The Secret Ingredient

by Stewart Lewis

  “Do you believe all our choices are connected?” I ask him.

  “Well, yes and no.”

  “I feel like things are happening beyond me, bigger than me; some plan is starting to unfold. I felt it this morning, even before …”

  He smiles again, which I’m glad to see.

  “Of course it is, Ollie, and for you, the sky is the top.”

  “The limit,” I say. “Speaking of limits, I know about the restaurant. What’s really going on?”

  “How was Janice?” he asks, clearly having forgotten about the interview until now. Or maybe he was waiting until we were talking about something he wanted to avoid. “She texted me that she hired you. Congratulations!”

  “Yeah. She seems really great. But you didn’t answer my question.”

  “It’s more than the restaurant, Ollie.”

  “What?”

  Enrique’s phone buzzes, and he puts down the avocado toast and starts checking his texts.

  I ask him again what he meant, but he just waves his hand, casually but as graceful as a ballet movement. I take his plate and eat the last bite while heading back into the kitchen.

  Before I get into bed I lay out clothes for my first day at work. When I was little, Enrique would do this for me. He would sneak things onto my outfits that would balance them out—make them seem special even though they were secondhand. His grandmother’s silk scarf. A belt that Luisa gave him to give me. I knew these things didn’t really change the fact that my clothes were used, but the gesture always touched my heart.

  As I try to fall asleep, I picture myself walking through the door to J. Tucker Casting and wonder once again if the psychic woman really knew what she was talking about. Part of me hopes so. A lot of my life has felt like a preparation for something bigger, like I’ve been waiting on a platform for a train to take me somewhere I’ve never been but will recognize when I get there. I think about the chef with his secret ingredient, and I wonder if I’ll ever stop feeling that something is missing—if I’ll find my secret ingredient.

  CHAPTER 6

  The morning sun fills our kitchen with elongated rectangles of light. When I was a toddler, I used to hop in and out of them, imagining that the light held special powers that were transferred to me as I stood inside their warmth. To this day, they still seem like magic to me. I start to slice some melon when I hear the signature squeak of the screen door. It’s Davida, with a very excited Hank on a leash. I think he can smell the ripe melon. I forgot it’s Thursday, one of the days I walk him. I look at the clock. I have time before I need to head to work.

  “Sorry to drop and dash,” Davida says, “but I’ve got a meeting in Santa Monica, and I slept right through my alarm. Haven’t done that in years!”

  I take Hank from her, feeding him a piece of melon, which he swallows whole.

  “No problem. Good luck!” I give her a reassuring smile.

  “Thanks, Chef, you’re a lifesaver. See you later.”

  She’s off, and it’s just Hank and me. I scratch his ears and he licks my cheek. I grab a plastic bag and step outside. The sun shines 340 days a year in L.A., so when it’s cloudy or rainy, people get really depressed and don’t leave their houses. I enjoy the rain, because sometimes, like today, L.A. feels like a movie set where every morning someone turns on the sun and paints the sky blue. Rain makes it more real.

  I decide to switch up our usual route and take Hank down to Sunset. When you’re walking a dog, people just start talking to you. Usually I’m okay with it, but this morning I just want to be in my own head and think. What did Enrique mean by “more than the restaurant”? How did the psychic know so much about me?

  I pass a diner where a bunch of scraggly-looking hipsters are eating eggs and bacon on street tables. Hank smells the bacon, and I have to use significant force to pry him away. Then he actually pulls me down an alley and pushes open a door with peeling green paint, almost like he’s on a treasure hunt. I look around and see that we just came through the side entrance of a used bookstore. There’s a box filled with old paperbacks and some hardcovers, and a homemade sign that says 25¢ with an arrow pointing to a piggy bank that has faded from pink to off-white. I leaf through the books while Hank finds what he was looking for: an old pizza box. Most of the books are cheesy romance novels and random things like manuals and gardening books, but there’s one that draws me in. It’s a medium-sized vintage cookbook. On the cover is a drawing of a woman’s head with thought bubbles coming out of it. Judging by the font and style, I’d say it’s from the sixties, and the title is A Food for Every Mood. As I flip through, I notice there are illustrations next to each recipe. On some pages, there are handwritten notes in the margins, presumably from the previous owner. I check my pocket and realize I only have sixteen cents. I plop the coins into the old piggy bank, hoping that will do. Hank looks at me like I’m a little strange, and to be honest, he may be right.

  Before we leave, I hold the book in my hands, running my fingers across the cover. You will have guidance from someone in the past. I keep staring at the cover, wondering if the psychic knew I would find it or if I was somehow drawn to it because of what she said. Hank barks a little and I place the book safely in my bag.

  When we get back home I put Hank in his crate in Davida’s garage. He whines a little, and I actually consider bringing him to work, but I probably shouldn’t try that on my first day.

  Things at J. Tucker Casting start out smoothly, although I’m pretty nervous the whole time. Janice has me look through a huge file of head shots for a man in his thirties with long hair. I only find a few, but I put them on a thumb drive for her. I silently thank Bell for teaching me to be so Apple proficient. Bell is addicted to Apple products. He was one of the crazy people lining up around the block for the first iPhone. Apple’s the only thing he actually spends money on, besides food and wine. Then there’s me—I’m, like, the only teenager in L.A. without a cell phone. Bell and Enrique have tried to get me to carry one, for emergencies, but I just refuse. Everyone is so attached to their phones, I find it liberating to not have one. I also kind of enjoy how people react when they find out, like I’m some kind of alien. I find it oddly reassuring that I’m a bit different. But mainly, I’m just not a phone person. I prefer to look up at the trees when I walk home, or stop by people’s houses to actually talk to them face to face. Plus, some reports say cell phones cause brain cancer. I don’t know if that’s true, but I seriously doubt that being glued to your phone can be healthy.

  Around noon I hear the silver door open, but no one’s there. I peer over my desk and see a little person wearing a cowboy hat and a denim vest. Janice comes in and whispers in my ear, “I forgot to tell you. It’s a commercial call for a little person dressed as a cowboy. There are four coming—just have them fill out the one-sheeter and wait.” She slips back into her office without acknowledging the mini cowboy.

  I do as I’m told, and, sure enough, three other mini cowboys come, and one is a woman with what looks like a bonnet on her head. What in the world could this commercial be for?

  Thirty minutes later Janice comes out and hands me the sides, again whispering in my ear. “I have a lunch at Paramount. Just have them each read the line and pick the top two. They’ll be called back tomorrow for the director, same time.”

  It’s strange that I’m being given this responsibility, but I start with the woman. The line is “Giddyup!” It’s one of those moments when you ask yourself, How can people just act like this is totally normal? My red face must be quite a sight next to my already reddish hair.

  Here’s the thing I learn at my first casting session: auditioning is just as hard on the person casting as it is on the person auditioning. Each cowboy tries to outdo the previous one, and the “Giddyup!” line gets more and more frenetic and almost menacing. I have absolutely no idea who to pick, never mind the context of the commercial. I remind myself to tell Bell about this. He will find it hilarious.

  I decide on the
woman, because she seemed the most natural. Then I pick the man with blue eyes because he has a great smile.

  After they leave it gets kind of quiet and I can’t find any work to do, so I start to read my favorite food blogs. On the first one, Foodapalooza, a blogger from New York City talks about the rise of food trucks and how it was directly related to Twitter. A guy in Denmark who calls himself Soupdork writes about a trip he took across Europe, staying with people he met on Couchsurfer.com, and how he made soups from whatever was in each person’s fridge.

  One soup was made from mustard, two slices of ham, and a radish. I know it’s silly, but I like reading stuff like this over Perez and Facebook. In addition to the no-cell-phone thing, I’m probably the only teenager in L.A. who doesn’t have a Facebook page. I have a love-hate relationship with technology. Love blogs, hate social networking. I like the fact that I can email Soupdork for recipes, but I don’t want to stare at pictures of my “friends” or read about boring movies or celebrity sightings. Most people in L.A. are obsessed with celebrities, but I honestly don’t care. Just because someone is on a big screen and looks pretty in a dress doesn’t mean she’s an amazing person. There’s a woman on my block who’s a single mother to five boys, works three jobs, and creates these unbelievable paintings of foggy forests and rolling hills. With cheekbones that could cut glass and hips that make shade, she looks more beautiful than any movie star in the world.

  The phone rings three times, and I take messages for Janice on the little pad that says WHILE YOU WERE OUT. Then Janice herself calls.

  “Hey, kiddo, something’s come up, and I won’t be in for a while. Would you mind screen-testing a possible new client?” she asks.

  “Sure, but—”

  “The video camera is already set up in my office. Have him do two monologues—one drama and one comedy. If he doesn’t have material, you’ll find some in a pile on the back shelf.”

  “Okay.”

  “Just make sure he slates.”

  “What?”

  “Have him state his name before he begins. Oh, and have him fill out the form—same one you did with the midgets—sorry, little people.”

  I go into Janice’s office and check the video camera. Seems easy enough. Then I look for the monologues. Before I can even open the ones titled Male—Teen to Early Twenties, I hear a knock on the front door. It’s an older woman with bleached hair in a black business suit. She has a rip in her stocking.

  “Hi, I work upstairs, and a little bird mentioned Janice was looking for someone.” She leans into me as if we’re old friends. “I really want to get into the biz, you know? Behind the scenes.”

  “It’s me” is all I say, which is a really weird response.

  “What?”

  They say sounds are one of the strongest sense memories, like how a song can take you immediately back to a scene in your past. In this case, I hear someone clear his throat, in a soft, polite way, and I’m instantly transported back in time.

  He’s standing behind the bleached-hair woman. It takes a second before I can see his face, but I already know it’s him. Something in my chest tightens, as if I suddenly realize I’m on the edge of a cliff.

  Theo.

  Miraculously, the woman realizes Theo is upstaging her, and hurries off, muttering, “I’ll stop by later.”

  I look at Theo and smile, but it feels forced. Smiling is the most natural thing you can do, but faking a smile may be the most awkward. He still looks like he’s hiding something I want to know. His black hair is longer, spiky in a way that is either perfectly planned or completely random. Bedhead in real life, or Bedhead the product? Either way, when his green eyes go soft and he opens his arms, I am drawn into them by a magnetic force that takes me over. Now my smile is real. I look up at him and say, “What are you doing here?”

  He backs away a little and hands me a head shot. “Long story. What are you doing here?”

  “I work here. What happened to you last year? We were supposed to meet at the ninety-nine-cent store. Then you never came back to work.” I suddenly have this horrible fear that he might not even remember, but he does.

  “I can explain. Can you—can we—can I see you later?”

  For what seems like the next few minutes, we just stare at each other. His acne has cleared, and he seems a little taller.

  “I guess so,” I say finally. “This is just …”

  “Weird, I know,” he says.

  I lean against the bookcase and realize that his presence has somehow relaxed me. My body has gone languid.

  “Do you remember my brother, Timothy?” Theo asks.

  “No, not really.”

  “Well, he has mental disabilities, major. That day, when we were supposed to meet, they said he was being sent away, to Oregon. Some special institution. I had to take him … ’cause my mom … Like I said, this is a long story.” His phone buzzes. “Can we do this later? I’ll come back to read, too. I should really go.…”

  I can see a cloud of emotion come over his face, so I just nod.

  Then he says, “Maybe we could go somewhere, finish talking?”

  “I’d like that.” And I really would.

  “What about the Griffith Park? Tomorrow? I haven’t been since I was a kid.”

  “That sounds nice.”

  The phone rings, and I take another message for Janice. I hang up and look down at the photo he handed me. It looks a little retouched, but his gaze covers me slowly, like sheets falling from a clothesline.

  “What?” he says.

  I realize I am smiling.

  “Nothing,” I say.

  But it’s definitely not nothing.

  CHAPTER 7

  On my way out, instead of pressing 1 for the lobby, I press 12, the floor the psychic was on. Was Theo’s walking into J. Tucker merely a coincidence? I search the doors on the floor. Insurance? Not likely. Lawyers? Nope. Just when I’m about to give up and turn around, I see one more office door at the end of the hallway. It says: TREE OF LIFE: MASSAGE, PILATES, ACUPUNCTURE. Now, that makes sense. As I raise my hand to knock, the psychic comes out, with that same confident look on her face, as if she had prepared for the scene. But she looks different. Her hair is pulled back tight, and her face is flushed.

  “You returned,” she says, with a smile so penetrating I have to glance away for a second. She walks toward the elevator, and I follow her inside. Now the two of us are back where we met, except this time the elevator’s moving and I only have twelve floors to pick her brain.

  “Listen, I know I was skeptical, but I think you’re right. Something happened today—”

  “I am a professional,” she says, glaring at me with those clear eyes.

  “Yes, obviously. But after I saw you, I got the job, and this boy Theo just showed up at my work, and yesterday I found this. It’s from the past, like you said.” I take out the cookbook, which I’ve had with me ever since I got it but for some reason have been wary of opening again, and show it to her. She grabs it and slowly closes her eyes. Then she says, “Where did you get this?” as if it could be a bomb that’s about to go off.

  “At a used bookstore. It was strange, this dog I walk, Hank—”

  She holds up her hand as if the details are beneath her and have no relevance to what’s really going on. She opens the front cover and we both see an indecipherable name, crossed out, and underneath, written in cursive: Rose Lane, 18, 1966. She closes the cover as well as her eyes and says, “This will be important to you, but something else will happen. Today. You will be given a sign, or shown a piece of something larger.”

  “Theo?”

  “No, this hasn’t happened yet.” She opens her eyes, and her sincerity is gone. “You know, I really should be charging you,” she says as she hands the cookbook back to me.

  The elevator lets us out into the lobby, and I follow her, like she’s got my future in her hands. She turns to me with a hint of pity but also maybe envy—I can’t imagine why.

 
“I’m sorry, I can’t give you all the answers.” She starts to walk away, then turns back and says, “We won’t meet again—not for some time. You will know what to do. Trust yourself.”

  The whole way home I look for signs. The old woman on the bus with mysterious eyes, the nervous man with the briefcase. Is she looking at me? What’s inside the briefcase? Is the bus going to get hijacked? I look out the window and smile at my paranoia. I look again at the name inside the cookbook. I see that it was published in 1960. I wonder what it would have been like to be a teenager back then.

  When I get home, the phone is ringing. It’s Bell calling from the bank, and he needs me to read him some information from his closing documents on the house. He tells me to go into his room, to the little desk by the window. When we were kids, Jeremy and I were never allowed near this desk. It still feels a bit off-limits.

  I find the documents, read Bell the information he needs, and hang up. As I put the folder back in the drawer, I notice the corner of a wooden box at the bottom. Bell’s handwriting is on the top, spelling out my full name: Olivia Anne Reese. I pull out the box and place it on my lap, contemplating. What could this be?

  I open it slowly, half expecting to see a small dead animal or something scary. But it’s just some pictures of me as a baby, and a silver rattle. There are some adoption papers from the agency. None of them mention my mother’s name. But the information must be somewhere in the world, right? Maybe in a dusty cabinet at the adoption agency in the Valley.

  Just as I’m about to close the box, I notice a tiny manila envelope tied shut with red string. On the back it says NORTH HOLLYWOOD BANK AND TRUST. I open the envelope. Inside is a small key with 74C on it. It must be a safe-deposit box. At a bank right near my adoption agency. I take the key out and turn it around in my hand a few times. I can feel my heart speed up. Suddenly I hear the downstairs door open, and I scramble to put everything back, except for the key, which I put in my pocket.