dolce soy skinny latte?”
      Oh, there were Venti’s eyes. Not as bloodshot as I’d expected, but just as pissed. “Excuse me?” She locked her gaze on me as she fumbled for a cup, trying to decide if I was pulling her leg. I could feel a wave of crimson embarrassment creeping up my face but prayed that my spray tan would cover it. Not that I would know from experience; spray tans were a whole new orange mess to me. But sometimes, it was hard to tell what life I was living.
      Pretending to be a different caricature every day was disorienting, not to mention downright exhausting. Each night I collapsed onto my twin extra-long dorm bed, not sure what sort of makeup I had on and not really caring. It would wash off in the morning, I always told myself. Whether it was nine layers of fuschia eyeshadow, a thin coat of black mascara, or half-smudged glittery yellow lip gloss, I would start the next day as plain old Courtney.
      “Could you repeat that, Miss?” This barista had zero time for my internal monologue. I repeated my order even more slowly in the same sickening voice and waited for her to dump a scalding mug of coffee over my head. But she didn’t. She just rolled her eyes and turned toward the canisters of coffee beans, sugar, caramel sauce, and God knows what else.
      Plain old Courtney, I thought, slipping back into my reverie. “Plain old” didn’t even seem necessary because surely it was everyone’s first thought when it came to my appearance. Medium-pale complexion. A few freckles here and there. Average nose, average teeth. Thin brown hair that couldn’t decide if it wanted to be straight or curly. Not quite medium-framed, not quite petite. Cloudy gray eyes. Just your typical nineteen-year-old college student, really.
      That was what made rooming with college-applicant-poster-child Kassandra so difficult. Her golden hair fell perfectly without any sort of care, and she spent about four minutes doing makeup that would have taken me hours. Two, easy. Maybe three. She was the only reason my Starbucks characters had any hope of realistic makeup. She rarely had a sweatpants-and-hoodie (my voluntary uniform) type of day, but when she did, she killed it. On top of her looks, she had been the captain of her exclusive Carnegie Hill prep school’s varsity lacrosse team, co-founded a community service club for wounded veterans, and aced an alarming number of AP classes. Don’t mind me over here in small-town Delaware trying to figure out how to hold a tennis racquet and multiply six by three.
      “Sorry,” began the barista, not sounding sorry at all. “Could you repeat the last part about the sugar-free... nutmeg?”
      “Oh my God,” I said in my best valley-girl accent, trying hard to bite down a smile. “I told you like twice already. Sugar-free, cinnamon, dolce soy skinny latte!” Okay. I had to admit it. Playing a caricature hadn’t been my first-choice assignment for the semester, but it was certainly entertaining. I mean, this was my work. Homework was just reporting back on how my day went. No tests, no pop quizzes. Perks of being an acting student, right? “This is v. annoying,” I couldn’t help adding. I let the word stretch on until the barista couldn’t take any more.
      “All right, Miss, my apologies,” she snapped, shutting her eyes. I felt guilty for a second or two about making her job so trying. But I’d spent enough time at this Starbucks to see plenty of real-life Valley Girl Kimberlys here. Glancing around, I spotted two other fake blondes (not including Little Miss Sunshine behind the counter) and a handful of girls whose tanning had had a rather raisin-like effect on them.
      But there were other people too. Tons of them. That was what made Starbucks such an ideal setting for this experiment. Infinite caricatures were lying around this coffee shop, and I could never be ridiculed for trying them on. The crowd supplied me with more than enough material to work from, and the school program even paid for my lunch. It wasn’t going to get much better than that.
      That week had been a particularly successful one, as far as my acting went. I had kicked it off as the stereotypical hipster Delilah, complete with oversized glasses and beanie, ordering a black coffee because I wanted to "stick to the roots." Tuesday I was Sammi, the argyle-clad honors student who asked shyly for a Pumpkin Spice Latte. Yesterday, I was a Lululemon fiend named Grace who kept asking for more protein powder in her Sweet Greens smoothie. And now here I was, fake-blonde and spray-tanned Kimberly, demanding virtually every qualification possible. Who knew what I would be tomorrow?
      “The name’s Kimberly,” I told the barista, and watched her write down “Linda.” I opened my mouth to comment. One thing that never changed between my visits was the misspelling of my fake names. But I remained silent, realizing how long I had kept everyone waiting behind me. They looked as homicidal as could be expected (this was their latte time, after all), so I scuttled along to the edge of the counter to wait for my drink. It was ready in the nick of time, probably because I wasn’t welcome to stay much longer, and I scurried to my usual back left corner table to people-watch for tomorrow’s performance. Halloween. Now that would really need to be special.
      Customers flooded past me on their way through the doors. In. Out. Like a breath. People of all races and backgrounds and personalities and a million other things that set them apart and made it so damn hard to switch between them each time I walked in. I envisioned myself returning to Starbucks the next day as Computer Engineer Andrea or Opera Singer Bianca. No, those weren't interesting enough. I would find something perfect. I always did. That was my one saving grace in acting, aside from the adaptable face that could resemble anyone’s with a little work. I didn’t have a personality of my own. Maybe that was why I chose Starbucks, where people reveal their personalities simply by sitting alone and drinking coffee. Because then, they aren’t acting for anyone.
      “Come again,” the barista called flatly to everyone who left the store, clearly hoping they would do just the opposite. But I knew. I would be coming again.