Short Stuff

by Alysia Constantine

  After they put the makeup on Basil and strip off the bib, Koji comes by in a Submergd windbreaker. He wants to sit at the table, but Submergd Guy tells him to step back while they’re filming.

  Mike Corrente, the anchor from National Sports Network, sits facing Basil and smiles. Basil looks down and clutches his water bottle for all he’s worth. Corrente asks Basil where he grew up (Manchester), how many siblings he has (sister), and how it feels to be a potential Olympian (fine). Basil gives one-word answers without making eye contact. I can’t take my eyes off the scene. It’s like a slow-motion car crash.

  Koji stands back by the camera waving both arms at Basil, trying to animate him. Submergd Guy bends to say something in Basil’s ear.

  Corrente tries again.

  “So Basil, you must be familiar with the most famous Olympic swimmer, Michael Phelps. Has he inspired you in some way?”

  Basil grips the water bottle so hard that I’m positive it’s going to explode. The crew eye each other. But Basil’s not angry. He’s scared.

  I get an idea. I take out some bananas and start cutting. I throw some bittersweet chocolate in the microwave. While that’s heating, I work the soft-serve machine. In three minutes, I load a tray which I bring to the table where Mike Corrente and Basil are gaping at each other. The cameras are still rolling.

  “Splits for the swimmer! Banana splits, that is.” I make a big flourish of putting two bowls on the table. Is that relief I see on Basil’s face? I don’t stay to find out. The cameraman puts down his camera, so I offer the rest of the banana splits to the crew. Koji declines with a snarl.

  “Hey, kid, this is good with the nuts and all.” It’s Corrente. “Come over here.” He stands up when I return to the table. “Are you the star’s private chef?”

  “I’m the star!” I blurt out without thinking. “I mean, I’m the star of the kitchen, while Basil is the star of the water!”

  “Sit down with us. Tell me how you know Basil.” He gestures to the crew, who come over with a chair and makeup.

  I look at Basil to see if he minds. He shrugs. No, he shrugs and nods. He wants me to sit down. I hold still while they make up my face and turn the cameras back on.

  “I’m sitting here with Basil Minopoli and his friend…”

  “Will Crane.”

  “…Will Crane. For the very few who don’t know him yet, Basil is headed to the next Summer Olympics. He trains every day here at the Upper Collingford Swim Club, where Will runs the kitchen. How did you guys meet?”

  Basil turns to me, his eyes wide.

  “Well, Mike, swimmers eat a ton of food every day, and my Olympic sport is producing that ton of food for Basil.” I can’t believe I’m being this corny. “I serve Basil the standard snack bar stuff, but sometimes he requests certain ingredients, like the bananas in these banana splits.”

  Basil nods. “I need the potassium before a meet.” It’s his first full sentence on camera. I catch myself staring at his mouth again.

  “He also lets me try out my real gustatory exploits after hours.”

  Corrente chuckles. “Basil, do you have a favorite food that Will cooks?”

  “Um, sure. He made a, a flank steak stuffed with goat cheese and herbs the other night. It was off-menu. I could’ve eaten three of them.”

  Sweet! He noticed, and now my dish is going to be on national television!

  “That’s great. I hope you get at least two more steaks very soon. Will, we’ll let you get back to work while we talk swimming with your athlete here.” He nods, dismissing me. Basil passes over his empty bowl with a silent “thanks.”

  There are more questions, but they obviously don’t want me here. I glance at Basil but can’t read his face.

  I clean up and prepare to shut down for the day. If they finish up with Basil and he wants something, I can make it, but no one else is coming by at this hour. A sharp knock on the closed metal curtain over the counter startles me. It’s Koji.

  “No more ice cream socials. You got that?”

  “Huh?”

  “Stick to your work and stay away from my guy. He needs to focus on his swimming, not on some burger flipper who thinks he’s gonna be the next Gordon Ramsay.”

  Basil

  As soon as Mike Corrente leaves, I head for Will. The screen is down, but he’s inside cleaning the grill. All the food is put away, except for one pot on the cooktop. My stomach growls.

  “Hey, those banana splits were good. Have you got anything else? Even some peanut butter crackers? I’m really hungry and that was really… awful.”

  Will leans down to pick up a dropped rag. The muscles in his forearm flex, stirring his whisk tattoo.

  “Let me see what I’ve got.” He smiles. “You’ll settle for peanut butter?”

  “Yeah, I’m done for the day. I love peanut butter. I could eat it every night.”

  “What was awful, the interview?”

  “Mr. Taplin wants to do a whole series for Wake-Up America. You saw how bad it went. I’m going to look like a total douche on morning TV.”

  “No one watches morning TV,” he assures me, holding out an industrial-size jar of peanut butter and a box of saltines. I dig in while he opens a large can of tuna and puts four slices of bread in the toaster. I lean against the doorjamb to watch. He doesn’t look as he pulls out the stuff—mise en place.

  The sandwich is delicious. Instead of mayonnaise, he used the same sauce that he put on the shrimp the other day. He grins when I ask him about it. As I eat the last bite he turns to the stove and ladles out something onto two rolls.

  “Chili dogs?”

  I didn’t even see him heat the hot dogs. I wolf one down, still hungry. The chili tastes warm, different somehow. I can’t place it.

  “I wish you could do the interviews for me. You were so much better on camera.”

  “Too bad Submergd doesn’t sponsor chefs. Someday, when I get my own cooking show. Anyway, I knew you were starving and figured some food would loosen things up.”

  He leans against the counter and watches me eat. His eyes are mixed blue-gray today.

  “Try pretending the cameras aren’t there. Also, eat before you start. Then you can concentrate on answering questions without wanting to gnaw your hand off.”

  Not ravenous anymore, I bite into the second chili dog. I think I figured out the taste. “Is it cinnamon?”

  “Yes! It mellows the heat of the peppers. You do notice what I feed you.” He grins again.

  My phone buzzes with two texts. The first is from Mr. Taplin.

  Ask your friend Will for another swimming-themed dish tomorrow. We want footage with him for a segment on your training regimen.

  I shove the phone at Will so he can read the text. “Guess you were wrong. Submergd wants you back on camera. You can save my ass again—and show off your cooking.”

  His eyes widen, then he wipes his hands on his apron and pulls the pen out of his sleeve pocket.

  “I need to make a menu and a shopping list. This is huge. I owe you.”

  The second text is from Mom, held up at work so she can’t come get me. I still haven’t had time to take my driver’s test.

  “Any way you can pay me back with a ride home? I have to shower and change, but there’s no evening practice because of the meet tomorrow. My mom’s running late.”

  Will’s buried in the refrigerator, list in hand, but he gives me a thumbs-up over his shoulder.

  In the locker room, Koji asks about my left bicep, which was bothering me earlier. I tell him about Mr. Taplin’s invitation.

  “Start focusing, stop flirting.”

  “I’m not flirting. Will just makes me… calmer. You saw how bad I was today. The only good part of that interview was when he came in.”

  “You know what you need to do against Rivera and Danielson. Scott’
s the wild card tomorrow.” Jay Scott just moved to Greenwich, Connecticut from Oklahoma. He’s put up some fast numbers in the IM, and I’ve watched him on tape, but this is our first race against each other.

  Will comes in from the kitchen, twirling his car keys on a finger. Koji grabs my arm.

  “You’ve got too many distractions right now, Basil. This isn’t how you prepare for a race. You’re going to regret this.”

  “The bicep is fine. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  He stalks off without looking at Will, who blows a kiss at Koji’s back. It shouldn’t make me laugh but it does.

  In the car, I connect my pre-race playlist to Will’s stereo. He smirks when Free Boyz starts.

  “Rap from when we were in middle school?”

  “I picked it when I started racing four years ago. You don’t mess with the pre-race ritual.”

  “Are swimmers superstitious? Got any other good luck rituals?”

  I tell him about only using white towels and always stretching on the right side first, then ask him about cooking to change the subject. He got his mom to buy him half a pig when he was twelve so he could learn how to butcher it. My entire playlist appalls him. As he pulls into my neighborhood, I realize that Koji would call this flirting, but this is the most relaxed I’ve been before a race since, well, maybe ever. Will’s easy to talk to. My arm isn’t twinging as much, and I’m not that nervous about tomorrow since Will is going to be there.

  “What’s with the Pop-Tarts?”

  “What do you mean?” How did he find out?

  “I pick up your trash. Why do you eat Strawberry Milkshake Pop-Tarts every morning? They’re barely food. I’m asking as your new personal chef.”

  I’ve never told anyone about this, not even my parents. They probably think it’s another weird habit. We’re in my driveway now, and I could tell him I need to leave, but I don’t. I finger the door handle as I talk.

  “My grandfather is the one who made me and my sister learn how to swim. His younger brother drowned back in Crete when they were kids. I’m named after him. Pappou brought us to the pool every day after Greek School for swimming lessons. Afterward, he bought us strawberry milkshakes at the snack bar.”

  “Okay, healthy, dairy, fruit. Why did you switch to the hydrogenated version?”

  “Pappou died the month before my first big race when I was thirteen. He didn’t care about racing, but he wanted to cheer me on. Right after the funeral I saw a box of Strawberry Milkshake Pop-Tarts in the store. They… they just reminded me of him. It was as if he was sending me a message. I took two Pop-Tarts with me to the race and won with a fast-enough time that Koji noticed, and he talked to my parents about coaching me. So now—”

  Will touches my arm. “So now you don’t mess with the pre-race ritual.” His hand is warm.

  * * *

  Most swimmers shave the day before a race, but I do it the day of. I get to the Club at 6:02 a.m. and take a long shower, mentally rehearsing each split of the relay, removing every hair from my legs, my arms, my torso.

  I’ve eaten a couple of bananas and today’s Pop-Tarts, but I need more food. Will is making something special with a swimming theme. Funny how much I look forward to what he cooks, not only because I’m always hungry, but because he’s excited about cooking for me. Koji was wrong. I’m loose, focused, and ready. On the deck, I catch Will sneaking a glance at me as I pull a Submergd warm-up jacket over my newly smooth chest.

  Koji tells Mr. Taplin they have five minutes of camera time now but need to wait until after I race for more. Mike Corrente isn’t here today, so Mr. Taplin asks the questions. I’m in a chair next to him, and the camera man is filming. Jay Scott’s coach watches from the far side of the deck, but I’m not nervous. I focus on Will instead of the cameras, and it works. I can do this. Koji was wrong.

  Mr. Taplin asks how I warm up, and I explain some of my stretches, but not all of them. Too much information gives people like Jay Scott a chance to mess with my head. Still, no problems, way better than yesterday. Koji nods at me from behind the camera. When Mr. Taplin asks about what I eat before a race, Will brings over a plate and hands it to me. The yellow stacks on it look like pancakes and smell buttery.

  I dig in as he explains to Mr. Taplin that he’s created a new race day dish for me, with carbs and proteins. Mr. Taplin loves it.

  And suddenly it all goes bad—very, very bad.

  My mouth is full as Will proudly announces that I’m eating Freestyle Breakfast Arepas, corncakes with eggs on top, stuffed with bananas and peanut butter.

  I don’t stop to think. The camera catches me spitting out a half-chewed mouthful. I drop the plate, which smashes on the concrete deck, and sprint for the locker room. Mr. Taplin calls after me but I don’t stop. I need to wash my mouth out right now.

  Will is behind his counter when I get back to the deck. He won’t look in my direction. Koji won’t let me go talk to him. I argue, but he shakes his head and nods to Jay Scott, who stares at us from the other side of the pool. Koji sends me off to the locker room to stretch and run my playlist. An hour later, I receive a text from Mr. Taplin asking to meet with my parents next week about whether I’m still a good fit for Submergd.

  Jay Scott beats me in the IM by four hundredths of a second.

  Will

  WTF!

  After dropping Basil off last night, I went to Whole Trader’s and made up the recipe on my phone before going inside. No way was I going to risk the standard Northeast Restaurant Supply ingredients for Basil’s meet. I got the best peanut butter, because he said he could eat it every night. I got cornmeal and fresh corn to make the arepas beautiful, soft and sweet, to provide on-demand energy from the carbs. I roasted bananas, caramelizing them just enough to bring out some smoke, knowing he needs the potassium. Uncured, apple-smoked bacon gave the whole thing crunch, and fried eggs supplied extra protein without being heavy. I spent a ton of my own money getting all organic stuff—no wonder my mother calls the store “Whole Paycheck.” But I figured it was worth it to make something this piquant, since I’d be on TV as Basil’s personal chef.

  But he goes and spits it out—on camera—then runs away and doesn’t even thank me!

  No one has to say “cut” for me to know the filming’s finished, and I make a hasty exit. Taplin and his crew stay around for some of the meet, but I don’t watch. I wipe the “Freestyle Breakfast Arepas” off the whiteboard and leave it blank. Screw everyone. I put away the bananas and the arepa batter. No one’s going to want something a star athlete spit out.

  I don’t have time to think about it because there are so many people here to watch the meet that I can’t get the food out fast enough. It’ll quiet down later. This late in July, all the schoolkids are in day camp, so there’s no family crowd on weekdays, just the lane swimmers who never order anything and the old people who rave about my iced tea but cluck about the price of the hot dogs. Business will be quiet this afternoon.

  The meet’s over by lunchtime, and the teams pack up. I’m wrong about it quieting down here, though. Keisha comes over with a bunch of her teammates.

  “Hey, Will, no special today?”

  I shrug. “Nothing anyone would want.”

  Keisha grins. “Oh, come on, we saw you bring something to The Orca. Just ’cause we’re not on TV you’re not going to give it to us?”

  “Didn’t you see him spit it out?”

  “Whatevs. He’s a nutter. He probably forgot to say the right prayer before eating. He lost his race anyway. At least tell us what it was.”

  I bristle when she insults Basil. Then I feel bad that he lost his race, with the Submergd people there and all. But I catch myself. There was nothing wrong with my arepas. I pull out the batter and the bananas.

  Keisha and her friends prove me right. “Next meet here, you have to make this for us. It’s the perfect breakf
ast!”

  Sweet.

  Within half an hour, I sell out and mentally add up the sales. I’m cleaning up the lunch stuff when Koji and Basil come to the counter. There are no niceties. Basil looks away while Koji orders. “Three burgers, three dogs, two fries, and some orange juice.”

  When I ask Basil how the meet went, Koji steps between us to block me. “Leave him alone. Stay in your lane.”

  Basil still won’t look at me when I hand Koji the tray. They take it to a table in front of the snack bar. The place is almost empty. Keisha left with her friends fifteen minutes ago.

  “What the hell was that?” Koji starts in, loud enough that I can hear from behind the counter.

  “Dunno. Sorry.”

  “Your start was bad. You were sloppy on the splits and you didn’t push the finish. Not to mention you made a mess with Submergd on camera.”

  “I didn’t—”

  “You didn’t listen to me. I told you to stay away. That snack bar whiz doesn’t give a rat’s ass about you or your swimming. He’s after the television coverage only. He’s ruining your focus.”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  That’s all I need to hear. This kitchen is closed. I carefully pull down the metal screen so they don’t think I care and finish cleaning up. If that’s what Basil-the-swimmer thinks, he can forget peanut butter, bananas, and anything without basil-the-herb in it.

  * * *

  I catch all kinds of hell the next morning. Raheem, who usually doesn’t appear before 9:00 a.m., stands waiting for me when I arrive with his arms crossed and a big frown bisecting his face.

  “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t fire your ass.”

  “Um.” I keep my eyes level with his, hoping he doesn’t see the bunch of green leaves sticking out of my canvas bag. He won’t care about the bread and tomatoes. Those could be for grilled cheese.