North of Happy

by Adi Alsaid

  Chef’s got a full garbage bag dangling at her side, stone-faced.

  “Hi, Mom,” Emma says, pulling her glasses off to wipe them clean.

  Chef nods a hello, and I realize this is awkward, but it does nothing to beat away the joy pumping through my veins. Behind Chef, low, fast-moving clouds blow by, clearing the horizon for an upcoming sunset as if by design.

  “Carlos, I forgot to tell you something,” Chef says. “Follow me.” She chucks the trash bag into the Dumpster and then disappears back inside the restaurant.

  Confused, I look back at Emma, who’s cleaning her glasses with the hem of her shirt. She smiles at me, tells me she’ll call when she gets off work.

  Chef is waiting for me in her office, leaning back against her desk with her arms crossed in front of her chest. “If you want to stay at this restaurant and work your way up, you stop seeing her.”

  The lights dim; the temperature drops.

  “Emma?” I ask, stupidly, once I make sense of what she’s said.

  “You can’t have both,” Chef says. She doesn’t sound angry, only like she’s delivering very specific instructions, like this is just a meeting with the waitstaff about how to explain a new dish. “I’m not going to prohibit you from seeing her, because she gets to decide for herself who she dates. But if you choose to continue to see her, you can’t work here.”

  I’m frozen in the doorway. I can hear that magical clatter of the kitchen prepping for service, people getting fired up for another night booked solid. But it feels like white noise right now. Like all the sounds are getting sucked up by the induction hood.

  I want Chef to explain further, want her to provide some sort of logic that will make this easier to understand. She uncrosses her arms and then grabs the apron that’s hanging from a hook behind the door, tying it around her back. “Did I make myself clear?”

  I have no idea what I want to say, dozens of questions and complaints are on the tip of my tongue, but instead I stammer out another “Yes, Chef.”

  “If I see you still chasing after her, you’re out,” Chef says and then leaves without another word.

  I exit the restaurant in a daze. I amble through downtown and the boardwalk, getting in people’s way. I cross streets without looking and hear honks for the first time since I got to the island. Wind rustles the trees wherever I go, and once I get to the more isolated sections of Needle Eye, I can hear Felix in the swishing of the leaves.

  I let my brother whistle to himself for a while. I desperately want to regain the bliss I felt outside the restaurant, right before Chef decided to blow it all to hell.

  Night falls late in this part of the world, but it happens at the exact wrong time, when I’m snaking my way through the woods, trying to find the places Emma has taken me to. I struggle through non­existent paths, brambles clawing at my arms. The moon disappears behind sudden clouds, and though the typical night chill has swept in, I sweat myself into a stupor trying to find the hill that looks out at the island. I use my phone’s flashlight, keeping my eye on the battery draining away a percentage point at a time, struggling to get a signal. I keep imagining it buzzing in my hand, messages from Emma that I won’t know how to answer.

  Eventually, just by heading up any slope I see, I do make it to the top of that hill. Provecho’s white light stands out against the other shops in the tiny Main Street stretch. All over the island I can see the tiny flares of backyard campfires, people enjoying the night, the company of others. Devoid of the moon’s glow, the lake looks like a pit of darkness.

  “Why are you getting so flustered?” Felix says, using the wind and the leaves to speak.

  I find a big rock to sit down on. I wipe the sweat from my forehead, check my phone again to see if Emma’s called or texted yet. “You know why,” I say after a while.

  The wind dies down a little, so Felix quits the charades and shows up as himself. He scoots me over a little and takes a seat next to me. He takes a deep breath, which kind of pisses me off, because what reason does a ghost have to sigh?

  “Okay, I get it,” Felix says. “It sucks. Emma’s a cool girl. But these things don’t always last. She’s leaving anyway. This makes things less complicated, no?”

  I pick up a pebble, chuck it in the direction of the lake. There’s no way it hits anything but the side of the hill below, but I swear I hear a splash. “I’ve never had anything like this before, Felix.”

  “I understand.”

  “And don’t give me any of that pseudo-inspirational bullshit.”

  Felix actually laughs. “Me? What would I say?”

  “‘Don’t be sad it’s over. Be glad it happened.’ That kind of thing.”

  Felix stands up, reaching down for some pebbles. He chuckles again. “Just ’cause it’s trite doesn’t mean it’s bad advice.” He throws all the pebbles at once, and a few moments later I clearly hear them splash, each carrying a different tone.

  “It’s stupid,” I say. “I don’t want it to be over.” I check the time, imagine what’s going on in the restaurant. The last few tables are being seated right around now, which means Emma’s shift will be over in a bit. The sink is probably buried right now, the steam from hot water making the station feel muggier than a swamp.

  “Would you rather be done with the kitchen?” Felix grabs another handful of pebbles, throws them one at a time. It’s almost a song when they land, and Felix smiles, not necessarily at me, just at the world he no longer inhabits.

  I don’t bother responding to the question, which is clearly a trap. The phrase can’t have your cake and eat it too pops into my mind, and I wonder why the fuck everyone thinks it makes sense. How do you have cake without eating it? I’d blame my lack of understanding on being foreign, but there’s no quirk of language or culture here. It’s a stupid saying.

  Burying my head in my hands, I feel like shouting. I can’t believe there’s parents around that still do this kind of shit. Why does the world not want me to be better already?

  Felix is tossing more and more pebbles into the lake, trying to get a melody right. “Cielito Lindo,” the song which starts off advising people to sing and not cry.

  “So, what,” I say, looking up, “I just give her up? Just like that? When things are going so well?”

  Felix pauses for a bit, turning around to look at me. The scruff on his face is the same length it was that day, and the light in his eyes has never really gone away. He bounces another handful of pebbles in his hand, thinking.

  “I know it’s hard to turn away from something that brings you joy. And in most scenarios, I wouldn’t tell you to. You know that. I’d be pushing you toward whatever makes you happy whether you liked it or not.” I feel a text message buzz in my pocket. “You didn’t come here to meet a girl,” Felix says, shrugging. He turns back and times out the pebble throws so that a few seconds later the song comes floating toward them. “If Chef says you can’t have both, whatever her reasons are, you have to make a decision.”

  I look in the direction of Provecho. Emma’s probably sitting on the bench in front waiting for my response before she decides which direction to go. I would rather be frozen in indecision, just stay up on this hill and pretend everything’s okay. Even if Felix is still around and nothing all that much has changed.

  I try to picture what I would do if I left the kitchen to stay with Emma. How long until I ran out of money from my one measly paycheck, until I’d be forced to call my dad, come back home with my tail tucked between my legs? What will choosing Emma matter then?

  I pull my phone out of my pocket, read the message I knew was from Emma. I’m off! What’re you up to?

  I have to take a deep breath. I’m feeling queasy and just want to throw the phone into the lake too.

  Kind of exhausted. Rain check?

  I hate myself for sending it, but I h
ave no idea what else I could possibly say. Felix joins me back on the rock, putting an arm around me. We sit there for a while, not saying much, just staring out quietly at the island below.

  If I get fired from the kitchen, I have to go home.

  But without Emma, is this place worth sticking around for? Even now, the view of the island doesn’t compare with my memory of when I was here with her. It’s beautiful, sure. But it’s lacking something, as if the colors are muted. The lighting isn’t what I know this place is capable of.

  I get a text message wishing me sweet dreams, and the colors mute a little more.

  CHAPTER 17

  CUBAN LECHÓN ASADO

  50-pound pig

  5 heads of garlic

  4 cups orange juice

  2 cups lime juice

  1 cup sherry

  ½ cup pineapple juice

  4 tablespoons oregano

  3 teaspoons ground cumin

  6 bay leaves

  2 tablespoons black peppercorns

  2 tablespoons kosher salt

  5 tablespoons olive oil

  METHOD:

  Morning comes, and I have not managed to push Emma out of my thoughts. The sun’s barely coming up when I arrive at the side door to meet with Chef. It’s a mostly clear day, which causes the dawn to paint the sky instead of clouds.

  I hold my gyuto at my side, flat against my leg. I knock twice, hard. Chef appears in a moment, moves aside wordlessly. I hate her for taking Emma away from me and have half a mind to throw a fit. But a) I’m not exactly the throwing-fits type, and b) Felix reads my thoughts and makes an announcement over the kitchen speakers: “You’re about to get private lessons from an incredible chef. You sure you want to throw that away?”

  Swallowing my anger, I follow her into one of the walk-ins, where Sue is counting tomatoes while holding a clipboard. “You got this for a few minutes?” Chef says, and Sue nods. Then Chef reaches for a white onion, and heads back out to the prep kitchen. She sets the onion down on the counter.

  “Do you know how to chop an onion?”

  I feel my eyebrows furrow. “Yes, Chef. Of course.”

  “Show me.”

  I hesitate but then think to myself, Clearly this is a test. I pull my new knife out from its plastic sheath, set it on a cutting board next to the onion. I wish I didn’t have to use it for the first time under these circumstances. It feels so right in my hand, like it was designed specifically for my grip. But Chef’s got her diamond-cutting gaze on me and I’m trying hard not to throw the onion across the room at her.

  I step over to the sink, wash my hands thoroughly. A wave of insecurity hits me, as if every time I cut an onion in the past I was doing it wrong, Chef knows this, and this is all just a way to mock me. She’s just standing there, staring, arms folded. I take a deep breath, try to adopt a Felixesque ease. I’m standing in Chef Elise’s kitchen, about to receive her tutelage. I should be thankful.

  It’s all muscle memory, really. I remember the day Felix taught me how to do this. I was thirteen; he was a couple months away from leaving home. Mom hovered behind us, trying to convince Felix that I was too young to hold a blade. He’d laughed mirthfully, as if Mom was a kid who’d said something naïve and ridiculous. I cut the onion in half, peel off the skin, keep the root intact. Nine or ten slits vertically, making sure the knife’s tip doesn’t go all the way to the other end. Then I turn the onion swiftly and start making horizontal cuts, using my off hand to move the onion toward the blade and curling my fingers away to avoid mishaps, using my knuckles to keep the knife straight.

  The smell of the onion threatens to tear me up, but in a matter of seconds the first half is in a neat pile at the edge of the cutting board. I repeat the steps well before my eyes start to sting. Every little piece of onion is even like it’s supposed to be. I run my finger along the blade to free a few pieces, but aside from that nothing is off the cutting board, not an ounce of onion was wasted.

  I grab a clean dishrag, wipe my knife clean and set it down. I turn back to look at Chef, defiant, proud.

  But she’s no longer standing beside me. Confused, I call out, “Chef?”

  When there’s no answer, I wait for a full three minutes. Maybe this is part of the test. She still doesn’t show, so I wander around and find her in the walk-in with Sue. “Chef?” I say, knocking on the steel door frame. “I’m done with that onion.”

  She glances at me over her clipboard, like she’s forgotten I was there at all. “Your knife still has its fucking price sticker on it,” she says. “Don’t waste my time if you’re not gonna show up prepared. Go clean your knife, test it out. We’ll try again tomorrow.”

  Shame creeps down my spine, and I practically scurry away from Chef toward my dish station. I peel the sticker away, roll it into a ball, throw it in the trash, even though there’s no satisfying way to chuck a tiny sticker when you’re pissed. I step over to the sink, wash the gyuto with searing water, set it to dry on a towel. My thoughts land on Emma and I instantly feel like my insides have been hollowed out.

  It’s still three hours until the actual shifts start. At first I try to wait quietly, but the inactivity makes it feel like the world is pressing down on me. I can’t believe I forgot to take the fucking price sticker off. I can’t believe Chef will fire me if I just stay close to Emma. I can’t believe the quickness with which things go to shit.

  I go outside and take a seat on the floor with my back against the wall. I look through my messages with Emma. In those messages, I sound like myself. Like the version of me from before Felix died. I sound like a normal person who does not see ghosts, does not flee his hometown in the pursuit of a meal. I have to close my eyes and take a few breaths to keep a sudden nausea at bay.

  A few minutes later a pickup truck pulls up. Chef Elise comes out to greet the driver, holding a clipboard. I rise to my feet and offer to help. Chef barely acknowledges me until it’s time to haul in an entire pig for tomorrow’s special roast. Through my outrage, I manage to feel curiosity about how she’ll prepare it, an eagerness to see her mind at work. Food, my ultimate sedative.

  Luckily, Chef has me hold the pig’s legs as she picks out all the ingredients that will go into the marinade. Apple cider vinegar, orange juice, lemons, onions, garlic, chili peppers, whole sprigs of thyme. Then, because of course he would, Felix turns the pig’s head to look at me. “Hey, man,” he says.

  I roll my eyes, think, Unless you’ve got some brilliant pig-brining recipes, not now, man. If Chef is going to be picky about stickers, she certainly won’t take my talking to spirits in stride. I want his help, but it’s not the most convenient timing.

  “You really think I would be here if you didn’t need me now?” Felix says as he gets lowered into the bin he’ll be brining in. He probably has a point. “So, what’s this about? What’s on your mind?”

  I don’t want to say, but of course Felix is in my thoughts, so he knows right away. “You don’t want to do this without her.”

  “Here, pour this,” Chef says, handing me a large bottle of orange juice. “Don’t splash. Make sure you don’t miss any spots.” She and Sue step out, leaving me alone with the pig.

  I twist open the lid, checking to make sure no one’s around. I lean close as I pour the juice and whisper, “I don’t have anyone else here who gives a shit about me. Nothing else makes me happy.” I empty the bottle out slowly, letting the sound of the liquid sloshing into the bin drown out my voice. “Look, I know I didn’t come here for the girl. But she’s here, you know? I can’t just ignore that.”

  Felix looks up at me, drops of juice clinging to his little pig eyelashes. “She’s leaving in the fall anyway, man. She doesn’t want to stay on this island, and you do. She’s into drunken makeouts, and you’re thinking about way more than that. It’s doomed. Why risk a cha
nce like this over her?”

  “Because it’s not meaningless,” I say. I don’t know why he’s so adamant about this, why he doesn’t get it. “I need someone other than you in my life.”

  Felix blinks once, sighs and then turns his neck forward again, becomes dead again. I guess I won the argument?

  When Chef returns and excuses me, I take the back door as if I’m leaving until shift starts, but I come back around and knock on the front door. Emma of course has no idea about my inner turmoil since last night. To her, nothing has changed. She greets me with a hug that makes me feel like going against Chef on the spot.

  “Hey,” she says, her breath on my neck.

  I end the hug quickly. “Hey.” I take a small step back, just in case Chef is watching.

  She smiles, rests her elbows on the stand. “You should have come over last night. We would have made out a bunch.”

  “I wish I would have,” I say. Behind me a middle-aged couple comes in, which is probably a good cue to leave. I smile at her, tell her I have to get to the sink. Halfway out the door, I look back at Emma, wondering if I should bring up what her mom said. But just thinking about it makes me mad, and I’d much rather focus on having her here in front of me.

  The rest of the day goes by pretty quickly. For staff meal, I make tikka masala chicken tacos, topped off with a chai yogurt sauce. The masala sauce is way too watery, and the chai yogurt curdles, which I guess isn’t that bad because my grip slips and I end up spilling half the saucepan on the floor. Elias throws a dishrag toward me. “What’s with you, man?”

  I shrug, kneel to sop up the mess. Felix’s face forms in the spill, and it’s the stupidest thing in the world that I can’t bring myself to wipe it away. I’m frozen there for a minute, holding the rag an inch above the floor while everyone’s legs maneuver around me. It’s like I’m suddenly afraid that wishing him away will finally work, now that I don’t really want it to anymore.