He’d looked up the recipe after seeing the dish time and again on Pierre Lefevre’s cooking show: beef covered in mustard and mushrooms, wrapped in pastry, and roasted in the oven. The technique mystified him. In his video, Pierre used plastic wrap—which he called “cling film”—to roll the ingredients into shape. Plastic wrap! He didn’t know chefs used it to make dishes. For wrapping bowls or saving leftovers, sure. There had to be thousands of tricks like that he didn’t know. How did people learn them? It wasn’t the invention of the tricks, he thought, so much as how they were used. Once he knew the techniques behind his ideas, he could use them over and over again. Improve on them, even, in the way he did with bread. Improvise a little, maybe.
In the recipe on-screen he recognized the pattern.
His mom had taught him the chocolate sauce recipe before she left. His memories of her were largely based more on impressions than events—he had a feeling when he thought about his mother, but not a wide bank of experiences he could visualize.
He did remember being in the kitchen with her, though. She had two of those triangle candy bars. He’d never seen them before that. Zachariah asked if he could eat one.
We’re going to use this for sauce, Zachie, she said.
Sauce?
For these brownies I’m making.
What was the occasion? He didn’t think his mom and dad had a lot of money for sweets, even when they were still together. Still, he distinctly remembered her warming cream in a pot, then pouring it hot onto the triangular blocks of chocolate at the bottom of the bowl (save two segments, which he and his mom ate). And he remembered also whipping the mix, then pouring it onto the tray of brownies. Together they had spread it on with a rubber spatula.
Shortly afterward she was gone.
For years, Zachariah wondered why she hadn’t taken him along. He was stuck with his dad, who forced him to wear paint to football games, made him do all the cooking (which he liked) and cleaning (which he didn’t, despite his familiarity with all the cleaning products under the kitchen sink), and beat him with tennis balls—or worse—as punishment for tiny transgressions.
He hadn’t spent much time thinking about why she left. He didn’t remember his father hitting her. But he must have.
Zachariah wondered what it would be like to see her again. She’d drop by his mansion in California and call him Zachie the way she used to. He’d cook her lunch in his giant gleaming kitchen and ask her why she hadn’t taken him along. He’d tell her how Paul had broken his arm over a bottle of barbecue sauce and made him lie about falling down the basement stairs. And she’d feel horrible and beg for forgiveness.
Ms. Petrie walked by. She stopped and looked at the screen.
“What’s that?”
He had been thinking so intently of his mother coming to visit his mansion that he hadn’t had time to think about the computer. But he’d been safe about it. Even if he hadn’t been, he could’ve said something about chores, maybe. Cleaning.
He pointed to the bigger window. “Beef Wellington.”
“Are you watching Julia Child?”
“Pierre Lefevre,” he said. “Chef Wars.”
“I’ve heard of him,” she said. “The French chef.”
Zachariah nodded.
“Do you like to cook?”
“Baking is my favorite,” he said. “But I like cooking, too.”
“Is that what you want to do? When you grow up?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “I like cooking a lot. Especially baking. But I’d like to write game shows. I know it’s hard to make it in Hollywood, so having a bakery will be my fallback.”
“That’s very sensible,” she said. “A lot of times students get so wrapped up in thoughts of fame that they don’t have fallbacks.”
* * *
He mixed on the workbench, letting his mind wander. It was a lot like taking a shower—he always had great ideas when his body was focused on a task that didn’t take up much space in his head.
On the floor was his backpack, embroidered with his initials. He hadn’t thought anything of them for the longest time—L.L.Bean always monogrammed—but they had become the focal point of taunts after he had been kicked in the nuts. The “ZT” stitched in white, previously ignored, became the root of jokes about zits—Zit Tietz, Piss Zits. He knew the bag was an expensive one, so removing them was not an option, unless coupled with a beating from his father.
There was no mistaking it. He was the only student in school whose first name began with a Z.
34.
LOVED IT.
Couldn’t believe it.
Everything was going right.
Armbrister High. Hated it the first time.
Should’ve gone voc. Would’ve changed everything. Never would’ve gone over. Gotten training. Learned cars for real. Gotten a job. Instead of going overseas and getting fucked up and coming back and dropping a Hummer off a lift and hustling pool and getting stomped and pissed on.
Straight to a garage. A job. No basic. No heads that were clouds. Could still listen to music. Sox games with Artie. No shitty apartment. Live with Auntie Blake. Save money. Get an apartment. A car. Everything easier. No pool. No pins.
Scared since then. Stupid. Knew how to fight. Knew how to take care of himself. Had been shot. Lived through it. Killed guys. Never scared since he got back. Not once. Not counting after dreams. But now all the time. Couldn’t help it. Held a knife to him. Made him go outside Patterson’s. To piss on him. Couldn’t move right hand. In cast. Doctor said it might not recover. The good one. Had to fill out paperwork with his left. Looked like a little kid wrote it.
Wasn’t sleeping. Heard noises. Weren’t there before. Or didn’t notice them. Maybe there before. But kept waking up. Sitting up in bed. Yelling. WHO’S THERE? Falling back asleep. Basic dream. Over and over. Standing with everyone. Heads into clouds. One after the other. Always woke up before it was his turn. But had to watch. Came back. Could sleep again. Never could over there. Barracks, maybe. But that was it. Slept lots at the hospital when he got back. And looking for work.
Still kept the hours. Mostly. Bed after the Sox during the season, up at five thirty. After cloud head dreams. Or basic. Or both.
But the job.
Stood by the door. Said hello. Kids liked him.
First day some kids came up. Tuesday. Tough. Remembered it: gotta give the new guy shit. Shut them up quick. They said take your gun out. He said no. They said ever kill anyone with it? He said no, not with this one. Since then every day they came by and said wassup, Roy?
Easy job. Stand by the door. Say hello. Break up fights. Teachers too scared to. Used to be shop teachers. Where were they? Happy about the work. Just wondering.
Broke one up. Two girls. Down in voc. Bitch fight, they called it. In the stairwell. One girl kicking another. Walked down there. Got in the middle. Didn’t touch either. Not supposed to. Put his hands on his hips. Yelled STOP IT RIGHT NOW. Everyone looked at him.
They stopped.
They listened to him.
It was great. Walked halls a lot. Got paid. Made sure everything was okay. Didn’t keep the same times or routes. Didn’t want them to figure it out. Because they would. Like deer in the woods. Sometimes cafeteria, sometimes door. No pattern.
Funny. Most of his teachers gone. Only been a few years. New staff. Didn’t know any students. Wasn’t much difference between them and him. But they looked young. Like really. Smart kids especially. Didn’t have to worry. Clean hands. Oh no, I might not get into my first choice. No jobs. No worries. Couldn’t believe how little they looked. Even shop kids. Tough. But they’d get jobs. Smart kids, they’d go to college, not find anything. Worry. Get old fast. Maybe go fight. Hoped not, but still. The voc kids, jobs. Pay up front: have a hard time, then go to a garage or something.
Did he used to look that little? Went home one day. Got out his yearbook. Looked at his picture. Couldn’t believe it. Just a few years ago. A lot since then. The garag
e, looking for a job. The hospital. Getting shot. Basic. Looked at himself in the mirror. So many lines on his face. Standing in the desert. Felt older than he looked. And thought how he looked old. Especially every day at school.
Saw the fat kid. The one with the body paint. And from the ice cream store. Of course he saw a fat kid eating ice cream. Voc kid. Couldn’t believe it. Fat kids never did voc. Got eaten alive there. But the fat kid did voc. Cooking. Chef coat, apron. Covered with flour or something. Made sense. Kid like that, he liked eating. Huge backpack full of books, every day. Kept an eye on him. Liked the kid. Reminded Roy of himself.
Looked good. Not like fat. Like happy. Didn’t seem to mind. Kids gave him shit. Said shit. Roy couldn’t say anything. Wanted to. Knew that would make it worse. Like the cop likes you. Get called a fag and shit. Didn’t want to make it worse. But shit rolled off him. Like it was no big deal. Big backpack full of books, kids talking shit, just smiled and walked by. Wondered what he was thinking about. Cake, probably. Laughed when he thought that. Cracked himself up. Kids walking by just looked at him. Whatever. Didn’t matter. Thought it was great. Funny joke. Seriously, though. What was it? Wasn’t like he just discovered cake. If that’s what it was. Something changed since the game. Got more confidence. Maybe threw it to some girl. Probably not. But hoped that he did. He’d had to wait. Until basic. Thought about high school. Would things have been different? Maybe. Or not. Everyone gave him shit for other stuff. Mom, mostly. Never that virgin shit. But he was scared they would. Wouldn’t be able to say anything back. Fat kid? So much shit. Someone would say something. Be like hey, fat kid. Ever kiss a girl? So maybe he pulled it off. Made out with some fat chick. Hoped so. Go, fat kid. Might ask someone his name. Hank the janitor. Delacroix. Someone. Be like hey, who’s the happy fat kid?
35.
36.
37.
ZACHARIAH WALKED TO SCHOOL. HE’D HAD to leave earlier than when he rode his bike, but he’d been so excited the previous night that he barely slept, out of bed a full hour before his alarm went off. After a bowl of cereal and a shower, his father still snoring away in his bedroom, Zachariah decided to work on Love Balloon, even though he had thrown out the cake scene.
The ending was the best part.
He wanted a regular guy to win. Not one of the strikers who looked like an underwear model. But luck of the draw was part of it. Part of everything. If Armbrister hadn’t played Enoch on a Saturday afternoon, his dad might not have decided to celebrate a blowout by grilling. Paul Tietz would not have taken Zachariah to buy barbecue sauce. Dixon Dove would not have dumped barbecue sauce over Zachariah’s head.
And if none of that had happened, Zachariah thought he would have gone on pretending that he had powers, playing defense rather than running with the ball.
He saw the pattern in himself because of Dixon Dove.
The ending had never changed. He had the idea for the final scene before he knew what the rest of the show would be like. He then built his challenges so the finale of the first season could happen.
It was his dad who gave him the idea. In front of a baseball game on the couch, he sat with a glossy magazine and a stack of papers on a TV tray. It looked to Zachariah as if he were studying for a test.
Zachariah blurted out, “Dad, what are you doing?” He should have thought before he spoke, but was so surprised to see Paul doing anything but drinking and watching TV that he was caught off guard.
“Come here for a sec,” his dad said.
Uh-oh.
Zachariah did.
“The guys at the mill put a fantasy league together.”
He saw football players stretched horizontally to catch passes on the magazine’s pages.
“I have to figure out my picks for the draft.”
Zachariah was confused. “Draft like war?”
His father laughed. Zachariah couldn’t remember him in such a good mood. “Maybe. Everyone takes turns picking a player.”
“That’s not fair,” Zachariah said.
“Why not?”
“The first guy always gets the best pick.”
“We’re doing a snake draft.”
“Snake?”
“Like an ‘S.’ There’re twelve guys, so it goes one through twelve, then twelve through one. Like that.”
Zachariah liked the idea of a snake draft. Being picked first in gym was the best thing—it meant everyone wanted you on their team. And being picked last, of course, meant the opposite. He used to get picked solidly in the middle of the pack before he got kicked in the nuts. Then he was last, even though he was better than some of the kids who got chosen before him.
With the snake draft, the guys in the middle had the best chance. It wasn’t about the best pick, maybe, as much as it was about making smart picks.
After two weeks of the football season his dad, who had picked in the middle, lost his fantasy quarterback to a broken leg.
While he was at school, rolling bread on a floured metal school table he had the idea.
A big field, with a target in the center.
Everyone would buy squares. He wasn’t sure how, but he could figure it out. Some kind of auction.
Someone would pilot a balloon onto the target.
But the target square wasn’t the best pick. What if the person in the balloon wasn’t a very good pilot? Or if it was windy?
Zachariah thought it would be a girl. The bachelorette everyone competed to be with. She’d try to land in the target. But she wouldn’t know much about balloons. She’d probably land somewhere other than the target.
Whoever had bought the square she landed on would live with her afterward.
Maybe the best square was the one furthest from the center.
There was no way of telling.
Zachariah liked the idea because a normal guy could win.
* * *
His walk hadn’t taken much longer than a bike ride, despite the weight on his back. He could feel his heart thumping in his chest even before he left the house. Dixon Dove would love her present. And she’d tell everyone that Zachariah Tietz was okay. They’d have a partnership—he would make new recipes for her, and she would make sure he could sit in the cafeteria and eat his lunch in peace.
And maybe she’d want to touch his boner again.
The usual comments about his weight, pissed jeans, and pukey shirt were hurled at him as he stood at the foot of Armbrister High’s granite steps, one hand on each backpack strap. But he smiled honest smiles at his tormentors. It would all be over soon. Everything would change when he partnered with Dixon Dove. He wished he had figured everything out sooner.
He walked up the stairs and through the doors, past the new security guard.
He looked at Zachariah as if they knew each other.
Zachariah stood waiting, waiting for Dixon Dove to arrive, one hand on each strap. He didn’t know what Dixon Dove’s schedule was like. She had some class in the morning—he knew this from all the times he had come in the front door only to be accosted by her.
His mind raced as the owners of surrounding lockers dropped off jackets, switched books, and stowed lunches. Where was she?
His straps began to dig into his shoulders, despite his thumbs.
The pace of the hallway’s flow of students quickened with the warning bell. He didn’t want to be late for class, but he didn’t want to lug the bomb around all day, either, waiting for Dixon Dove to arrive. It was too heavy.
Maybe she was running late.
The security guard gave Zachariah a look he couldn’t figure out, then walked down the hall. Zachariah stayed where he was.
The class bell rang.
He waited.
A few kids he didn’t know came in over in the next few minutes, each with the same frantic look.
He had rehearsed it in his head: Dixon, I want to make a deal with you. You’ve been picking on me. But you like fireworks. So why don’t I make them for you? Here’s a sample. In exchange, you can stop
picking on me, and make sure everyone else does, too.
And she’d say: How’d you learn how to make fireworks, Tietz?
He thought about telling her the truth: that something had changed when she dumped Slow Bull over his head. But he didn’t think he should tell anyone about that. It was his: the change, and the aftereffects.
He thought about telling her the process: I did some research and found out that it’s not hard to make bombs. I had all the ingredients in the house, mostly in kitchen cleaners. I wasn’t sure about aluminum oxide, but my dad had sanding discs in our basement.
Instead, he thought he might try to sound mysterious. Like a character on a TV show: Well, I can bake bread. It’s not that different.
He’d get in trouble if he skipped class. And his dad might hit him. The cast wouldn’t stop beatings.
He’d leave it in Dixon Dove’s locker.
But if he did that, she might find it and hurt herself. He wasn’t sure exactly how strong it would be, but it was pretty big—he’d tripled the recipe he found online.
He would put it in her locker and make sure he disconnected the batteries. She’d know it was from him because of his initials monogrammed on the backpack.
But what if she didn’t see them? Or didn’t get the message? He hadn’t known Ross Dove was her brother—maybe she wouldn’t know the backpack was his.
He’d leave a note. Then, when she found it, he could show her how to hook the batteries back up—or, better yet, they could go to one of the Whispering Pines houses and set it off there.
Dixon Dove’s locker opened easily. It was empty, save for some crumpled fast food wrappers at the very bottom.
He knew he was at the right one. He always saw her by her locker in the morning. Why was it empty?
The halls were silent. Everyone was in class.
He didn’t want to carry the bag around. He’d put it in the locker, then find her.
It took a few pushes, but he was just able to wedge his bag in.
He unzipped the top and reached in to check the battery pack. His last thought, as he noticed the scent, before the explosion, was maybe the quarry—
Swing State Page 18