“What did I tell you about that swimming star?”
“I, uh—”
“What did I tell you about all this fancy food?”
“Sorry.”
“Didn’t I say burgers-dogs-fries, whatever else he wants and however much?”
“Yuh.”
“I haven’t run the numbers for July yet, since we’re only halfway through, but we can’t break even feeding that guy and there’s no way we can afford to lose money on all that fancy crap you’re making. I can’t believe he asked for ‘Freestyle Arepas.’”
“It won’t—”
“It better not.”
“The gross has been—”
“Don’t tell me about the gross. You made our Olympic contender barf on camera. Now he’s gonna lose his sponsorship and Upper Collingford is gonna look terrible, all because some Ottolenghi wannabe can’t keep his face away from the cameras.”
I’m too surprised that he knows who Yotam Ottolenghi is to explain that I bought all the ingredients for the arepas myself and that the Snack Bar is doing fifty percent better than it did last year. He’d know it himself if he could work the POS system.
“I don’t care how hard it is to replace you mid-summer. If I hear one more complaint, Crane, you’re out!” He storms off without waiting for me to respond.
I want to yell back at Raheem that I’m trying to cook what Basil wants but with Koji barking at me and Basil avoiding me, I can’t even ask.
I hear Basil come in, but the screen’s down and he doesn’t poke his head in the side door. That’s fine with me. He can apologize when he’s ready but the longer he takes, the less I’m likely to listen.
When I pull the screen up to open, I find myself face-to-face with Koji again. Basil sits at one of the tables, his back to me.
“Three eggs, over, sausage, pancakes, toast, hash, and OJ. No gourmet crap.”
“Coming right up.”
Two can play this game. Well, maybe three if you count Basil. Ordinarily, if he sat down at a table before I had the food ready, I’d step out and bring the tray over, but not today.
“Food’s up.” I slam the tray on the counter and keep my back turned until I hear one of them come get it. Too bad the toast is burned.
“So we’re clear, the only blue you pay attention to is the water, not some camera-hogging poser’s eyes.”
Basil’s tone is subdued. “I know.”
I can’t close, so I turn back to the whiteboard and write up the special, “Open-faced Bruschetta Sandwich: All the Flavors of Summer!”
Basil
For the first time in my life, I’m not hungry.
I still need food though. Whatever Koji brings me, I eat mechanically. I wake up at 4:15 a.m., I get to practice on time, I do whatever Koji tells me without question. But my times are off, my starts are weak, and the throbbing in my right hamstring won’t go away.
I don’t know what to say to Will so I don’t say anything. The only thing I do is follow orders.
The meeting with Submergd is bad. Mr. Taplin tells my parents that I’m not “aligned with the gear” in a way that will showcase either my talents or the company’s interests. Dad is perplexed, Mom is upset, and none of us knows how we can pay Koji’s fees. All these years of training, all the early morning practices, and now, no matter how fast I swim, the Olympics are out because I don’t know how to act for a camera.
Koji says Submergd is in talks with Jay Scott.
The first race I won—the one after Pappou died—Koji talked to my parents for a long time while I showered and changed. When I came back, he took us for lunch at the Miss Manchester Diner. I wolfed down waffles and sausage while he explained what he saw in me. I was tall for thirteen and flexible, but what he was most interested in was that I didn’t joke around with the rest of the team.
“You don’t need to be unfriendly,” he explained to me. “Carry yourself apart, focus on your own practice and on your own times. That’s the difference between excellent swimmers and Michael Phelps.” The only reason I thought I could swim the same times as an Olympic legend was because Koji said I could.
For three years, it’s worked. All the comparisons to Him from all sorts of people fed my superstitions. My family knows not to say His name. When outsiders notice that we’re the same height or that I’m only a year older than He was when He first qualified for the Sydney Olympics, I change the subject, then get back in the pool. From the time Koji told me I could be the best, that’s all I’ve focused on doing. I’ve followed all of Koji’s orders and I’ve gotten better and better. Until now.
Until Will.
I lose in the next meet when I swim against Antonio Rivera. My IM time slips another two hundredths of a second. The rest of the team crowds around the snack bar afterward, eating and laughing with Will. I head for the locker room.
Koji takes me out for lunch, away from the club. I pick at a Reuben while he watches.
“You’re supposed to eat it, not pull it apart like a Lego set. Do you want something else?”
I shrug and force a mouthful down.
“Basil, talk to me. What’s going on? Is it the hamstring? We can get an appointment with Dr. Olowe.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Yes, you are. You just raced.”
“The sandwich is cold.”
He orders me a ham and Swiss omelet.
“If I can’t get Submergd back we can’t afford you.”
“And you know I want to keep coaching you. But I have to pay the bills too. You know what to do, Basil.”
“I can’t—”
“Listen, Basil, I know you hate being compared to high-performing athletes, but you shouldn’t. They all have one thing in common: total focus. You come to practice, you do the work, you put in the hours, and you have the right body morph. With all that, you should be going to the Games. Maybe not Tokyo, but maybe Paris. Or Los Angeles in ’28. Maybe all of them. But not if you let this guy distract you. It’s your decision, not mine, but you better make it. You need a coach. I need a paycheck. You need to adjust.”
“So I’m not supposed to have friends? I’m not supposed to ever like a guy? I’m supposed to do nothing but swim laps and practice starts until 2028?”
He flips a couple of twenties on the table and pushes back his chair.
“You know what to do. Do it and you’ll win again. You don’t adjust, well, you can probably swim in college, and your boyfriend will cheer for you at all your meets.”
* * *
I run it over in my mind. Meeting Will, watching him make food for me, laughing with him, seeing those eyes turn from gray to blue, then back to gray. I review it the way I’d watch a race tape: the start, the first turn, the problems.
How do I adjust? I push my plate away and pick up my phone.
* * *
The next day, I eat my Pop-Tarts in the car as we drive.
“Those names I emailed you last night, will you call them?”
“Basil, are you sure about this? The last go-around made you miserable. Mom and I were talking. We think it’s time for all of us to rethink your strategy. What about getting a college scholarship instead of—”
“Dad, will you please just call the names? Set something up. I’m working on the rest.”
I’m at the snack bar when Will arrives at 4:39.
“I owe you an apology.”
“Okay.”
He sets down a bag with two baguettes sticking out of it and unlocks the door.
“I’m sorry. For the other day.”
“What the hell, Basil? I spent my own money on all that food. I came in at 4:00 a.m. to caramelize bananas for you. You asked me for bananas.”
“It was the peanut butter.”
“You said you could eat it every day!”
“I said ‘every
night.’”
“Is this one of your superstitions? Or am I supposed to know that Michael Phelps never eats peanut butter?”
I wince at the reference. “No. It’s a me thing. I can’t eat peanut butter before I swim. It sticks in my throat and slows me down. I only eat it at night.”
He flips the light on and puts his bag on the counter. Koji stalks out from the locker room: 4:43.
“Yeah, well, you could have found a better way to communicate than spitting it out. On camera, no less.”
“Jay Scott was staring at me; the cameras were in my face. I messed up. I was nervous, and then when you said the ingredients, I freaked out.”
“That was about us—me. Those were my arepas you spat out, not a box of Pop-Tarts.”
“That’s what makes you different.”
“Different?”
“I used to think that swimming was about endurance, and focus, and repeating tedious steps over and over and that no one who didn’t swim understood that. But you show up as early as I do every day, to make your mise en place. It’s chopping onions and other prep work, so it’s probably tedious also. But to be good, you have to do it. I’ve watched you. You barely move when you put a dish together. You take the time to put everything where you need it. You know your kitchen as well as I know the pool. You work through injuries. This job isn’t just flipping burgers for you, it’s creating experiences for people—like the arepas.”
We stare at each other. It’s 4:45. But I can tell he’s softening. I do what I would do in a race. I press harder.
“You said that cooking is all about the diner. When you cook, you want to make what I want to eat. You make me feel like you want me to like it—to like you. I want that.”
“What about Koji? He told me to stay away from you.”
4:46.
“Forget Koji.”
“He’ll be in my face in two minutes telling me to go back to the grill.”
“Submergd cancelled my contract. I may not have him as a coach for much longer anyway.”
“Is it that serious?”
“That and the fact that I’m losing races along with my appetite.”
“I’ll think about it.”
It’s 4:47 when I get in the pool.
My hamstring aches.
“Late,” remarks Koji, “so start with back.”
Will
“Will, bro, you think maybe it’s not about the food?”
Even though I know what Toby means—and that it’s true—I ask him. “What, then?”
“First, it was, ‘what’s with this a-hole.’ Then, you’re all, ‘he only likes hot dogs,’ when that’s what you’re supposed to be making at a snack bar. Last week, ‘waaaah, he puked up my corn thingies on national TV.’ Now you’re whining, ‘he’s sorry and he’s going to lose his gold medal but he likes my food.’”
“I don’t talk like that, all squeaky, but go on.”
“So it’s not about the food, dummy. You like him or you wouldn’t be calling me about him every two seconds.”
“No, it’s not like that. I’m supposed to make up dishes and put out a menu. The diner decides.”
“Whatever it’s ‘like,’ you need to talk to him—about stuff, not just ‘when do you eat peanut butter?’”
“How am I supposed to talk to him when he’s either in the pool or hiding behind his coach? And I don’t talk that way.”
“What are you hiding behind, dude? If you can’t find your heat, get out of the kitchen.”
* * *
So I try mise en place, only I take it to another level, thinking I can free up some extra time to talk to Basil. The next morning, instead of leaving the door open, which causes trouble for him with Koji, I close the snack bar door and set up quietly. At 8:15, I raise the metal screen, ready to go. The special is up, bacon and sausages are prepped, the grill is hot.
Basil shows up, his face registering concern. “I didn’t think you were here. Your door was closed.”
I smile, thinking he missed me, and hand him three plates and a large cup. “I made you breakfast. Everything you like, no morning peanut butter. Pull up a stool?”
He blushes and looks down at the food. His lips are purple; the lower one juts out. When he turns to get a stool, the muscles in his neck bulge, and I get a whiff of chlorine mixed with sweat. It smells better than melting butter.
“Buckwheat pancakes with a berry coulis and creme fraiche. Don’t tell Raheem it’s not just a short stack with syrup.”
He nods, still staring at the food, and picks up a fork.
“Scrambled eggs, French style, with chives. Bacon and home fries. Sourdough toast, with Danish butter called Lurpak. Guess what kind of jam it is, and you win the grand prize.”
“Wow. All this and a milkshake too?”
“Banana smoothie.”
He looks up at me, his big brown eyes wide. He tastes everything on the plate, then the smoothie. He leans back in his chair and, his face soft, looks at me again and says something that sounds like “ay fogatone cuz mo.”
My mouth asks, “Huh?” but in response to his tone and his smile, my mind yells Sweet! Then, Oh, god, maybe I do talk “that way.”
Before I get an answer, Koji interrupts us. “Basil, I didn’t let you go. You owe me a kick set before you eat all that.” Basil mouths sorry, but goes right back to the pool.
So much for mise en place to the next level.
* * *
Lunch is no better. Koji lets Basil order, which he does with a shaky voice. His eyes dart to Koji standing next to him; Koji’s trademark frown is cutting his face in half.
I mouth “later?” to Basil, but Koji pulls him to a table before he can respond. “We need to go over your afternoon workout before I leave. I have that appointment at four.”
That’s my opening.
* * *
At 4:30 p.m., I pull down the metal screen. I’m a little early, but Raheem isn’t around and the afternoon swimmers all went home. Toby’s right. It’s time to get out of the kitchen.
The pool is empty except for Basil. I take off my clogs, roll up my pants, and sit at the shallow end, dangling my legs in the water next to his lane. He notices right away, holds a single finger out of the water, and keeps going.
Okay, I can wait.
One lap later, he stops. “You’re here.” he says, pulling his goggles down and dipping his head to clear his ears. “You never come to the pool. Is it that late?”
“Am I interrupting?” I hope so—this was my plan.
“It’s okay. Like I said before, I’m about to lose Koji. If I don’t find another sponsor soon, another swimmer will hire him.”
“Do you need to keep practicing?”
“At this?” He looks around the empty pool as if he’s not sure where he is. “Yes, but I can take a break.” He starts for the ladder.
“Wait.” I stand and take off my apron and jacket. He raises his eyebrows. I kick off my pants. His mouth makes a little O when I slide into the pool next to him wearing only black boxer briefs. “Show me something.”
“What?”
“I don’t know. I can dog paddle, but I never took lessons.”
“Never? But Toby—”
“—is the family athlete. I’m not about to compete with my jock brother.”
His mouth eases into a little smile then broadens into a grin. “Stand in front of me, sideways.”
When I do, he puts his left hand on my chest and his right on my lower back. I shift, surprised that his hands are warm, warmer than the water. He flinches when I let my hip brush against his swimsuit. He catches me smiling but pretends not to.
“Flex your knees and lean back.”
It makes me nervous. I don’t know what he plans to do and I don’t like leaning backward into the water. I be
nd my knees, but my back is rigid.
“Relax. I’ve got you. Lift your feet.” He moves his other hand under my back, and I flail a bit, like the blond girl in King Kong’s palm.
I want to pinch my nose to keep the water out, but what am I, five? Then I remember how he let me feed him even after the peanut butter mistake, so I take a deep breath, shut my eyes, and lean back. Basil’s hands hold me up; I’m floating, and they’re barely touching me.
“You can open your eyes now.” He stands over me, looking into my eyes and holding back a laugh.
“What’s so funny?”
“Your face. You look like you think I’m going to dunk you and jump out.”
Wait a minute! I meet him on his own ground—well, water—and he laughs at me? “I’m done.” I find my footing and face him. My back feels cold where his hands were.
“Was it tomato?” he asks.
“What do you mean?”
“The jam with the toast this morning.”
“Tomato and orange marmalade, that’s right.”
“You said there was a grand prize.”
“What would you like?”
“‘Show me something,’” he mimics.
We both laugh—tension dissolved—and he steps closer to me.
This is it. I put my face to his. I’m shorter, so I reach up and pull his head down. He resists. “‘Relax. I’ve got you,’” I mimic back. “Here’s your something.”
I kiss him and taste chlorine on our lips. I slide my hand from the back of his head to his neck, surprised that his hair feels so soft. My fingers spread out against the slickness of his skin. Our bodies align; my back is against the edge of the pool. With our mouths together, I flick my tongue against his closed lips. He stiffens and pulls his face back.
“I’m not going to dunk you and jump out,” I whisper, my voice husky. He leans against me; his body is smooth but unyielding, almost like flexible marble, only warm, so warm. This time he kisses me.
We’re both shivering by the time we leave the water. He tosses me a towel.
“Basil, what you said earlier, while you were eating breakfast? Was it Greek?”
“Yeah. I said, ‘efaga ton kosmo na se vro.’” He repeats it slowly, twice. It sounds dark and rich, like strong coffee. “My Pappou used to say it to my Yaya. It means, ‘I ate the whole world to find you.’”
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