“We’re always checking out the competition,” he replied then leaned forward. “You never know when you’re going to discover a new flavor combination you want to put on your menu.”
“Isn’t that…?”
“Pizza plagiarism? Not really.” Lifting his chin, her dad leaned back in his chair. “You ever seen barbecue chicken pizza on a menu?”
“Sure. All the time.”
“Well, listen to this. The barbecue chicken pizza was invented by a chef, name of Ed LaDou, for California Pizza Kitchen’s first menu. This was back in the late Eighties, before you were born. Now it’s everywhere. And just to prove my point…” He ran his finger down his menu and pointed. “There you go, barbecue Chicken.”
“I had no idea,” Hudson said.
“Happens all the time in the restaurant industry.”
“You see anything interesting here?” Hudson asked.
Kevin glanced at Indi. “What do you think, sweetheart? Indi has a knack for recognizing good flavor combinations. I keep trying to convince her to join the family business, but she has her heart set on being a doctor.”
“How about this one?” I suggested. “The Killer B. It’s genoa salami, tomato sauce and mozzarella and a local hot honey. If it’s good, I’m sure you’d have no problem finding artisanal honey in Vermont.”
“That’s a great idea,” Indi said. She jerked a thumb at me. “Hudson is majoring in Community Entrepreneurship.”
“I’ve never heard of that before,” Kevin said.
“It’s a business major with an emphasis on community development and the responsible use of natural resources,” I explained.
“Really?” Bonnie said. “Maybe you should join the family. Business. The family business.”
“Mom…” Indi said, blushing furiously.
“Freudian slip,” Bonnie said with a carefree laugh.
The Killer B ended up being pretty damned good. I’d never in a million years have thought about honey on a pizza, but it was delicious. The salami and the honey were a perfect salty sweet combo. Kevin and Bonnie were great—funny and smart, just like their daughter and I had a great time.
We were just boxing the leftovers when a young woman stopped by the table.
“Well if it isn’t Juicy Briscoe! And Mr. and Mrs. Briscoe! It’s me, Jessica Burnuzzi.”
Jessica was a sassy brunette with a big nose and tight sweater.
Kevin and Bonnie greeted her warmly but Indi remained seated with a smile on her face that didn’t quite reach her eyes.
“What are you doing here?” Kevin asked.
“I go to school here,” Jessica said. “At Boston College. I’m majoring in communications.”
“Isn’t that nice,” Bonnie said.
“Where did you end up, Juicy?” Jessica asked Indi.
“Burlington U.”
“Gotcha. And who’s this?”
“Hudson Forte,” I said with a big smile. “I’m Indi’s boyfriend.”
Under the table, I took her hand and squeezed it.
“Well now, isn’t that nice,” Jessica said. “Well, it was good seeing you,” Jessica said.
“What a small world, Bonnie exclaimed after she’d sashayed away. “Jessica and Indi went to elementary school and I think middle school together. Right, Indi?”
Indi nodded.
“What was that she called you?” I asked. “Juicy?”
“It was just a stupid nickname from school.”
“A nickname, huh? I sense a great story here,” I said. No one loved nicknames more than hockey players. Most of us were just known by iterations of our last names, but some, like my dad, got something out of the ordinary. Often, when you were the new guy, you were gifted with something that cemented your low stature on the team. There was a kid I knew in middle school who was notorious for getting boners in gym class. A lot of the guys called him Woody, as a result. He threw it back in their faces saying at least he was always ready, which just earned him another nickname—Eveready.
Indi reached down to get her purse. “No story. I liked Juicy Fruit gum. That’s all.”
“Is that where that came from?” Bonnie asked. “You learn something new every day.”
“Should we start calling you Juicy now?” Kevin asked jovially.
“No.”
All of us started at her sharp tone.
“Sorry,” she said, standing up. “I don’t chew Juicy Fruit anymore. Please don’t call me that.”
Now I really sensed a story there, but not a great one. Indi’s body radiated tension and she had a tighter-than-normal grip on her purse strap.
“I like Indi better anyway,” Bonnie said as we all stood to go. “Hudson, did you know her full name is Indira? We named her that because it means ‘beautiful.’”
“I did not know that, but I agree,” I said, putting my arm around her shoulders and giving her an earnest smile. “She is very beautiful.”
Coach Keller gave me special permission to drive back to Burlington with Indi, a much more pleasant experience than I would have had on the team bus or in my dad’s Camaro. Even though all the hockey equipment was stowed in the storage area, the stench still contaminated the coach. Luckily, seniority counted for something and the freshmen usually got assigned the seats where the smell was the worst.
“Your parents are really nice,” I told her as we whizzed north along I-93.
“Thanks. I think they’re sort of goofy.”
“We all think that about our parents.”
“They were really impressed with your hockey playing.”
I scoffed.
“No, really. No one in my family is athletic, so anyone who’s even mildly good at sports is to be admired.”
“Too bad they had to see me lose the game for us,” I said sullenly.
“Are you talking about when you fell?”
“That and when Brammy sent me the puck and I just let it go by, yes.”
“But that could happen to anyone, right?”
“Not to me.” Not until lately, anyway.
“Oh, come on. Don’t tell me you’re one of those guys who pouts after losing.”
“All right, I won’t.”
“But you are,” she said.
“Are what?”
“Pouting.”
I pointed to my forehead. “This isn’t pouting. This is frowning. This is pouting,” I said, pushing out my lower lip.
She laughed.
A few miles went by as I analyzed the game in my head. Even though I’d narrowly escaped my dad’s critique, I ended up doing it myself here in Indi’s car. I systematically identified each of my mistakes, misjudgments, and fuckups, along with ways I could have avoided them. I was mired in these thoughts when Indi’s voice broke through.
“Is it normal for hockey players to mentally flagellate themselves when they make mistakes? Because I can tell that’s what you’re doing. It’s like your dad conditioned you to go through this routine after games.”
It was disturbing how spot-on she was, but I didn’t let on.
“You don’t understand. My dad wasn’t the only one watching tonight. Someone from the Dragons was there too, one of the player development guys all the way from San Francisco. Of all nights for him to come see me. I probably would have been fine if he hadn’t called ahead of time and let me know. I would have been blissfully ignorant. I mean, half of what we do is mental. It’s not all just physical. So once something starts messing with your concentration and focus, you’re screwed. It’s all connected. If my mental game isn’t there, I play like shit, which just makes me more stressed and it’s a vicious circle.”
“Maybe you should talk to someone. Maybe a doctor can help.”
“You know I hate doctors.”
“So what? Suck it up and deal.”
I shook my head. “There’s also the extra pressure of being captain. I’ve been team captain before, but college sports are a hell of a lot more intense than high school.”
> “What do you get out of being captain? Maybe you should resign,” she said.
“I’m not a quitter,” I snapped.
“Oh, please. Don’t give me that macho baloney. You’d be making your health a priority, something I’m sure all pro athletes do.”
“It’s not macho baloney and I do prioritize my health. I just need to get used to this extra pressure. Believe me, if I have the career I want, I’ll probably look back at these four years and think those were the good old days when I didn’t know what real pressure was.”
“Okay, change of subject,” she said, “you said I was your girlfriend back there…”
“Yeah, sorry. I said that spur of the moment because we’ve been seeing each other for a few weeks now and it didn’t feel right to say I was your friend. You’re okay with that, aren’t you? I should have asked you if it was okay before I blurted it out.”
“No, I’m glad you blurted it out. I loved the look on Jessica’s face when you said that.”
“Is there some bad blood between you?”
“You could say that,” she said, but she didn’t elaborate.
18
Indi
“So how did dinner with your parents go?” Ruby asked.
She and I were heading to the Green Bean for some coffee before our first classes of the week, and boy, did I need it. Not only had it had been a long drive back from Boston, but Hudson and I took a while to say good night.
“It was great,” I said. “They really liked him, and he’s officially my boyfriend.”
“Oh my God! Congratulations. I’m so happy for you. He’s such a great guy.”
“He really is, but I’m worried about him.”
I told her about how the stress was getting to him.
“I told him he should think about going to a doctor, but he thinks the stress here isn’t anything compared to being in the NHL and that he needs to just acclimate.”
“AJ told me he throws up before the games.”
I gaped at her. “I thought it was just the once, at the home opener.”
Ruby shook her head. “Nope. AJ says every game. Hudson’s trying to keep it on the down low, but AJ sees him sneaking off to the bathroom just before they go out to warm up.”
“That’s not good.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“Speaking of AJ, I think I’m going to tell him I just want to be friends. He’s a lot of fun, but I just don’t feel any spark when he kisses me. Like zero spark.”
Which was the opposite of my experience with Hudson. I felt a bazillion sparks when Hudson kissed me.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “He’s really into you.”
“I should have told him sooner, a lot sooner, but I felt bad. He’s going to take it really hard.”
We were just steps away from the Green Bean entrance when an Asian woman waved at us.
“Well, if it’s isn’t Ruby Chang,” she said. In her mid-forties, she was short with pixie cut black hair and a leather briefcase that was stuffed to the gills.
“Ms. Tan!” Ruby exclaimed. “Indi, this is one of my favorite teachers.”
“Call me Helen, both of you.”
“Her Intro to Asian Studies class was what made me want to specialize in immigration law,” Ruby said as they air-kissed. “Are you here to get coffee?”
“Can’t live without it,” Helen said.
We got in line and the two of them caught up with each other. I checked my phone for messages from Hudson. There weren’t any, but I knew I’d see him later in Photography.
“So, I’m having some people over to make dumplings Wednesday evening. We’ll drink some wine, whip up a big batch together and stuff ourselves. Would you like to come? You, too, Indi. I know it’s not anywhere near the Lunar New Year, but sometimes I just get a hankering.”
“Right? Boiled dumplings are the ultimate comfort food,” Ruby said. “And I haven’t made them since my grandma died three years ago.”
“I’ve never had them,” I admitted.
“Then you absolutely have to come, Indi,” Helen said. “I probably still have your email address, Ruby. I’ll send you the details.”
“Sounds perfect.”
When Wednesday rolled around, Ruby tried to convince me to go with her.
“Gee, I wish I could, but I have this paper due tomorrow…” I gestured at my laptop.
“Come on, Indi. This is your chance to embrace the food of your people, woman!”
Because I didn’t want to seem like I had some sort of weird mania about my fake heritage, I said, “I had chicken and dumplings at a friend’s house once and I am not a fan. Dumplings are tasteless blobs of bread dough that fell in some soup by accident.”
She laughed. “Chinese dumplings aren’t like that. Chinese dumplings are stuffed with meat and vegetables and you dip them in this amazing sauce. When you bite into it, an unctuous broth fills your mouth and oh my God, it’s so good. You have to trust me. If you liked the dim sum, you’ll like the dumplings.”
“Thanks, but like I said, I have this paper…”
Ruby crossed her arms. “You know what? I call bullshit. You don’t have a paper. If you had a paper due tomorrow, it would have been finished on Friday.”
Damn it. She knew me too well.
“And you know what else?” she asked. “I think you’re prejudiced against Chinese things.”
I gaped at her in astonishment. “Me, prejudiced? That’s ridiculous.”
“Is it? Let’s see. Do you like Italian food?”
“You know I do.”
“How about Mexican? French? Barbecue?”
“Yes and yes and yes. Get to the point.”
Ruby narrowed her eyes and I couldn’t help but feel I was on the witness stand. “Do you like Chinese food?”
“No.” But I frowned, suddenly uncertain about my answer.
“See…I don’t think that’s true.”
“Are you calling me a liar?”
“No. I think you’re just really confused. You liked my fried rice and you loved everything we had at dim sum.”
“All right. Maybe I do like Chinese food more than I thought I did, but not liking a certain cuisine doesn’t make you prejudiced.”
“But it’s not just the food, Indi.” Her voice had softened. “I know you don’t like to admit it, but you’re a Chinese-American, my friend. There’s no getting around that fact and honestly, it makes me a little sad that you’re so against anything that has to do with the Chinese culture because I kind of hoped we’d be like sisters that way.”
“We still can,” I said, but even I heard the reluctance in my voice and she chuckled.
She didn’t say anything for a moment and just as I was about to tell her I would go with her to make dumplings—because, you know…sisters—she said, “Does it bother you that your biological parents left you at that orphanage?”
I blinked at her in confusion. “Well, that came out of left field. I don’t understand how this is relevant.”
“Let the record show the witness is balking at the question.”
“All right, fine. Even though I know I’m much better off here with my adoptive parents, it does bother me that my birth parents abandoned me and I don’t think it’s wrong of me to be upset about it.”
“Of course, it’s not wrong. That’s not what I’m saying. It’s perfectly natural to be upset. They rejected you, their own flesh and blood.”
“Then what are you saying?” I asked.
Angry tears sprang to my eyes. Most of the time, it was easy to forget I’d been set aside by my own parents. All I had to do was remember how wonderful my adoptive mom and dad were and those feelings of being unwanted went away. But every once in a while, negative emotions rose to the surface anyway.
“I’m saying that maybe, just maybe, your feelings about Chinese things—the food, the culture and even me—are because it feels like China, not just your biological parents, rejected you, and now you’re returning the
favor.”
“Oh my God.” I inhaled sharply and it was as if someone had yanked the string on a window shade and sent it spinning. “Oh my God, Ruby, I…you’re right. You’re right! My whole life I’ve been operating under this…this creepy, brainwashy response to something I don’t even remember.”
Suddenly, so much of my weird behavior made sense—why I routinely checked off “decline to answer” when asked to identify my ethnicity, why I’d never been bothered by the overwhelming whiteness of my hometown, why I didn’t like buying products made in China, and why I had an inexplicable aversion to using chopsticks.
“So, fight back then,” she said. “Now that you know you have an unconscious bias against China, you can make a conscious choice about things when they come up. Like this opportunity to make dumplings, for example. What do you want to do? I think it’s fine either way, I really do, but if it were me, I wouldn’t want to close myself off to things I might enjoy out of some Freudian reflex.”
“No, I don’t want to either. I want to be in charge of my own life, so give me five minutes to change clothes,” I said. “I’m going with you.”
Helen lived a fifteen-minute walk away in a charming two-story house, dark green with brown trim. Birdfeeders abounded and a gentle breeze coaxed a calming melody from a set of pewter wind chimes. Her yard was a little overgrown but a tire swing hung from the branch of a large linden tree. I’d never played on a tire swing, but they looked like a lot of fun.
At our knock, Helen opened the door with a broad smile. She wore an apron over a T-shirt and billowing palazzo pants. The apron said, “Exercise? I thought you said EXTRA RICE.”
“Ruby, hello, hello. Indi, I’m so glad you made it!” Helen said, motioning us through the door enthusiastically.
Helen led us to the farm-style kitchen that continued the green theme with cabinetry painted the color of moss with rustic hinges and handles. From the look of things, we’d be working at the large butcher block kitchen island. Two bowls, both covered with plastic wrap, sat alongside a stack of parchment-lined baking trays, two thick wooden rods and a canister of flour.
Darkroom: A Moo U Hockey Romance Page 12