by Izzy Daniels
Three thousand years later the manly behemoth appears. He pushes open the door and sets his shoddy backpack in a chair. He’s wearing a plain blue shirt that has a rip down the side and a pair of strange gray shorts that were definitely born black. He reaches in for his textbook, which has papers shoved in it every which way, and drops it in front of him on the thick beige table.
“Hey,” I say, playing it totally cool.
“Hey. So I made a version of the outline if you want to check it out and give me your input?” he says while opening his book and yanking out a set of stapled papers. He pushes it over to me. I just look at it.
“Yeah, totally. That’s cool. Great. Hey, quick question, is your friend Emma totally straight or like only half straight?” I forgot to remember I suck at stealthy. He laughs as he shakes his head.
“You should probably ask her that,” he says.
“I respect that. Really. But could you maybe give me a hint? I’ll take sign language or you could whisper it or you could write it down on something and leave it somewhere,” I say with an encouraging nod. If I have to, I will use the Force again.
“Alright, I’ll tell you what I know. Which is this: she’s just beginning to figure that out. Now look over my outline,” he stipulates. He taps his ridiculously sized index finger on the outline in front of me. Fine.
Like a good project partner, I read over his outline and together we added a few more things and then cleaned it all up. I transcribed it quickly into an email for him to review and then forwarded it to the professor. It’s just about 1:15 p.m. so I only have a half hour to class. Now that work is out of the way…
“Can I ask you questions now?” He gives me a noncommittal shrug so I just continue talking. “Okay, I get that you’re probably protective of her and her privacy. So how about I start with an easy one: How did you two meet?”
“Fair enough. We were twelve, she had just moved here. I was riding my bike home from school when I saw her. When I got closer to her I could see her bike down on the sidewalk and her knee was bloody. She was trying to fix the chain that had popped off but she couldn’t do it. I asked her if I could help and she said no. So I just watched her try for a while longer but it just wasn’t happening, and I asked her to let me do it because my older brother had taught me how. She still she said no. I almost left her then, but she looked about eight years old and I couldn’t leave her by herself. So I set my bike down and instead of just asking, I just grabbed her bike and did it. I taught her how to flip the bike over and how to guide the chain back on. She really hadn’t said much up to that point but she thanked me, very serious. Three houses down was mine so I convinced her to come in and wash her hand and knee. My mom instantly took to her, being that she had three boys, cleaned and bandaged her up and then made her a snack. We’ve been friends ever since.” He’s smiling to himself, lost in the memory.
“Wow, that’s adorable. So in all the years you’ve known her and she’s never had a boyfriend?” I nonchalantly ask. He makes a face like that might be too personal, but he answers anyway.
“No, not one. I’ve never seen her look at anyone with interest, either. I had guys in high school come up and ask me if she and I were together because we hung out all the time, and then ask me to put in a good word for them before they asked her out,” Jack replies thoughtfully. “But really, she never cared for any of it. Her school work took priority and when she was finished with her homework, her face was in a cookbook. She never went to school dances except when my mom convinced her to go to senior prom. It took lots of begging despite how studly I am. I should have seen the signs then,” he jests.
“Oh my god, just because a girl isn’t interested in dating you doesn’t mean she’s automatically a lesbian,” I chide insincerely. “But look, I just want to get to know her. I’ve never been the kind of girl to give a chase, but I can’t seem to get her off my mind. Maybe by getting to know me, she can get to know herself a little better, at least the potentially not-straight side.”
“I think you might be right. She did seem interested in you. I think you’re going to have a harder time getting her to take time off work to ‘get to know’ you than you will getting her to admit to any lesbian tendencies, though,” he says honestly.
“Well, I have been craving Italian. If I am at her work, she won’t have to take time off and she can’t avoid me,” I say more to myself now. I check my phone for the time and realize I have to get moving. “I gotta bounce, thanks for the great teamwork, partner.”
“Yeah. Guess I’ll see you tonight, then? Should be fun. For me at least,” Jack says. That total dick is laughing at me. I know he’s going to mock all of my efforts to crack Emma’s exterior and see what lies within. But I accept the challenge, which is an entirely new adventure for me.
“See you tonight, asshat,” I retort as I push out the door. I can hear his laughter echoing in the room behind me.
5
Emmaline
I love being in the kitchen. It’s an amazing feeling. I feel in control and capable in a way I never manage to feel outside of it. My dough is rising beautifully on the silver metal counters off to the left side of the kitchen. I am working on slicing the sausage evenly, trying to improve my knife skills. The slower I go the more accurate my slices, but eventually I want to be able to improve my speed and maintain my accuracy. It will take practice, of course, but it will also be necessary if I ever want to cook professionally in my own restaurant. When you have a dream, every step towards it counts, even the small ones. When the sausages are cut I separate them into two different frying pans and guide them onto the burners. I pull a few cloves of garlic and slice them thinly, the strong smell lingering on my fingers. I divvy it up between my pans and give them a stir. The sizzle of the pan, the smell of spices, the heat from the stove, it’s paradise.
Tomatoes in the dehydrator take about eight hours, but Marcus does a fresh batch at least once a week so I get to use some of those for my bread roll. The sausage is starting to turn a delicious brown, so I stir it around a few more times. After thoroughly cleaning my work space, I give the sausage another stir and drain the fat out of the pan. I throw in the tomatoes and spinach and letting it cook for a few minutes longer before pushing it off the heat. I grab the container of flour and a rolling pin from its hook. Quickly, I scatter flour onto the countertop and dump one of the three dough balls out. It has the perfect texture, I push my finger into a little bit and the dent stays. I flour my pin and roll it out. It’s harder than it seems, to get a perfect rectangle. After a frustrating ten minutes, I realize I need a better angle so I use my right foot to push over a white plastic footstool. It has two steps covered in black grippy things. When I stand on the top step, I make much better progress. When all three rectangles are just how I want them, I move to the next phase. I put the cheese into the shredder and when I am satisfied with the taste and texture, I spread it onto the rolls followed by the sausage mix. I roll them up, seal them, and secure them tightly in plastic wrap. When it’s time to put them in the brick oven, I will brush the top lightly with oil and sprinkle them with a mix of Italian herbs.
I could talk about all things food and cooking for hours, but I bet that’s how most people with a passion feel. I can’t talk to Jack about it anymore unless I feed him first because he just complains and threatens to duct tape my mouth. Growing up, I never had a boy as a friend. My two best friends were girls, Tabitha and Katie, and only Tabitha had started thinking boys were anything other than gross. When I moved here, Jack never really gave me any other option than being his friend. The day after I met him, he showed up in the morning to ride bikes to school together. He didn’t make me talk to him, just waited till I pulled my bike down to the sidewalk and rode next to me. He did the same thing when school got out and everyday after. We had the same lunch period together, so he found me somehow and had me sit with him. He introduced me to all his friends and that’s just the way it was. Since the beginning, he just accepted
me as is: timid, quiet, sad. He never treated me as the girl who lost her mom, who had to move far away from her home to live with an uncle she had never met. A lot of the teachers and some of the other kids did, but never Jack. I really don’t know why he decided to make me his friend, but I do know I don’t deserve it.
…
I only had one table when it was time for one of the sausage rolls to come out of the oven. I decided to stagger their cooking by 30 minutes, so that they would be as fresh as possible. Typically, you wouldn’t want to make an appetizer that takes an hour to cook, but it was Jack’s pick. Speaking of, he should be here soon to try it out. I set the roll on the counter so it can cool and settle before I slice it. I grab some plates and some small bowls for the marinara dipping sauce in preparation. Time to check on my lone table: Joe had Amanda come in today just for the extra hand since he was letting me cook. I really wasn’t missing much tip-wise, because Thursday’s are generally pretty quiet.
When I pushed through the double doors, my pulse went racing. Amanda was talking to Brooke. In my section. Brooke is in my section. I turned around and pushed back through the double doors. Oh, god, what if she just saw that? Quickly looking around, I try to come up with a reason for running back into the kitchen that doesn't include freaking out because the girl I have a crush on is looking super hot and sitting in my section. Why is she here? I move over to the rack that holds the cleaned dishes. There are like five spoons and two coffee cups. Crap. Oh well, it will have to do. I take a deep, calming breath and carry them out to the front station. I put them in their homes in an obviously-this-was-super-important way. Buying a little more time for my nerves to calm, I grab a few straws and shove them into my apron. When I finally turn back out to the dining room, Amanda was off talking to one of her tables and Brooke was looking right at me. Gulp .
She was only one booth down from my current three top, so when I stopped to check on them they were finishing up and handing me back the bill and some cash. They told me they didn’t need any change so I thanked them and wished them a great day. Which means I literally had nothing else to do. Breathe . I turn and walk the last few feet to Brooke, her eyes finding mine again.
“Hey,” I said with the tiniest of cracks.
“Hey, Emma,” she said back, smiling.
“How are you? Can I get you something to drink?”
“ Great. Um, sure, a water,” she said hesitantly. I nodded and went back and grabbed a cup from the stack and filled it up. So, maybe, I don’t have time to get all fluttery when a pretty girl is around. That’s true. But... I am at work, so what could it hurt if, while working, I also stare at her a bit? That decision makes me feel a little bit bolder, so when I get back to her table and set the cup down, I also slip into the seat across from her. Her smile gets wider and, oh man, is she beautiful. I take in all of her features: Her warm chocolate eyes, her subtly aquiline nose, the enticing curvature of her rosy lips. She smiles knowingly.
“How’s your day going?” she asks.
“Better now.” Her eyes widen in surprise and I can’t even believe I just said that to her. Her top teeth bite down on her bee-stung bottom lip. “How was class?”
“Awesome, I got out a half hour early. I was craving... Italian. So, here I am,” she says with a bright smile. Cue my blush, right on time. I hope she doesn’t notice.
“Nice.. you know, about the, um, early release. So, do you like sausage?” I say inarticulately. She’s bursts into a fit of laughter. My lips turn up at the sound, but I’m confused by her mirth. Ohhh . My cheeks are on fire, but I can’t look away from her. Her laugh is incredible, a mix of sexy and cute. Her brownie batter eyes are twinkling with mirth.
“If you’re referring to the food, yes, I love it. I don’t think you were alluding to anything else, but to be totally clear, I only like the food sausage,” Brooke declares. I get her meaning, but I can’t really think of anything to say back. Is she trying to find out if I like… sausage?
“I, um, I’m not really a fan either,” I say in response. I’m not sure if that was too vague or too forward, but she nods.
“Cool,” she says. She glances down at the straw next to her water. “I was hoping that was the case.” Her hair fails forward and into her right eye. My hand decided not to confer with my brain before it reaches over and brushes it back toward her ear. Or before it decides to completely linger there for no reason. Her body stills and her face becomes so serious. I see her throat move with a swallow, jarring me from my harassment of her face area. I drop my hand and quickly slide out.
“Great! I cooked a thing. Be right back,” I say inarticulately before hightailing it the hell out of there.
After I pushed back into the kitchen, I stood just out of reach of the swinging doors, completely forgetting why I came in here. I looked at my left hand. Holy freaking crap . I just touched her hair and her face. It was so soft. How can a person be that soft? Holy crap I just used this hand to touch her. A girl just let me touch her face. I’ve never done that before. I am never washing this hand again. Wait, that’s creepy and gross. I work with food, I have to wash it. Oh right, food. I came in here for food not to spaz out. I pull the roll toward me and sweep it onto the cutting board, I slice it into pieces, about an inch thick, and put six in a circle on the plate. I fill the bowl with marinara and after a quick wipe, I set it in the center of the plate. With another deep breath, I grab two appetizer plates and head back out there.
Brooke is staring at her closed straw when I get to the table. It’s still quiet in the restaurant except for Amanda’s table, so I sit across from her again. She carefully examines the dish, leaning down to inhale. When I explain to her what’s in it, she looks even more excited.
“This looks amazing. I can’t believe you made it. I’ve never known a chef before.” She pulls one of the slices onto her plate. She unrolls her silverware, sets her napkin on her lap, and uses the knife and fork to slice into it. When she has a piece on her fork she dips it into the sauce and eats it. I hold my breath, hoping desperately that she likes it. Her eyes close as she chews. “Mmm, Emma, this is so good!” As she quickly takes another bite I can’t help the huge grin on my face. Score!
I grab one off the plate and eat with her. It actually turned out surprisingly good and I like that I get to share with her. “So what’s your favorite meal?” I ask her between bites.
“Oh, hmm. That’s tough, I love all food for real. Right now, I’m really lovin’ this. One time I had this lemon, chicken, rice stew kind of deal and it was amazing. I don’t remember what it was called, but that has always been one of my favorites. Which is why I was impressed that you picked a lemon tart for me. Lemon is my jam.”
“That does sound good. I don’t think I’ve had anything like that before. I grew up eating Italian, so that happens to be what I cook and eat, mostly. I’ve spent most of my time trying to perfect that cuisine, but I read cookbooks from a lot of cultures.”
“You’re kind of pale for an Italian.” She takes her time studying me, my pale hair and skin. I giggle nervously under her inspection.
“I’m not actually Italian, but my mom managed an Italian restaurant for, basically, my whole childhood. I was always there and always eating. My mom also cooked the best Italian food at home,” I said before taking another bite. The realization that I talked about my mom suprises me. I never talk about my mom, not even to mention her name. Frankly, it hurts too much. I don’t even think Jack knows I grew up in the booth of a big fancy restaurant. But when I just told Brooke that, it didn’t hurt like it normally does. It was a happy memory and I suddenly feel like embracing it. I finish chewing, lost in thought.
“Hey, you okay?” Brooke asks, concern on her face.
“Yeah, sorry. I don’t talk about my mom much.” She nods in understanding, not pressing it.
“So, when did you start learning to cook?” She asks tentatively.
“Oh, probably by the time I could walk. My mom would tell me stories
about how she used to drag my high chair into our tiny kitchen while she cooked. She explained what she was doing as she went. She said that even though I was only two, I paid close attention to her. If she asked me what seasoning came next, I would point to it with a big wooden spoon. She always laughed when she told me I got it right sometimes. It was a great sound. As I got older she let me plan and cook meals for us and sometimes her boyfriend, Paul. I felt so cool.” I smile at the thought.
“Oh, I can picture that so clearly. Two year old you is about what I can manage in a kitchen. No, you’d probably fair better. I’m hopeless in there, I should actually be tied into a high chair for just attempting to go there. Your mom sounds like she was pretty amazing, though.” She says that last part so gently. Unexpectedly, wetness fills my eyes when I nod. I haven’t cried in years and I try to regain control before Brooke takes notice. I almost succeed, but before I can stop it, one tear slips out. I bring my hand up to wipe it away. I can’t really bear to look up at Brooke yet, I just hope she didn’t see. Before I can wipe my hand on my jeans, she reaches out and takes it. She doesn’t say anything, just holds it. Wow, I’m just getting to know this girl and I tell her about my mom and cry in front of her.
“I’m sorry,” I say when I have my voice under control. She grasps my hand and I really don’t want her to let go of it, even if I don’t really do affection.
“For being human? That’s nothing to be sorry about. So, do you think you could show me a few things sometimes? I can do eggs and toast, but I always wondered what it would be like to use an oven.” That gets another laugh out of me and I’m thankful for the artful topic adjustment.