by Leah Scheier
I feel an unexpected surge of boldness. “Maybe not, but I’d like to.”
His expression is an adorable mix of surprise and embarrassment. “You would?”
I shrug to dilute the eagerness of my last statement. I don’t want to completely give myself away. “Yeah, I like getting to know people. And I’m sorry I got so crazy just now.”
It’s not until I see the tension draining from his face that I understand how nervous he’d been. His blush is a little boost of confidence. For better or worse, at least he’d cared what I thought.
I make a mental note to thank the Octopus later. It may have been a complete accident, but Marcus’s mistake had actually loosened my tongue at the right moment. Just enough to let me make a complete fool of myself, but at least I’d managed to break the ice.
And, for once, despite everyone’s predictions, I’d been completely unpredictable and gotten an unexpected, quiet blush as a reward. Also a loud explosion of hot green foam—but still. Totally worth it.
Cooking with Rain
SERENITY THROUGH YOUR GUT
Where I answer all your burning food-related questions!
Dear Rain: There’s this girl I’ve liked for a while. I want to make her something, but I’m short on cash and time. Do you have a quick recipe that won’t cost me a fortune?
—Wacky Mac
Dear Wacky: Glad to help! You can’t get cheaper and quicker than my Nutella Lava Bomb mug cake! Nothing says love like volcanic chocolate.
ETHAN’S JOURNAL:
Many scientists believe that kissing evolved from the practice of mothers feeding their young mouth-to-mouth. Based on the idea that “the way to a person’s heart is through his stomach,” pressing lips eventually became synonymous with love.
My observation:
Many humans (such as my sister) still associate the act of feeding with an expression of love. I showed this article to Rain (with the relevant parts highlighted), but she just asked me why I’m studying the biology of kissing. She tells me that I often misread social cues. I don’t know how to tell her that she frequently misreads me too.
Chapter 6
I’m two minutes from home when my phone rings.
“How did you not call me after chem lab?”
It’s more of a demand than a question, and I’m too exhausted (it took two hours to clean up that lab) to defend myself. “It’s your own fault for pushing off chemistry until next year, Hope,” I mutter into my phone. “If you were in our class you’d have seen the show for yourself.”
“What happened?”
“Well, I got Liam to notice me,” I point out.
“I heard that they had to call the fire department.”
“They exaggerated.”
“I’m calling the Octopus right now.”
“Why?”
“So Marcus can talk to Liam. Maybe he can turn this around. Tell him how awesome you are or something.”
“Hope, leave it alone.”
“I’m going to fix this for you.”
“Hope, it’s actually okay—”
But she’s already hung up. I sigh and push open the kitchen door.
Ethan is sitting at the counter when I come home. I’d expected to find him studying with his online tutor, but it looks like he is already done. Ethan has five different tutors to help him with basic subjects. After school, we finish our math homework together, but his formidable knowledge of biology is too intimidating, so he does that on his own. And then he’s basically free to memorize his anatomy slides. His afternoons used to be packed with therapy sessions. Until last year, each day was dedicated to a different treatment or therapy—speech, occupational, physical—plus a monthly meeting with his developmental pediatrician. But that part of Ethan’s life is just a memory now. Halfway through high school, my mother decided he didn’t need the specialists anymore and proceeded to cut them out of his schedule. The weaning process was so gradual that even Ethan didn’t notice at first. One cancellation, weeks in advance. Then another. By the beginning of junior year, the calendar was empty, for the first time since our childhood. Now it’s basically the tutor and me. My mom pitches in a little here and there when I’m not around. The reality is she handed the chief responsibilities over to me a long time ago. I want to believe it’s her vote of confidence in my abilities and my patience with Ethan. Maybe, though, it’s simply a result of her exhaustion, and no compliment is intended. My mother isn’t overly generous with compliments, overt or implied.
Ethan looks up as I come in and ducks his head to hide the cell phone in his hand. “I have to go now,” he says and hangs up, dropping the phone hastily into his pocket like he’s afraid I might run up and snatch it from him.
“Oh, please, Efan,” I tell him, shaking my head. “Do you really think I don’t know that you talk to Dad almost every day? I do live here.”
“You said I shouldn’t talk to him,” he points out. “I didn’t want to make you mad.”
“I’m beginning to feel like the cranky old lady that everybody tiptoes around,” I say. “You can do whatever you want. And I never said that you shouldn’t speak to Dad.”
“Yes, you did. You said, ‘Just because he sends us money for your lessons doesn’t mean that you should talk to him.’ That was last month, on the Sunday before school started. And then eight days ago on Monday, you said it again. Only that time you said—”
“Yeah, okay, I get it. I didn’t mean it literally, all right? Speak to him all you want. Just don’t tell Mom.”
He frowns. “Why? She knows I talk to him.”
“She does?”
“Yes. When I told her, she said that she didn’t care. Then she said, ‘Stupid bastard gets to be the good guy from five hundred miles away.’ And then she kicked the refrigerator. It started making noise after that.”
I can’t help smiling to myself. “She may have said that she didn’t care, Efan,” I prompt him gently. “But then she said some other stuff and started kicking things. Now what do you think that Mom is really feeling when she does that?”
He looks up suddenly and focuses on my face, his light eyes fix on me as if he’s trying to see right through me. It always freaks me out when he does that. Most of the time he’s staring at the floor or at the wall when he’s talking to me. But then, without warning, he’ll suddenly pierce me with those intense eyes until I find myself wishing he’d just look back at the wall already.
“What is Mom feeling?” he echoes.
“Yes,” I urge him. “What does it mean when she does that?”
His brows come together and his jaw tenses. For a moment I think he’s concentrating on the question, but then I realize that isn’t it at all. I thought I could read Ethan like a book. But this look—this expression, I’ve never seen him glare at me like this before. “I know what it means,” he snaps at me, his voice sinking into a harsh whisper. “I’m not stupid, Rain.”
“I…I didn’t say you were—”
“Mom doesn’t like it that I talk to Dad,” he continues heatedly. “But she knows I will anyway, and that makes her upset.”
“That’s it. That’s exactly right!” I offer him a proud grin, but he doesn’t appear to notice. He doesn’t seem at all pleased that he’s guessed correctly. His eyes narrow with frank resentment, and he leans closer to me, so close that I pull back a little.
“I also know what it means when you tell Hope that I will never get close to anyone.”
He lets the statement hang there like a bitter accusation. I sit stunned and silent before him, momentarily speechless at the ring of naked hostility in his voice. He had heard me say it after all, and he hasn’t forgotten it. Of course he hasn’t forgotten.
I open my mouth to defend myself but I can’t think of anything to say.
“It means,” he continues, his tone patient and deliberate, lik
e a teacher explaining a difficult problem, “that you’re telling her to give up on me.”
“What?” I feel a painful lump rising in my throat.
“Just like the school,” he persists. “And just like you did. You gave up on me too.”
“I never—” I begin to protest, but I can’t bring myself to finish the thought. My eyes sting and blur with tears. He’s never spoken to me this way before. I brush my hand over my wet cheeks and start to back away from him.
“I also know what it means when Dad tells me that he wants me to visit him in DC over spring break,” he adds, triumphantly. “It means that he misses me.”
“He wants you to fly to Washington—?” I shake my head in disbelief. Has our father lost his mind? I want to tell Ethan the idea is completely crazy. But I’m afraid to speak. I’m scared to be honest with my brother.
He’s not listening to me anyway. “And I know what it means when you start to cry,” he finishes in a quieter voice. He drops his head and the fire in his expression flickers out. “It means that you’re sad that I screwed up again.”
“I’m not sad,” I insist automatically, but my flushed cheeks and streaming eyes belie my words. Even Ethan can see that.
“But you’re crying,” he states. There’s no sarcasm or irony in his statement; he’s just pointing out the obvious—just in case I haven’t noticed.
“I know I’m crying. But it’s not your fault.”
He looks genuinely relieved. “Oh. I thought it was because of me. Why are you crying? Did something happen at school today?”
Oh, for God’s sake, Ethan.
But, on second thought, I’m actually thankful he’s so literal-minded. For once it’s helpful to me because I really, really want to change the subject. His accusation is still ringing in my ears. You gave up on me…
And worse than his words was his expression in that moment. He’d glared at me as if he resented me. Not even during his worst meltdowns had I seen that look in his eyes. No matter how miserable he felt, I was always his comfort, his rock. When we were little, he refused to go to sleep unless I was curled up near him, like a human security blanket. At thirteen, I finally insisted on separate bedrooms, but every night before I went to sleep, I let him know I was near by knocking five times on the wall between us. The one time I forgot, he stayed up all night waiting for it.
You gave up on me… Had my one careless comment destroyed sixteen years of trust? It’s too much for me to absorb at the moment.
“I had a rough day,” I tell him, forcing a bright smile.
“What happened?”
“I yelled at Liam for no reason and then I blew up the chemistry lab.”
“Oh. I know that already.”
“You—you do? How exactly?”
“Hope told me.”
“She did?” Damn it, I need to stop sounding so surprised by everything. It’s just so unusual for him to be getting messages from a girl!
“Here’s her text,” he states and pulls out his phone to show me.
I blink at the screen. “She’s coming over this afternoon?”
“Yes. At three. She’s fifteen minutes late.”
“But—” I pull out my own phone and tap on it. There are no new messages. “She didn’t tell me she was coming.”
“She’s coming over to see me,” he states. No inflection in his voice at all. No triumph, no satisfaction. Just the fact. A clarification, for my benefit.
And meanwhile I’m struggling. I struggle not to stare and raise my eyebrows. I struggle not to be critical or amused. I struggle to be okay with it.
But I am so, so not.
There are so many reasons to freak out. How could Hope not tell me she was coming by to see my brother? That was not okay. I could spurt out an entire list of things to worry about. My brain is screaming doomsday warnings.
I swallow all of it. Something has changed between Ethan and me, something I just don’t understand yet. But I know to keep my mouth shut until I figure it out. So I do.
I shut it tight. And I keep it that way even after Hope bounces in and wraps me in a cheery embrace. My hug is a little bit stony, and my smile is fake. I know she’s reading me loud and clear, even if Ethan is not.
“We’ll be in Ethan’s room, okay?” she calls out as they leave the kitchen together. Like it’s routine for them. Like everything’s totally normal.
Like I’m not left in the kitchen mouthing, What the hell?
Thank God my mother walks in five minutes after they leave. The inner turmoil might have split me in half if she hadn’t come in then.
“Hope is in Ethan’s room!” I tell her. “Alone!”
“Okay.” She digests it as I did, without comment. Without verbal comment, that is. Her face is commenting all over this news.
“Ethan and Hope are alone. In his room. Together,” I rephrase. Just in case my first statement wasn’t clear.
“I know, Rain. I got it,” she says wearily and slumps down at the kitchen counter. “Good for them.”
I’m momentarily distracted from my meltdown. My mother is looking more than usually pale and worn. There are dark shadows under her large blue eyes, and her cheekbones seem even more prominent against the pallor of her skin. “Are you all right?” I ask her.
She nods half-heartedly and gestures toward the tea pot. “My stomach’s been off for a little while. Make me a glass of tea will you?”
“What kind?” I ask, opening up the cupboard. It isn’t a simple question. We have about fifty different types of tea. My mother belongs to the school of medicine that believes all illnesses can be cured by some combination of plant or tree root. I remember my dad yelling at her that I would have gone deaf from ear infections if he hadn’t finally taken me to the doctor. She’d insisted the garlic clove in my ear was more than enough to draw out the infection. To this day I still associate the smell of garlic with pain, shaking chills, and the sound of my parents fighting.
“Hawthorn berry,” she instructs. “Put in a pinch of ginger, a teaspoon of apple cider vinegar, and two tablespoons of honey.”
It’s only a simple pot of tea, but I feel a calm settle over me as I add the ingredients. Though my mom limits herself to creating healing hot beverages, she’s always encouraging me to take my food cures obsession to the next level. We have bins full of weird and exotic spices, cabinets stuffed with grains from unlikely sources (arrowroot, chickpea) and a fridge packed with vegetables no one’s ever heard of.
I bring the steaming mug back to my mother, and she downs it like a tonic. “Thanks,” she says with a sigh, settling back against the counter. “That’s so much better.”
Truth is, she doesn’t look much better. I’d been noticing that she was a bit worn out over the last few weeks, but today I’m actually worried about her.
“Your clothes look loose on you,” I point out, reaching out and pinching her sleeve. “This shirt used to fit you well.”
“I’m fine,” she mutters irritably and pulls her arm away. “I’ve been a little stressed, and I haven’t been eating right. I’ll get it together after we settle on the Stenson case.” She’s helping a group of farmers sue their former employer for health damages from a strawberry pesticide.
“Okay,” I say, unconvinced. “I was about to make dinner. We have some gluten-free pasta.”
None of us are gluten sensitive—not if you believe the doctors anyway, which my mother doesn’t. She suspects there might be a link between gluten and autism—so we haven’t had a soft piece of bread in the house in years. (Notes for the blog: Flaxseed challah—it tastes better than it sounds!) During elementary school, she had the same theory about casein and autism, so we were practically vegan for a while. Twelve years ago, she decided that air pollution in the big city was the cause of Ethan’s issues. And so we moved out to Montana, leaving the smog and my fa
ther behind.
When I was little, I’d complained about her beet noodles and fennel cupcakes. It’s hard to be the only kid at the lunch table with snacks that no one wants to trade. But over time I’d learned to embrace weird food combos and substitutions. The day I took over the family kitchen was a turning point. I was going to find the perfect recipe for Ethan, and for all of us. Five years later, I was still searching. And we’d eaten a lot of seeds in the process.
“Pasta sounds good,” she says. “Do you think Hope will stay for dinner?” Her face still looks tired, but her voice is smiling. Oh, right. Hope. How did I forget?
“Honestly, what are they doing in there?” I mutter. I’m seriously considering tiptoeing up to his bedroom and listening at the door. I don’t care how wrong and invasive it is. It’s only because I’m worried about him, I swear. Mom seems to read my mind; she puts a gentle, restraining hand on my arm. “Rain, concentrate on the pasta, and leave them alone.”
“How are you not nervous for him?” I demand loudly. “How can you just sit there calmly doing nothing?”
“What would you want me to do? Barge in there and stare at them? Send Ethan the message that I don’t trust him at all?”
“Trust? What are you talking about? This has nothing to do with trust!”
“Okay, so what is it then?” she inquires patiently.
How am I the only person seeing it? It’s so obvious. “I’m scared he’s going to get hurt. I’m scared she’ll hurt him, and he won’t know how to deal with it.”
She stares at me for a while in silence and taps her fingers lightly on her clay mug. I can’t stand it when she gets this way. Whenever I’m upset, that’s what she does. She studies me. Silently. Like I’m a strange beetle in a glass jar, bumping around, clueless about the real world outside. And she’s the scientist with all the answers.
“Hope is your friend,” she remarks quietly after a moment. “You seem to have a pretty poor opinion of your friend if you can’t even trust her around your brother for a few minutes.”