by Mia Kerick
It doesn’t even bring me down when Seven says, “I’m only doing this for Morning. I still don’t know about you.”
I nod.
I can handle that, Seven. It’s better if you don’t want to be my friend anyway. He’s way too… distracting.
I sneak one more glance. He really does have gorgeous eyebrows.
Chapter Six: Seven
ONE OF the perks of being the offspring of absentee parents includes my impressive skill in the kitchen. Yeah, I’m a regular Top Chef. I’ve been whipping up dinner for Morning and me since I was ten and she was nine, and my parents declared us “old enough to look after yourselves.” That was when we relocated from our own little nowhere-town in central New Hampshire—where I played soccer and Morning rode horses just like the other kids—to about every major city in Europe, for six-month stints, finally landing in Paris for several years. Rhonda Moreau made a name for herself as a lifestyles photojournalist, with the able assistance of her partner in crime, Edgar Maddox. This left them no time for carpooling and soccer-mom-ing and anything as insignificant as cooking for a family of four.
So I now have forty-five minutes to come up with a meal worthy of my sister’s first social venture since July 22, when everything went to hell. When a lifestyle that was far too independent for teenagers, and about as nontraditional as you can imagine in a wild and crazy way, became frightening. And overwhelming. And intimidating too.
Here I go again, exposing my soul as if I’m a dedicated member of one of those group therapy sessions at Hearts On Fire—Latchkey Kids Unite—or something ridiculous like that.
In any case I’ve got culinary skills and I’m not afraid to use them. Morning, I’m sorry to say, very quickly proved she was not up to the task of being the nine-year-old cook of the house. We had two minor kitchen fires and one burned hand before I took over all cooking duties and Morning became chief dishwasher. I figure almost every forty-five-minute dinner-prep begins with a pot of boiling water, so I set myself to the duty, and when I turn around, it seems that our dinner guest Renzy has silently appeared on the other side of the kitchen. He delicately places a long loaf of crusty French bread in a paper wrapper on the island, and my jaw drops more than is respectable. I hadn’t planned on spending time alone with the guy. Plus I haven’t even taken my apron off. “You’re early.”
So maybe my comment was designed to throw him off his game and to let him know who’s in charge of this dinner, but I don’t see the reddened cheeks I expect. Instead, after looking me in the eye, Renzy moves smoothly to the knife rack, looks them over one by one, and makes a selection. He then pulls the chopping board out from the slot between the toaster and the cabinets. Armed with these tools, he turns to look at me expectantly.
“You can cook?” I toss him the same look of disbelief that I throw Morning when she tells me she wants to make herself a grilled cheese sandwich.
He shrugs, places the board down on the island, and starts to chop absolutely nothing at all.
“Well, I never have been stupid enough to argue with a man who has a knife in his hand.” I go to the refrigerator and grab a plastic bag of broccoli, carrots, and sugar snap peas. “I already washed them. Hope you like pasta primavera, Mr. Chop-Chop.”
I hand him the bag and then go back to the refrigerator to retrieve the cherry tomatoes. This is when something interesting happens. I figured Renzy and I would prepare dinner together in an awkward stony silence, as Morning is asleep again, a side effect of her depression. And the idea rather pisses me off because he was invited to dinner at six thirty, not five forty-five, and who is he to change the plans I set? But instead of suffering with the silence, I notice sounds I never tuned in to before.
While I carefully chop the tomatoes in half on a crockery plate, across the island Renzy chops the carrots at the speed of light on the wooden board. The resulting sound can only be called percussive. At first I’m self-conscious of my participation in this chopping duet, until Renzy stops chopping for a second, looks up at me with those steady green eyes, and then he starts tapping a beat to a song I think I know. I’m immediately impressed. I thought I was the only guy in this backward town that had ever heard of “Ice Cream Strut” by Mr. Beatnik.
So how can I say no when he cues me in to chop the beat of the low brass?
This is such an easy question I’ll answer myself—I can’t! And I’m not the sort to do silly things. In fact I can’t remember doing something even lighthearted before, but here we are in the kitchen, strutting back and forth past our vegetables, like two happy kids who’ve gone out for ice cream on a hot summer night.
Which is when Morning comes into the kitchen. And if she looked shocked this afternoon when I suggested to her we should invite Renzy to dinner, well, that was nothing compared with the look on her face right now. I screech to a halt, landing in quite an awkward, “Look at me—I’m in a boy band” pose. My ass is still vibrating from the righteous manner in which I’d been shaking it.
“For Christ’s sake, Seven! Are you… are you and Renzy dancing?” It seems that Morning isn’t sure what to do with her lips: form the cute O-shape she makes when surprised, grin, or frown. She goes with the O-shape.
I can guarantee you that no chef has ever crossed the kitchen on his way to the frying pan of olive oil, tomatoes in hand, faster than Chef Seven Moreau-Maddox.
“Fifteen minutes until dinner is ready, Morning, so instead of standing there gawking at us, I’d suggest you set the damn table!” My voice sounds harsh, even to my own ears.
I EXPECT dinner hour to be devoid of all sensory stimulation in the company of our silent houseguest, but again I’m proved wrong. Morning and I sit across from each other in our usual seats at the dining room table, and Renzy occupies the head of the table where Edgar so very rarely rests his absentee ass. Here’s where it gets strange—I notice details that have never seemed important enough to take the time to consider.
Like this: the steam rising from the pasta primavera is thick with garlic and cheese, and it makes my mouth water before my first bite. And the farfalle pasta, covered in precisely chopped vegetables, bursts with a bright flavor in my mouth. It’s as if I’ve never tasted this simple dish.
“It came out better than last time.” Morning says precisely what I’m thinking.
Renzy puts down his fork and extends both hands outward from his heart toward her, as if in thanks.
“I used fresh garlic, not jarred… and the cherry t-tomatoes w-were organic,” I stutter, in an effort to take full credit for the extra-delightful flavor.
“No, it isn’t that.” Morning fights not to grin. I know her too well, so I prepare myself for what is next going to fall from her lips. “I think it was just made with more love than usual.”
After that remark I’m happy to enjoy the silence that reigns in the dining room.
NO SOONER do we set our forks on our plates than Renzy starts playing charades. Huh? Is playing a game of charades at the conclusion of a meal an American tradition I’ve forgotten? In any case I think we’re going to be guessing… a movie.
“You want to watch a movie now, Renzy?” Morning asks. I immediately realize that he’s not trying to initiate a game. He’s merely wondering if we’ll be seeing a movie tonight, as I’d suggested earlier today.
Good thing Morning is on the same page as Renzy.
But I’ll admit to being secretly pleased I’m the one who knows he’s into Indie Electronic House music.
Chapter Seven: Renzy
MY HEAD is full of music and the buzz of a 1986 red wine I can’t pronounce.
Morning said it was imported from France—“Like me and Seven,” she quipped—and Seven read us the tasting notes in his loftiest sommelier voice. Something about a smoky flavor? Bouquet of… I really don’t know! I’m graduated from the school of alcohol gets ya drunk! I know, right? Very cultured!
So all evening I just followed the lead of the Moreau-Maddox kids, gently swirling my wine around the
glass, inhaling the heady aroma. When they took a sip, I took a sip. Morning gave me a look—I guess she knew I was super faking.
“You can swig it if you want,” she assured me.
Seven just sighed at his sister.
The 1986 Something French was good but not any better than say, the stuff Mom and Dad have in their wine rack. At least I couldn’t tell that it was any better.
And that’s how I failed in appreciating the wine, but not in getting a buzz off it. It’s a good buzz too. Makes the bus ride home less boring, at least. Everything’s funny when you’re buzzed. Once I’m back in my room, I’m going to listen to my 7-inch of “La Mer” until I pass out.
After a long walk home, I slide my way through the front door. For a moment, I think the blissful buzz will carry me upstairs. But then I hear the telltale signs of a whisper-fight somewhere nearby.
That takes some of the skip out of my step.
I lean back against the wall, steadying myself and listening—just listening—to their angry hisses. It’s the same old shit, new day.
She hates him.
He hates the way she’s acting.
Well, why doesn’t he leave them?
What? And never see the kids again? Right. No way is he letting her ruin his life. Again.
She thought they’d agreed to leave the past buried.
Well, if she hadn’t got out a shovel and started digging at the grave….
Like I said, same old shit.
Pushing myself off the wall, I walk into the kitchen, glancing at them, and throwing a nod of the head as I pass. They both straighten immediately, as if someone jabbed a cattle prod in their spines. Dad looks ashamed, Mom just looks dark. They really hate being caught fighting, especially by the girls.
But it’s weird….
I’m usually so far off their radar that they normally wouldn’t feel caught.
Then I realize it.
A coldness sinks and spreads inside my gut and my throat goes tight. Real tight. Like it used to when the selective mutism began.
They were fighting about the same old shit, but this time I’m involved somehow. I pour myself a glass of water and try to keep my hands from shaking.
Okay, what makes me think this?
She hates him, he hates her, why doesn’t he just leave—All par for the course.
Never see the kids again—Yeah, okay, I suggest the nine iron for this hole, sir.
Not letting her ruin his life—Slight wind coming from the southeast. Clear skies. Looks like it’s a good day for golf.
Again.
Again…. Again.
Something weird stirs inside me.
“Where the hell have you been tonight, Renzy?” my father demands. “We were worried.”
The water is flowing over the lip of the glass, and I realize I haven’t turned off the faucet. I keep my back to them because the look on my face is loud. My father and I aren’t exactly close, but I know he tries his best. He’s saying he’s been worried about me? Well, it makes my stomach do a little uncomfortable flop. I’m not used to this attention.
My mother might as well be a stranger. She hasn’t spoken to me in five months, two weeks, and six days.
I dump some of the water out of the overflowing glass.
“We were worried.” Mom repeats what Dad’s said.
She’s deflecting. She’s angry I caught them. A chill runs up my spine.
I wipe my wet hand on my jeans and finally turn to them.
“Your dinner is cold.”
I glance pointedly at the table. There’s nothing there, no plate dutifully waiting for me.
“Don’t sass your mother, Renzy,” Dad says quietly, understanding my look.
Again.
He said she’s going to ruin his life again, and somehow it involves me.
I walk out of the kitchen, not really expecting either of them to grab me as I move past but feeling strangely disappointed when they don’t even try. We almost had a moment there.
So, it was a totally fake moment full of weirdness, mystery, lies, and dysfunction—but a moment.
I don’t make it all the way to the stairs when I hear them whispering again.
Look what she did.
Right, because it’s never his fault.
Even if it weren’t Saturday, there’s no way in hell I’d go to school. Actually, I’m not going to any of the groups today either, even though the video game addicts are getting together, and they’re some of my favorite people. You know, when I hear the word nerd I just think “passionate.” We’ve all got something.
I wonder what Seven’s passionate about.
Shit.
I mean, Morning.
Okay, that was a weird slip, thank God no one heard me.
See what I did there? I’m a laugh riot this morning, and feeling weird as hell.
But even if Seven wanted to share his passions with me, they’re probably things I wouldn’t be into. BMWs and wine tasting, skiing and…. But it was fun cooking with him. The look on his face when I started chopping vegetables!
Sometimes I wonder what he thinks about me.
Doesn’t speak… must not hear.
Doesn’t speak… must be uneducated.
Doesn’t speak… must not cook.
Doesn’t speak… must not get laid?
That last one makes me laugh. Well, you’ve got me there, In-My-Head-Seven!
I SPEND most of the early afternoon playing music. Music is a big part of how I communicate, so I listen to everything, and I do mean everything. You’ve got those people who say, “I love all types of music… except rap and country.” Nope, not me. Play anything for me, from the indiest “I recorded this in my bathroom” to the overblown Broadway musical, and I will listen and get something from it. If I can add it to my vinyl collection, I probably will.
I don’t believe in “embarrassing” music.
If my new frie—if my new acquaintances ever come up to my room, we’ll be able to talk a whole lot easier with my record player.
I’ve been listening to “Eleanor Rigby” for an hour now. It’s a bit on the nose, but isn’t that the point of speech? To be direct and communicate how you feel?
Right now, I feel like one of the lonely people.
There’s a knock at my door.
What is going on in this house? I went out for a social event, both my parents spoke to me, and now someone is knocking at my door?
I stamp my foot in response and “Eleanor” hiccups before resuming.
Kendall pokes her head in and looks at me. Her lips are pursed around what I can only imagine is a tiny lemon and she’s glaring at me.
I shrug at her. Yes?
She presents me with the cordless phone, the sour look on her face not changing.
“Someone is calling for you.”
I cock an eyebrow at her.
“Right? I told him you can’t talk. Like literally can’t talk, but he said it doesn’t matter.”
He.
I draw a lazy question mark in the air, though I’m actually charged with excitement.
Instead of answering, she tosses the phone to me. I catch it and place the receiver to my ear.
My sister stands in the doorway, obviously not interested in leaving, so I chuck one of my pillows at her. She screeches at me and slams the door, making the needle jump even farther.
There’s silence on the other end of the line.
And silence over here.
I’m waiting for him to say something. He’s waiting for… for what?
I tap the mouthpiece a few times.
Even if this is just a prank call, it’s still fascinating.
I tap again.
“Yes, I’m here.” It’s Seven. I mean, I kinda knew it was going to be him because what other guy in the world would be calling me? But… it’s Seven. “I was wondering….”
I sit up a little bit.
“Morning says it’s way too nice of a day to stay inside. She wants
to see what the town has to offer. If anything. She thought you might like to come.”
Yep, absolutely.
I kinda wish I could be slightly more articulate right this second. It’s really hard to convey hey, there’s this really cool Chinese buffet downtown using only finger taps and button presses.
I tap the phone.
“Is that a yes?” he asks.
I tap again.
“Okay, that didn’t actually answer the question.”
I tap twice.
“Right, just so we’re clear. Once for yes, twice for no. Understood?”
Tap.
“Wonderful. So can you be ready in thirty minutes?”
I tap yes again. I wonder what he thinks I have going on that it would ever take me more than thirty minutes to get dressed. It’s not like I own a tuxedo.
Hmm… but if he wants me to get to his house in thirty minutes, that might be a bit of a problem.
I begin to tap tap tap on the mouthpiece.
Seven sighs, exasperated. “I wish you’d just speak.”
You and Mr. Little, buddy.
“So I’ll pick you up in thirty minutes and—”
Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap!
“What Renzy? Even if you were signing at me you know I can’t understand what you….”
I shake my head, hop off the bed, and go down to the living room where I take the notepad next to the phone cradle and scribble a note to whoever happens to be nearby. That would be Dad. He’s holding Jackie on his lap, and they’re watching a show about cars.
I shove the notepad at him and then hand him the phone.
For a moment he studies me, and I have to smile and shrug before he turns to the phone.
“Hello?” he says uncertainly. “Ah, yes. This is his father. Well, he’s just given me a note with our address on it. Do you have something to write with?”
He gives Seven the address and a few brief directions before handing the phone back to me. I tap the mouthpiece.
“Clever,” Seven says. “So this whole time you can write, but you’ve been making us play guessing games? I’m bringing my iPad.”