My Bittersweet Summer

by Starla Huchton

  “It’s not my first day,” I answered. “I’ve been working there all week helping with refurb.”

  “You have?” Why the hell did he sound surprised?

  “If it’ll help my parents make Le Beau Tournée work, of course I would. Wouldn’t you?” I paused, snorting. “Never mind. Forgot who I was talking to.”

  “Look, Margie, I know you’ve got issues with me, and maybe that would’ve been true a year ago, but that’s not me anymore. I’m not doing this to spite you, and I don’t have ulterior motives for taking this job.”

  I nodded. “Right. Trying to be better and all that stuff. Got it.”

  The car skidded over to the side of the road, jerking me forward as the seatbelt snapped me back against the seat. Before I could yell a string of profanities at him, he spun at me, fixing me in place with mix of hurt and anger in his eyes. “So, what, I don’t get be better? You get to decide who is and isn’t worthy of changing their life? Why, Mighty Mouse? You got to change. Why not me, too?”

  A wave of nausea gripped me under the brunt of his sudden aggression. I pinched my eyes closed, my breaths coming in quick, shallow spurts through my nose. “You think it’s that easy, huh?” I managed to whisper. My knuckles ached as I clung to the cushion, struggling to rein in my panic. “You think I just woke up one morning and decided I was going to be different?”

  When he didn’t respond, I opened my eyes and looked at him, swallowing the urge to vomit all over his car. “Six years of therapy. One before I could talk to another kid my age again. Two before I made a best friend. Three before I got a solid night of sleep without waking up screaming at least once. Four before I figured out how to step down from a panic attack in under thirty minutes. Five before I went a full day without hating myself. Six years, Zach. That’s how long it’s taken for me to say to you, to any of you, that I don’t care about you anymore. I don’t care how you feel about me, or about yourself. Apathy is the best you’re gonna get from me. Don’t talk to me about change. You don’t have a damned clue what that means.”

  He stared at me, face slack in shock.

  I looked away and crossed my arms over my stomach. “Drive. I don’t want to be late because I wasn’t serving your inflated ego to your satisfaction.”

  Without a word, he put the car back into drive, keeping to himself the entire rest of the way. The minute we were stopped, I got out, slamming the door behind me.

  I stomped up the wooden ramp wrapped around the stucco exterior of Le Beau Tournée. I had to work hard not to fling open the etched glass doors, but I was comforted a little by the results of the days of hard work on the inside, admiring the gleam of the warm wooden floorboards and noting that I managed not to get a single smudge of golden beige paint on any of the wood or stone along the walls.

  Despite the murderous expression I must’ve been wearing, my dad greeted me at the door and directed me to the small banquet room in the back. The place couldn’t hold more than maybe thirty people for a private event, but that made it even more exclusive. With only seventy-five seats in the main area, reservations would have to be made weeks, maybe months, in advance. Pending my parents could turn the place into the successful establishment they wanted it to be, however.

  I took a seat behind most of the twenty-some employees already there. Zach wandered in a minute or two after I did, looking completely unsure of himself. I noted the expressions on the faces of the staff when he entered. At first, I felt a zing of triumph at their hostile looks, but…

  I frowned. I knew how he felt. How many times had I walked into a crowd of peers with similar attitudes toward me? I knew what they were thinking: he didn’t belong there.

  When his gaze passed over to me, I gritted my teeth. Rolling my eyes to the ceiling, I nudged the chair across the table from me, pushing it towards him with my foot.

  Stupid empathy. I’d have to sit next to him for the whole meeting.

  Hesitant, he set his hand on the back of the chair, looking at me as though he needed confirmation of my invitation. I grimaced and shrugged at him. I might’ve felt bad about his situation, but it didn’t mean I disliked the guy any less.

  Two other people came in after us, a pair of college-aged girls, bringing the total number of staff up to twenty-three by my head count. My parents handed out packets on procedures and duties, making it clear to everyone who was responsible for what and how they were expected to act. Work schedules and paydays were discussed in depth, as was dress code, break times, and potential for raises and moving up in the restaurant. I wasn’t too concerned with most of it, as I’d already memorized the policies after my parents had me double and triple check every version of the stuff before they passed it to Mr. Robinson for final approval. After forty-five minutes, the only thing left to discuss was the menu, at which point my ears perked up; it was the first time I’d get to hear about the actual food.

  My mom talked as my dad passed out photocopies of the menu. “Most of the dish names are in French, so you’ll need to be up on pronunciation. If the phonetic spellings aren’t enough help, you can ask for clarification from myself, Mr. Walsh, or Margie, over in the back there.”

  As she motioned to me, all eyes in the place turned my way. My face flushed, embarrassed, but I gave a little wave of acknowledgement.

  “Even if you’re not bar or wait staff,” my father said as he rejoined my mother, “you should familiarize yourself with the menu anyway. Any time you’re on the main floor, you could get asked a question. If you don’t know the answer, report it to a server and make sure it’s addressed quickly.”

  My attention drifted away from the talking, focusing instead on the paper packet before me. Each dish was titled in French, the pronunciation beside it, a description of the dish below it, followed by a list of ingredients, including marks for potential allergens or gluten contents or vegan options. I drank it in, savoring each detail and building plates in my head, going so far as to remember some of my father’s wine pairing tips. Since I was eighteen and about to head to a place that served wine with everything, it would probably help to know what the stuff tasted like. His descriptions of floral, fruity, woody, or chocolate notes made it sound amazing, but for all I knew I’d hate it.

  “Any questions on the administrative stuff?” my mom asked. “Before we open for business, we’ll have a tasting for the staff, so everyone will get to try at least a bite of the food they’re serving and helping create. A well-informed staff is a helpful staff.”

  No one asked anything, and we moved on to the tour of the building. Again, my mind wandered, still going over the menu repetitively. I lingered in the kitchen as my parents pointed out the various pieces of equipment, running my fingers over the empty knife block by the prep station. That one would be filled with nice knives later, but the one by the ovens and stove would stay empty for the head chef’s utensils. Every chef worth their salt had their own knives. The better the knife, the better the chef.

  Someday, I’d have a set of my own.

  “Didn’t take ‘em, did you?” Zach said under his breath, close behind me.

  His proximity made me shiver. “Don’t be stupid,” I muttered back. “I haven’t earned knives yet.”

  “Earned?”

  I cast a withering look over my shoulder. “Not everything can be bought, Zach. Some things you have to work for.”

  Wandering away, I spared him one last comment. “You’d better pay attention or you’ll miss seeing how the dishwasher works.”

  * * * * *

  I refused to let Zach take me home, opting to help my parents put away kitchen items instead. Loading up another rack of plates, I brought the large metal hood over top of it and cranked down on the lever, hitting the “wash” button that sanitized everything inside.

  “While I appreciate the extra set of hands,” my mother said as she leaned up against the scrubbing sink to my right, “it wasn’t necessary for you to stick around here.”

  I gave her a flat look. “B
ecause I had so many other things to do today? Come on, Mom, this is the whole reason I’m here.”

  “You could be out having fun,” she said.

  “Destiny is working today. I’d be sitting at home reading when I could’ve been useful instead.”

  “There are other people around here besides Destiny Plummer.”

  I snorted. “Like who, Zach? I’ll pass, but the suggestion is noted.”

  “Did you talk to him yet?”

  “Sure did,” I replied, opening the hood and sliding the rack out. “Still don’t care. Besides, even if I did care, our social circles aren’t exactly compatible.”

  “That didn’t stop your father and Terrence Robinson from becoming friends.”

  “Oh? Does torturing the hired help’s children and trying to make up for it run in the family?”

  “Watch your tone, Margaret,” my mother said. “Terrence and Olivia have been amazing friends to this family longer than you’ve been alive. Without Terrence, your father might not have made it through culinary school, and without Olivia, I might never have met him. You owe them more than you know. Being nice to their son, regardless of how he treated you when you were kids, is the least you could do.”

  My temper simmered. “At what point do I stop owing them, Mom? Maybe give Zach one more chance to kill me? Would that do it?”

  She reached out to me, but I slipped away from her, untying my apron and tossing it on a counter. “You know what? Maybe you’re right. I’ll find something else to do today.”

  I spun on my heel, stalking out of the kitchen even when she called out to me.

  “Margie?” my dad said after me as I crossed the main floor to the front door. “What’s going on?”

  I didn’t answer him, pushing open the exit door and leaving without further explanation.

  The heat wasn’t unbearable yet, but walking in the afternoon sun dressed in black slacks and a long-sleeved white shirt wasn’t exactly comfortable. As I went, I undid my buttons and slid my arms out, the ocean breeze feeling great through my white tank top and over my bare arms. An unlucky pebble got in my way, and I kicked it down the pavement. It was a mile walk to Edelweiss Cake Shop, and I took the time to relive events I’d successfully pushed away for six years.

  It had been a particularly rough day at school. I was greeted by not one, but four dead mice in my locker that had sat there all weekend, leaking bodily fluids on my math book. Matt repeatedly snapped my bra strap all through history, which was mortifying that he even knew I wore one. At lunch, one of them tripped me, probably Chad, sending me sprawling face first into my lunch. But that wasn’t even the end of my day.

  Most afternoons, I’d hide out in the bathroom after school, waiting for the majority of kids to be picked up or walk home. I was excited, though, as the second part of some TV show was airing at four, and if I hurried I could make it home in time to watch it.

  That was a terrible mistake on my part, but how was I supposed to know Zach and his friends were all headed to the Robinson house that same afternoon?

  They were about a block ahead of me when I realized my error and got spotted.

  “Hey, Mousy!” Chad called back. “Why don’t you come play with us?”

  If I’d learned anything, it was to not engage during those situations. They kept walking, so I did too, although a little slower than before. I was almost to my turn off.

  “We’ve got great games for you, Margie Mouse.” Matt said. “I could teach you things you didn’t know you could do in a kitchen!”

  I stopped at the corner leading up to my driveway. Kitchens were sacred to me. A happy kitchen meant a happy home. How could they make something I loved so gross to think about? Anger swelled inside me and I glared.

  “I wouldn’t get within half a mile of your nasty kitchen, Rosenberg!”

  I blinked. Crap. I was going to get it for that one.

  The boys stopped. Matt turned slowly. “What did you say to me, Mouse?”

  Immediately losing my courage, I spun and sprinted up the driveway. I heard them coming when I was halfway up the hill. My lungs burned and my calves ached from exertion, but I’d be damned if I’d stop until I was inside my house, behind a locked door.

  I ran, fleeing from the voices calling behind me, threatening me with every step I took. Each second felt like an eternity, and my house looked farther away the closer I got. But if they caught me…

  Five more steps and I’d be to the door. I fumbled in my pocket for my key, still running, but I had to get inside before they caught up. Three steps…

  My foot hooked under something and time seemed to stop. I watched the ground getting closer, unable to think, unable to move. The corner of the cement step loomed before me and I shut my eyes, trying to turn away from the pain I knew was imminent.

  But I didn’t feel anything after that. My world went black, and the next thing I knew I was waking up in the hospital with stitches and the worst headache I’d ever had up to that point. There were conversations going on around me, but the most I got was a little hostility and a lot of apologizing between adults. It took a week before I willingly said more than yes or no to anyone. I’d talked back and it put me in the hospital. No one talked back to Matthew Rosenberg. I was being punished for opening my mouth.

  At least, that’s what I convinced myself happened. My parents took me out of school and we moved away a few weeks later, when I was mostly healed. I started my sessions with Dr. Hooper not long after.

  I kicked another rock and it clunked into a big blue mailbox. Looking up, I saw I’d gone a block too far and headed back up the street. Maybe bugging Destiny at work would take my mind off of the rest of it. I could burn off the cupcake on the walk home.

  Chapter 7

  Foundation. Powder. Eyeliner. Blush. Mascara.

  The order I put on makeup was the same every time, but I kept picking up the wrong thing. My head was elsewhere, busy worrying about all of the things that could go wrong on opening night.

  It wasn’t that I was worried about me, but I was worried for my parents. They’d put their reputations on the line to resurrect a dying restaurant, and the smallest misstep could result in a horrible review if the wrong person saw it, which would be an absolute disaster for Le Beau Tournée. Opening night wasn’t going to be business as usual, per se, but more of an invitation-only gathering: the first test for being accepted amongst the wealthy clientele of Carrinaw Island.

  I paid close attention to make sure every long brown hair on my head was pinned in place, and coated it in hairspray for good measure. Exiting the bathroom with a chem trail following me, I put on my shoes, grabbed my wallet and phone, and headed for the front door.

  “Ready?” my mom said, dressed in a sharp black skirt suit. She always looked put-together, but even her hair was styled with extra care.

  I smiled and kissed her cheek. “Sure am. You look great, Mom.”

  She took a deep, satisfied breath and smiled back. “Thanks. We’d better get going, though, or your father will give us grief about being high-maintenance.”

  We talked some on the way to Le Beau Tournée, mostly about her fears for the evening, which I reassured with the normal responses of “it’ll be fine” and “that’s not going to happen.” Most of her concerns were over whether they’d ordered enough of certain food items, but I assured her the restaurant had enough to feed an army and still have leftovers.

  “Chef Antoine says we’ll be fine, so I’m sure it will be,” I said. “He’s been prepping for the last two days. I mean, I thought I spent a lot of time there, but I don’t think he’s left the kitchen since he got here.”

  “He has been very dedicated, hasn’t he?” my mother said. “We had to nearly shove him out the door last night so we could lock up.”

  Chef Antoine D’Abignon had shown up three days before, instantly throwing himself into familiarizing himself with the kitchen and staff. To my chagrin, he barely afforded me a passing glance when I was introduced,
as though I wasn’t as important as the rest since I was a “wherever she’s needed, but mostly in the kitchen” worker without a specific title. The only time I ever felt bad about knowing all aspects of the restaurant business was when he nodded at me and turned away to talk to someone else. How was I going to get a rec letter from someone who hadn’t spared me more than two seconds of acknowledgement? I resolved to work extra hard in everything I did at Le Beau Tournée. I’d earn his respect if it killed me. Admittedly, I had Michelin stars in my eyes.

  Things were already in motion when we arrived at the restaurant. The wait staff was hurriedly straightening place settings, the three bartenders were double-checking their stock and opening bottles to insert pouring spouts, and my dad was flitting from place to place, looking over each shoulder to make corrections when he saw they were needed. Not about to disturb him, I left him to my mother and beelined for the kitchen.

  “Too thin,” Chef Antoine said to an assistant stirring something in a pan. “Your heat is too low and the seasoning overdone.”

  The sous chef, an enthusiastic black man in his mid-forties by the name of Kareem, deflated a little. Without being told, he removed the pan from the burner and dumped what looked to be the makings of truffle cream sauce for the wild mushroom chicken directly down the drain. I wondered how many times he’d done that. Kareem was usually pretty easy-going, but the lines of his pinched forehead told a different story at that moment.

  “Begin again,” Chef Antoine said.

  Sighing, I headed for the back to start my shift of vegetable prep. I had spinach to wash and potatoes to peel before I could think about anything else. I’d mastered the truffle cream sauce four days before, but hadn’t gotten to Kareem yet to show him the tricks to getting it right. We had six assistant chefs to train, and my dad and I could only work so fast. I’d see if Kareem could come in on Monday for some practice.

  I jerked to a halt when I rounded the corner, coming face to face with Zach Robinson. Potato in one hand, peeler in the other, he was hard at work.