The Jock and the Fat Chick

by Nicole Winters

  “Hey, Mom? Okay if I cook dinner?”

  She looks up from her romance novel. “Wow. Is it my birthday?”

  I chuckle. “No.”

  She coughs, and it sounds all wet and phlegmy. I wish she’d try to quit again.

  “Whatcha gonna make?”

  “I’m thinking eggs.”

  “That sounds good.”

  I head for my computer to watch a video on how to make an omelet. When the young British chef says to “add a knob of butter” to the pan, I laugh. The camera then zooms in on his face as he begins chopping onions wicked fast. His brows knit together, looking serious as his tongue sticks out a little.

  I head back to the kitchen and grab eggs and spinach. I’m not sure how much to use of each, so I crack half a carton’s worth and wash all the spinach.

  I whip the eggs in a bowl until they’re frothy and then add some salt and pepper. I wonder what else I could put in there to make it taste good, so I check out Mom’s spice collection. There’s nothing but cinnamon and onion flakes, and they’re both the same shade of pink. That can’t be good. I chuck them.

  Salt and pepper it is.

  I lay the rinsed spinach onto the plastic cutting board and pull out a knife. I hold it the way Claire taught me, by grasping the bolster for more control. I also remember the psycho killer imitation, and smile. When I cut, my knife performs nothing like the ones at Claire’s. It’s like I’m using a plastic spoon. I turn the blade over and test the edge’s sharpness with my thumb. Yup, dull as a spoon, too. I muscle my way through the job and reach for the dial on the stove. I’m about to crank the heat to max when I remember that’s the way Mom always does it: cooks everything on the highest setting. Maybe that’s why the food’s always burned yet raw in the middle. I choose a medium heat and then add a “knob of butter” to the pan before pouring half the eggs and adding a handful of spinach strips over the top. As the sides start to firm, I psych myself up for my first pan flip, like how the English chef did it in his video. I shake the pan first, making sure the egg isn’t sticking, then I suck in a breath and flick my wrist. Whoooo! The omelet flips all right, but lands with a soggy splat, splashing egg onto the stovetop, the counter, and my shirt. The second omelet is perfect, mostly because I fold the egg over rather than flip it. That one will be for Mom.

  “Smells good,” Mom says, walking into the kitchen. I set the table with placemats and cutlery, and use paper towels as napkins. I grab some orange juice from the fridge and pour two small servings.

  “Breakfast for dinner,” I announce.

  She smiles, taking a seat. “What’s the occasion?”

  I shrug. “Nothing. I just thought I’d try cooking.”

  I watch her cut into the fluffy omelet using the side of her fork. She takes a bite, chews, and when she tells me it’s good, my chest swells, just like when I take a shot in the net.

  After dinner, I finish a tough chemistry assignment, and as a reward, I log on to the internet to surf sports videos. My phone buzzes. It’s a text from Claire.

  Hey

  Hi

  Chat online?

  Sure

  She gives me her Gchat handle and I log in, find her, and type:

  You there?

  Yup

  Video?

  I run a hand through my hair before clicking the video icon. Her face pops up; so does a smaller image of my mug.

  “Hey, Kev,” she says, then deepens her voice to imitate me, “’Suuuup?”

  Instant grin. I nod back. “Not much. ’Sup with you?”

  “Eh, this, that.” She shifts in her seat, her head bobbing from one side to the other, like she’s trying to peek at what’s behind me. “Ooooh, am I in your room?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Let me see.”

  I pivot the monitor from left to right, so she gets the gist. I narrate, “Bookshelf, closet, poster of Marilyn Monroe, window, trophy shelf, hockey gear, pile of dirty underwear . . .”

  “Ew,” she says, although I know she’s kidding.

  “Where are you?”

  “In the den. My laptop went kaput.”

  That explains all the bookshelves and the fireplace behind her.

  Claire props her elbow on the table and rests her chin in her hand. “So, whatcha doing?”

  “Just finished some chem homework, and now I’m hanging with my dog.”

  “You have a dog? Let me see!”

  I look to my feet. “Hey, Buddy,” I say, and he raises his head. I pick him up and set him on my lap. He licks my face.

  “He’s sooooo cute!”

  “Yeah, his name is Buddy. Wave hi, Buddy.” I take his paw and move it just a little.

  “Hey there,” she says.

  I scratch behind his ears, which he loves. “I’ve had him since I was nine. He’s getting old, though, which sucks.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I wish I could have a dog, but it’s a no-go.”

  “How come?”

  “I’m leaving after graduation. So, a dog would be unfair because my folks work weird, long hours.”

  “Have you decided where you’re going yet, France or Italy?” As I name those two countries, a weird sensation comes over me. I feel . . . older somehow, like it’s sinking in that the things we decide now will play a big role in our futures.

  Her expression changes to worry. “No. I keep making pro-and-con lists, but it’s not helping.” Claire picks up her backpack and sets it onto her lap, so she can fish out a small notebook. She thumbs through the pages, showing me how they’re filled with writing. “It’s a battle, you know, between what my head wants and what my heart wants. I’ve worked at both my parents’ businesses since I was fourteen, so I’ve got a good idea of what’s involved. Pastry and cake decoration is great because it’s so creative, but I’m not crazy about getting up at 3:30 a.m. and working nine hours of hard labor for a few years until I can open my own place. I also like cooking, too, but I don’t want to end up in a big hotel just making the same dish over and over. Ooh, maybe I should be a private chef. You know, the kind that gets flown to grand estates, or on someone’s yacht?” She jots it down in her notebook.

  “Maybe you could go on one of those reality cooking shows and win it?”

  Claire shakes her head and laughs. “Aw, Kevin, that’s adorable! Hey, so I wanted to remind you to bring your half of the food for tomorrow’s class.”

  “Sure,” I say, and wonder what’s up with the video chat when she could have just texted me? Then a voice in my head says, Duh, Kevin, she did it to see your face, that’s why. The thought makes me schoolgirl giddy.

  Claire smiles at me.

  I smile back.

  “So,” she says.

  “‘So’?” I mimic back.

  “Whatcha doing?”

  “Talking to you.”

  “Uh-huh?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  More staring and grinning. The silence sets off tiny fireworks in my gut. She makes me excited and goofy at the same time.

  “Hey, so I listened to the CD you gave me,” I say.

  She curls a strand of hair behind her ear. “Oh, yeah? Did you like it?”

  “Yeah, it’s cool.”

  “Nice.”

  “It makes me think of the Cryogenics.”

  She shakes her head. “I don’t know them.”

  “Oh, I’ll make you a playlist.”

  Her smile widens. “Really?”

  “Yeah.”

  Claire turns her head away from the screen, and I hear a muffled voice in the background.

  “Okay, Dad,” she says, then turns back to me. “I’ve gotta go. See you tomorrow?”

  “Sure.” I gently lift Buddy’s paw, so he can wave a tiny bye-bye, and then she’s gone.

  I stay up late, creating and burning a playlist, and I try not to toss my computer out the window when it crashes, twice. As I wait for it to reboot, I replay our video chat and how the best part was when we said nothing—we just stared and smi
led.

  I slap my palm against my forehead. Oh, man. FRIG! What if the silence was her waiting for me to ask her out? I’m a doofus.

  CHAPTER 7

  THE NEXT DAY IN DOM TECH, IT’S LIKE I WAS never at Claire’s house or chatting with her last night. Sure, she’s her regular nice self and all, but she’s laser-focused on cooking. No boobs brush my back, no fingers graze mine as we pass each other stuff. I even tried my usual, “’sup” thing, but she’s lost in her task, concentration lines wrinkling her forehead. A girl on a mission.

  Today’s fifty-minute assignment is a veggie meal from scratch. We’re making squash and cranberry ravioli. Claire makes the pasta and has me roll the dough, because I have the upper body strength, and we don’t have a pasta machine to get the thinness she wants. Meanwhile, she cuts the squash into cubes and steams them. My next duty is to cut the rolled dough into perfect squares while she mashes the cooked squash and adds other ingredients to it, like sautéed onions, garlic, and cheese. We move like a well-oiled machine and don’t goof around like other kids at their stations. Ruby and her partner, Tiara, snap selfies, and the two stoners, Lucy and Danni, play lightsabers with uncooked spaghetti. This’ll sound weird, but I’m liking the sounds of cooking: the metal clanging, knives chopping, eggs cracking, utensils whipping, water boiling, and oil searing. I can see why people say cooking relaxes them.

  When Mrs. A wanders around each station, checking on everyone, she witnesses my new knife skills.

  “Good technique, Kevin.”

  “Thanks,” I say.

  She wanders away and Claire says, “You’ve been practicing.”

  “Yeah, thanks for the lesson. Too bad the knives suck at my house. Couldn’t cut Jell-O.”

  “Bring them to my place. We have a Japanese whetstone.”

  I picture a scene in a samurai film, where the warrior kneels before a large rock to sharpen his sword using long, precise strokes. I wonder if she’s talking about the same thing.

  “Or I can bring it to your house,” she adds.

  Two thoughts come to mind: one, she wants to spend more time with me, and two, the idea of this beautiful girl standing in my kitchen with its lime-colored stove, almond fridge, and scuffed yellowed vinyl floor makes me cringe.

  “I could come over,” I say.

  “Are you free tonight? We could practice our final meal. My dad’s got a bunch of beef in the freezer we can use.”

  My insides scream, Hell, yeah, I do!, but I shrug and tell her “sure.”

  I get lost again in the way Claire moves and how easily she laughs. It’s only when the hairs on my neck stand up and I notice a pair of heavy, black mascara-eyes burning into my head do I snap back to reality. Rat’s-Nest Girl. Why won’t she mind her own business?

  I drop a blob of squash mash into each of the pasta pieces as Claire presses the squares closed with a fork. Ten minutes of cooking, a toss with a little garlic oil and grated cheese, and we’re done.

  Before biking to Claire’s I stop at my place first for a quick shower and to change into a dark-red, snug-fitting shirt—one of Viktor’s must-buys. Then I spend a little quality time in the backyard with Buddy. My phone buzzes.

  What’s up?

  I text Viktor back: Still painting for Mom.

  I should feel bad for lying, but for some reason I don’t. Besides, there’s nothing to tell him. Claire and I are just friends.

  I gather all three pathetic kitchen knives and bundle them up in a dish towel before placing them in my backpack.

  Claire greets me at the door with this big, warm smile and a green-colored dress. It’s like she’s the girl from Saturday and not the superserious one I had class with a few hours ago. As she leads me into the kitchen, she makes a “come follow me” gesture with her finger.

  I hurry and kick off my shoes (socks with no holes in them this time, thanks). Just like my first visit, I help make fresh orange juice. Standing by the counter again makes me remember how we almost kissed. To prevent another boner, I list Wayne Gretzky’s hockey stats: years he played, teams he played for, the number of official records he set that are still unbroken. We take a seat with our drinks at the marble island and get down to business, planning our final meal and me making the beef Wellington part. I’ve never seen it before, so I have no clue what to do.

  “Okay,” Claire says. “Beef Wellington. It seems simple, but there’s a lot of prep involved.” She points to the double doors on the opposite side of the kitchen. “Can you grab the beef broth and a bottle of red wine from the pantry?”

  “Sure, Coach. Wait . . . Are we allowed to use wine in class?”

  “Right-right-right. The wine will burn off in the cooking process, but just in case we can’t use wine . . . um, we’ll use chicken stock, unsweetened grape juice, and fresh lemon juice. Chicken stock is in the pantry.”

  I head to where she points and open the double doors. What I expect to see is a couple of shelves of food, but instead, it’s this huge walk-in space with its own light switch. It’s twice the size of my closet and stacked from floor to ceiling with packages, jars, and containers.

  I step inside. “Wow, you could feed an army in here.” My voice sounds richer, deeper. “What is all this?”

  Claire joins me, and the space grows smaller and more intimate. When she speaks it’s like hearing her through headphones, late at night, lying in bed.

  “Well, this shelf is dried fruit: apricots, cherries, raisins, cranberries. Over here are nuts: walnuts, peanuts—which aren’t technically nuts, but a legume, by the way—pistachios, and pine nuts.”

  “Pine nuts? Like from pine trees?”

  “Yeah, they’re supergood.” Claire grabs the jar, unscrewing the lid. She cups my hand in her soft warm palm and shakes the container over it, letting a few of them tumble out.

  While I’m eager to try the nuts, I don’t want to pull my hand now. I like the way my skin tingles from her touch and how it radiates around my wrist and travels up my forearm. I raise my palm for a taste. The nuts are soft, almost buttery, not at all piney like I thought.

  “Like them?”

  I nod.

  Claire continues the pantry tour. “Over here we have the pastas: penne, tortellini, farfalle. The canned goods: beans, broths, tomato paste. Over there, vinegars, oils, and wines for cooking, behind us baking goods . . . next to that, salts, peppers, and the dry and wet marinades. Oh, and hot sauces, mustards, and spices.” She points to a jar. “If you like horseradish, this one’s great.”

  “What is it, horse?”

  She laughs. “You’re funny. It’s a radish and it’s hot, like wasabi.”

  I draw a total blank.

  “You know, wasabi? You eat it with sushi?”

  I’ve heard of sushi, but I still don’t get what wasabi is.

  “Okay, do you like spicy foods?”

  “Sure.”

  Claire leaves the pantry and cool air rushes in. I hear her open a drawer, then close it and return carrying a spoon. She picks up the jar, opens the lid, and scoops up a tiny bit with the tip of the spoon. “This one is mustard combined with horseradish. It’s deeelish.” Instead of holding the utensil for me to take, she raises it to my lips. I pause to take in the glint in her eye. I wondered when the flirty Claire would make a comeback.

  “This goes amazing with beef Wellington.”

  I let her feed me, and my mouth fills with pleasant heat. My sinuses and nasal passages expand, too, drawing in twice the oxygen. My eyes tear up a little. It’s intense.

  Claire laughs. “Hang on . . . let me get you something sweet.” She reaches for a jar that’s filled with something dark red.

  “What is it?”

  She turns away so I can’t see. “Nuh-uh. You have to guess. Close your eyes and open your mouth.”

  The way she plays by taking control sends a current of pleasure racing through my body. I happily do as she says, and she places a small round object, the size of a grape, onto my tongue. I bite down, tastin
g something sticky and syrupy that overpowers the horseradish and mustard spice.

  “Fruit?” I ask between chews.

  “Yup. Maraschino cherry.”

  I open my eyes to watch one disappear between her lips. Her finger lingers an extra beat before drawing it away. She chews and stares, smiling.

  Thumpity-smash.

  “Aren’t they good?” she asks. “They always remind me of rum cake at Christmas. Ooh, smell this.” She puts back the jar to reach for a plastic container. She opens it and raises it to my nose. I stare at what appears to be a half-dozen brown shriveled lima beans. “Smell,” she instructs.

  I inhale, deeply drawing in a scent I recognize from all the protein bars I’ve eaten. “Vanilla?”

  “Yes. Don’t you just love spices?” Claire closes her eyes and breathes the sweet aroma too. Just when I thought she couldn’t get any more incredible, witnessing the intimate, intense passion she has for food sends my feelings for her soaring over the edge. I know only one thing, and that is if I don’t take a chance and kiss this amazing, funny, passionate girl, my heart will explode and take half the neighborhood with it. Claire’s eyes flutter open. Her smile widens as she drops her gaze.

  When she looks back, kiss her.

  Her head rises, and she bites her lower lip before pushing a lock of stray hair to the side of her face.

  Do it . . . just lean in . . .

  I lower my head, inching my face toward hers. Her lips part, and her hands lightly grasp my biceps to help her rise up. Warm breath skitters across my neck, causing an outbreak of goose bumps to travel along my shoulders and cascade my back. Our mouths waver inches from each other. I close my eyes, and our lips meet, pressing lightly, gently, softly at first, like we’re saying “hi” and “how are you?” Every nerve in my body is electric. She utters a faint gasp and slides a hand to the back of my neck and pulls me closer, kissing me harder. Our kisses grow more intense and faster, like we’re hungrily tasting each other.