Hungry Hearts

by Elsie Chapman

  Seth leans against the wall, lets that cigarette hang loose in his mouth. “And what is it that you want? Besides hiding out here and getting high?”

  “None of your business.”

  “People want things,” he says. “No shame in that. Problem is, they’re not willing to sacrifice for them. Not willing to give up something to get something. That’s the trouble with your mama, too. For all her ambition, she’s not willing to sacrifice.”

  “And what have you sacrificed in your life?”

  He exhales blue, fixes me with dark eyes. “You couldn’t take it if I told you.”

  The way he says it makes the little hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I shake it off, swallow down a sudden urge to get out of here. I plant my feet instead, stubborn, not willing to let Seth intimidate me. “You’re full of it.”

  He shrugs one shoulder. “Okay, then. Think what you want. I’m not telling you what to do. I’m just saying that everything comes at a cost. The bigger the cost, the bigger the reward. Where I come from, there’s people who can help with things like that. And maybe I learned a thing or two from those people. So maybe I could help you, too.”

  That same little voice that made my hair stand up whispers in my ear to beware, and my courage falters a bit. I remember that I don’t know this guy. And that what he’s saying . . . well, it’s a lot. But then I remind myself that he’s only eighteen, not that much older than me, and he’s probably just big talk, trying to prove he’s cool.

  “We have those here, too,” I say, voice sarcastic. “They’re called criminals.”

  He shakes he head. Squints at me through the smoky haze that surrounds him. “Not like that. More like . . .” He makes a sort of abracadabra motion with his hand. “Harry Potter.”

  “Magic?”

  “We don’t call it that back home.” His eyes linger on mine as he takes a long drag. I rub at my arms, chilled. I look up, expecting a cloud to have passed between me and the sun, but the sky is still that bright late-spring blue.

  “This is the weirdest conversation I’ve ever had,” I say. “You know you sound completely wack.”

  He grins. “Think about it, city girl. What is it white people say? ‘There’s on more things in heaven and on earth’?”

  “You know Shakespeare?”

  He straightens, stubs out his cigarette under his foot, clearly done with the conversation. “Just think about it.” He slips his hands into his pockets and turns for the door.

  “Wait!” Because I do want something. And I believe in witchcraft. Sorta. But I also think Seth is the kind of guy who might know a guy who could make things happen, magic or not. So I have to know. Even if my stomach is doing a flip-flop and my heart is pounding a mile a minute.

  Seth stops. Cocks his head expectantly.

  “Let’s say I did want something, and I was willing to . . . sacrifice. What would I have to do?”

  His grin stretches a little wider. “For starters? Cook for me. But not just any old thing. It’s gotta mean something to you. You do that, and I can make sure you get anything you want.”

  * * *

  “What do you think he meant by all that?” Morgan asks the next day as we make our way between classes. Morgan’s got trig right next to my AP History class, so we usually walk together, stopping at my locker before crossing the courtyard to the honors buildings. It’s my favorite time of the day besides lunch, because it’s the only time we get to talk.

  “I don’t know. It was weird, though. Like, I could swear it felt . . . real.”

  “What do you mean ‘real’?”

  “Like what he was saying was important. The truth.” I shiver, the memory enough to raise goose bumps. “I can’t explain it, but it was heavy.”

  “Yeah, but you were smoking weed, Kels. Being high will do that to you.”

  I shrug. I’m sure she’s right, and I’m just being paranoid.

  “But let’s say he could make things happen,” she says, surprising me with the one-eighty. “What would you want?”

  I’ve thought about it ever since our conversation last night. In fact, it’s all I’ve thought about. “I would want my dad back. But if I couldn’t have that, I would wish that my parents never opened that restaurant.”

  “Well, neither of those are going to happen unless Seth can go back in time.”

  I groan. “I know. I mean— What’s this?”

  Morgan’s holding a pink bakery box out to me. I open it and take a look inside. The smell of cinnamon and anise tickles my nose.

  “Lila dropped them off,” she tells me. “She said to give them to you, and that you should take some to your mom, too. She said it would help.”

  “Help with what?”

  Morgan shrugs. “Make you sweet?”

  “Yeah, right. No thanks.” I shake my head, and stuff Lila’s box of sweets into my locker. The last thing I need is more sugar. “I just need to accept that the restaurant means more to my mother than I do and keep it moving. Stop thinking things are going to change.”

  The bell rings, and Morgan gives me a quick hug. “We’ll talk more later, okay? Don’t do anything rash until we talk. And stay away from Seth. Honestly, Kels, he sounds like bad news. Promise?”

  I give her a faint smile. “Promise.”

  * * *

  “You decide you gonna cook for me?” Seth asks.

  I freeze three steps in front of the door to my apartment, one hand outstretched for the doorknob, the other digging through my bag for my keys. Seth is coming out, and, my mind focused on the lock, I almost run right into him.

  “What are you doing in my house?!”

  “Actually, I’m just leaving your house,” he says as he pulls the door closed. He’s got his sleeves rolled up, and there’s a long gash on his forearm that looks like it’s only recently stopped bleeding. He sees me notice and pulls his sleeve down, not like he’s embarrassed, but like it’s none of my business.

  “Having trouble handling the knives?” I joke, my tone a little more mocking than I mean it to be.

  “I never had trouble with a knife,” he says, one of his weird little grins leaking across his face.

  “You say the creepiest things—you know that?” I say, an involuntary shiver juddering through my body. I lean to the side to look around him. The lights are all on, so Mom must be home.

  “Were you just in there talking to my mom?” My heart ticks up a beat, worried about what he could tell her about our conversation.

  “Your mom is my boss,” he says, spreading his hands, grin still in place. “I kind of have to talk to her. Restaurant’s closed today, so she asked me to come here. To her house.”

  “Oh, yeah. That makes sense.” But it doesn’t make sense. I’ve never known Mom to have a Fresh Start kid in our house.

  “Besides, I already know what Jeanette wants.” His smile falls sideways. “I’ve tasted her cooking.”

  I blink. “Were you . . . were you helping her with recipes?” I mean, weirder things have happened, but not many.

  “You think about what we talked about the other night?” he asks, not answering my question.

  “Not really,” I lie. “Look, I need to go.”

  He steps out of the way, and I move past him, half expecting him to reach for me or say something creepy as I pass. But he lets me by, unbothered. I look back as I close the door, and he gives me a little salute. So weird.

  Once I’m inside, I turn the lock. The bolt lock too. I swear I hear him laughing.

  “Kelsie?” Mom calls from the kitchen. “Is that you? Come in here, will you?”

  I dump my stuff by the front door. “What is it?” I say, stomping into the kitchen.

  “Try this,” she says, sliding a plate across the counter toward me.

  “What is it?”

  “Pumpkin compote in a masa shell,” she says. “It’s a new recipe I’m going to try this week.”

  “So, a pumpkin tamale? You know you can just call it a pumpkin tamal
e. Nobody’s going to be impressed because you used some fancy words.”

  Her mouth turns down. “Thank you for the editorial. Just try it.”

  I take a bite. It’s good. Better than I expected. The balance of cinnamon and nutmeg is perfect, a hint of allspice. And some ingredient I can’t place. Almost . . . coppery? But it works. “Did Seth help you make this?”

  Mom’s hand freezes, reaching for the produce in front of her. Just for a second, but I see it. And then she’s picking up an onion and positioning it on the cutting board. “Who?” she asks, her voice an octave too high.

  “The Fresh Start kid. He was just here.”

  “Oh,” she says. “No. I was just giving him his schedule for the week. That’s all.”

  I put my fork down. As long as we’re on the subject, I might as well ask. “I was thinking,” I begin, trying to ease into the conversation.

  “That sounds dangerous.”

  “Ha-ha. So . . .” I hesitate, already feeling unsure about it.

  She gives me a tight smile. “Spit it out, Kelsie.”

  Might as well. I can always change my mind if I decide to chicken out. “How would you feel if I had someone over?”

  She raises an eyebrow. “Someone?”

  “A boy.”

  “Someone I know?”

  “Weird coincidence, but Seth. From the restaurant.”

  This time her whole body freezes. I can see the muscle in her jaw tighten. “No.”

  “Mom.”

  “I do not want you spending time with the Fresh Start kids, especially him.” Her knife cuts through the onion in front of her, the blade a sharp rhythm against the wood cutting board. “They’re a bad influence. Did you know he smokes?”

  “Half the restaurant industry smokes.”

  Her mouth tightens. “I said no, Kelsie.”

  “I just want to cook for him.”

  She looks at me, eyes wide. A thin layer of sweat sheens her forehead. “Cook? Then definitely no.” She laughs, light and breathless. “You can’t even cook.”

  My stomach tightens, and something inside me feels like falling. “That’s not true,” I say, sounding as hurt as I feel. “I used to cook with Dad all the time.”

  Her mouth turns down, disgusted. Not a bit of nostalgia in her face, just distaste in the way she wrinkles her brow. “Oh, we were so poor back then, trying to get the restaurant off the ground. Besides, what do you remember about your father? You were a child when he died.”

  “Mom, it was two years ago. I remember everything.”

  She exhales heavily. Slams the knife down hard enough to make me flinch. “Oh, Kelsie, you know what I mean. Why do you always insist on misinterpreting me? I just . . .” She sighs. Checks the clock on the wall. “We’ll talk about Seth later. Right now I have to finish this recipe, and I can’t get it done with you sitting there pestering like that. I’ll take everything to the restaurant kitchen. You can stay here.” She starts to gather her supplies.

  “Wait, you’re just going to walk out on me?”

  “Don’t be so dramatic.”

  “How is that dramatic?”

  “Look, you may think I’m not working right now, but I’m always working. Do you know how hard it is to run a restaurant all by mys—”

  “Yes, I know. Because you are always telling me! I know. I fucking know.”

  “Kelsie. Language!”

  I shove off from the counter, knocking the plate with the tamale onto the floor. It shatters, the sharp sound of porcelain breaking into pieces making me cringe. The perfect tamale splatters into mush against the hardwood. I pause, stunned. “I’m s-sorry . . . ,” I stutter out.

  “Just go,” she says, her voice one step from disgusted. “I can’t deal with you right now.”

  “Can’t deal with me right now?” I shout, unable to control my frustration. “You never deal with me! You care more about that fucking restaurant than you do me!”

  And that’s when it happens.

  She hits me. An open-handed slap across my cheek that whips my head to the side. My skin burns, half from the sting of her hand, and half from the humiliation. And rage.

  “I wish it had been you instead of Dad!” I scream, tears already hot in my eyes.

  Her jaw pulses. “You don’t mean that.”

  “Oh, I do. I really, really do.”

  “Well, if that’s how you feel,” she says, her voice as cold as a February snowstorm. And there’s something about her eyes. Something dark and hurt and unforgiving that I’ve never seen before.

  And for a minute I want to take it back. I want to take it all back. But it’s too late for that.

  I run for the door.

  * * *

  “Where’s Seth?” I say, bursting into the Fresh Start apartment.

  A girl I don’t know looks up from playing a video game. “Second room on the left.”

  I throw her a grateful nod and run down the hallway. I don’t even knock, just fling open the door. Seth’s sitting on his bed, headphones on. I can hear the tinny music coming out of the cheap speakers. Something loud with a heavy bass line.

  He sees me and sits up, wary. Slides off his headphones.

  “Now,” I bark, before turning and stomping back the way I came.

  I don’t turn to see if Seth’s following me, but I know he is. The kitchen here is small, just a wall of shallow cabinets and a two-burner stove, but I don’t need much. I start opening cabinets, looking for ingredients. Lard, flour, baking soda. Basic stuff that any house of Native kids would have.

  “Hey,” the video game girl calls from the couch, “what are you doing?”

  “Get out,” growls a voice from behind me, and it takes me a moment to realize it’s Seth. The girl mutters something that sounds like “whatever, freak,” grabs her bag, and leaves. Seth follows her, locking the front door behind her.

  I stop for a minute, my eyes on that locked door. My breath catches, and a tiny thread of fear trickles down my spine. Logic tells me that the door locks from the inside. It’s not like I can’t open it if I want to leave. So why do I suddenly feel trapped?

  “Just so nobody will bother us,” Seth says, his accent thick. “I’m not locking you in.”

  “Right,” I say, shaking off my paranoia. I square my shoulders, determined. “Let’s do this.”

  I gather all my ingredients on the table. It’s been a few years, but I remember how to make frybread like I was born to it, and maybe I was.

  I measure out the ingredients, dump them all in a bowl.

  “Water,” I tell Seth. “Warm. Not too hot.”

  He fills a measuring cup with warm water and sets it beside me.

  “Lard in the pan,” I command him. “Burner on high.” He does as he’s told.

  My dough is mixed, and I add the water in bits, just enough to keep it thick and sticky, adding pinches of flour as I go. And as I work, I feel something inside waking up, something that’s been dormant since I lost my dad. My hands push through the dough, and I put all my grief, all my rage, all the emotions that I’m feeling into the bread.

  When I’m satisfied with the dough, I pull out a section and shape it into a ball. Stretch the ball and drop it into the hot lard. It sizzles like rain against a tin roof, a sound that makes me smile with memories. I watch it cook, turning it once, and when it starts to fry golden brown, I use tongs to pull it out. Place it on the paper towel Seth’s set out for me. I reach for the powdered sugar and cinnamon on the shelf, but he stops my hand.

  “Not yet,” he says, his voice eager and his dark eyes shining. “Like this, first. Pure.”

  I nod, feeling it too. Feeling there’s something sacred in this moment, some magic in what I’ve made. As weird as that sounds, I know it’s true.

  He gingerly tears a corner of the hot bread off with his fingers. Puts it in his mouth. I catch a glimpse of his teeth, his tongue. He chews, eyes closed, and for some reason I’m stupidly nervous. I want him to like it. No, I want him to lo
ve it.

  After a moment, he opens his eyes. Smiles.

  “Good girl. I didn’t know if you had it in you, but you do.” His dark eyes are intense, his voice no more than a whisper. “What do you want, Kelsie? What do you really want?”

  “I want it to be the way it was before my dad died. I want . . .” I take a breath. “I want my mom back.”

  He nods, like he’s considering it. “Now what are you willing to sacrifice for it?”

  “Every single brick, every chair, every table, every damn chandelier. Every pot, every pan, every martini glass. Take it. Take the whole restaurant. I want you to tear the Indigenous Gastronomist to the ground.”

  * * *

  I wake up feeling great. Better than I have in forever. I practically skip downstairs to the kitchen for breakfast. Mom’s left already, probably to meet the delivery truck or hit the farmers market early. I make sprouted-wheat toast, the only bread Mom keeps in the house, slathering it with cream cheese. Wash it down with orange juice before heading to school.

  Last night runs through my mind. The feel of my mother’s palm against my cheek most of all. But also cooking for Seth, making my dad’s frybread. The feeling of the dough in my hands, and the memories of my dad filling my heart. I don’t really understand why it meant so much to Seth, but I know it meant the world to me, and now, in just a few short hours, my world is going to change.

  Seth and I agreed that it would be done by four o’clock. A perfect time, since the restaurant’s closed from two to five p.m. Even the staff won’t be there. I want the place destroyed, but I don’t want anyone to get hurt.

  The day zips by in nervous anticipation, and before I know it, it’s final period. Morgan’s waiting for me in the usual spot, and we walk across the courtyard together. I think about whether to tell Morgan about my deal with Seth, but decide against it. I don’t want her trying to talk me out of it.

  “What is going on with you?” she asks after one look at my face. I should have known I couldn’t hide a secret from her. But I try to play it off anyway.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Your mom called my mom last night?”