A La Carte (14 page)

I glare at my grandmother. “MaDea, I'm sorry, but I think Mom just asked you to come down today so you could help her make me do what she wants. It's not going to work.”

“Isabelle Elaine, I don't know
whose
house you think you're living in,” my mother begins.

“So now you want me to move out?” My voice is too high.

Dea pats my leg and clambers to her feet. “Now, you all pipe down. Laine, you have no idea how much you sound like your
mother
when she was your age. Come on back to the table now, both of you. I brought cobbler and peach ice cream…oh, and some of that healthful soy ice cream for you, Miss Lainey.”

“Wait a minute,” Mom says to me quietly. She leans forward and brings her eyes level with mine. “I know it doesn't seem fair, Elaine, and I apologize, but you are my only child, and you will succeed in this world even if I have to drag you kicking and screaming.”

I shrug, arms crossed.

“I've been concerned about you and Simeon, and I'd made up my mind to get to know him better if he was going to be spending time here…without his shirt on.” Now Mom smiles humorlessly.

My throat constricts. That seems light-years ago.

“No matter how all of this comes out,” my mother continues, and I can feel my eyes stinging and a lone drop making its way out of my nose, “I think you should spend some time working on your goals. As a matter of fact, I'm going to insist you spend that time. Elaine, you've been chasing after this boy for how long? You've spent too long waiting on what he's going to do and where he's going to be. A great girl like you—there will be all kinds of people who are going to think you're the best thing that's ever happened to them. I'd like you to start thinking about where you'd like to do a summer internship. If you can get some distance from…everything, I'd like to see you start striking out on your own.”

“How about Alaska?” The angry tone of my voice makes my mother step back. “Maybe that's the kind of distance I need.”

Mom sighs. “Elaine…” She shakes her head. “We don't need the dramatics.”

“I'm sure there's a restaurant there that needs an intern. And I'll be happy to go.”

My mother's shoulders slump. “Lainey, you're taking this the wrong way.”

“I'll be interning this summer somewhere away from home. Fine. I'll start looking.”

“One day you'll thank me.” My mother's voice is light, but I can see that she feels it's time to put in her last word and end this conversation. “I know you don't see what I mean about Simeon,” she adds, “but take my word for it, this once. It will do you good to get away for a while. This hasn't been good for you.” She sighs and places her hand on my tightly clenched fists. “Go wash your face, Lainey bug,” she says as she gets up. “And come eat some of that nasty soy ice cream your grandmother keeps bringing you.”

Deep breath. Mom is changing the menu, moving us all along to a new dish. She thinks she's managed me, managed this whole scene. This time, I'm going to let her think what she wants.

I go upstairs into the bathroom to wash my face like my mother says. Like a good girl.

Like the girl I'm not.

I run the sink tap and sit on the edge of the tub, burying my face in a towel.

“Is that peach homemade?” I hear Mom calling to Dea.

Downstairs, my mother and grandmother are serving up dessert. Upstairs, I'm crying so hard I want to vomit.

Everywhere I look, I'm being forced into lying. Simeon's making me lie to Mom. Mom's making me lie about Simeon. I have to go intern somewhere, and I will, and I may go there and stay a whole year, but right now I'm not even sure I want to be a chef anymore. I'm not sure of anything.

How did it end up like this? Sim went from being my best friend to being the guy who only talked to me when he needed something. Why did I think this time he would be any different? Just because I wanted him to be?

I'm going to have to get a job. I'm never going to be able to take my trip to Saint Julia's, especially now that I'm five hundred dollars in the hole. I have to do something or Mom's going to manage everything, just like I'm still some little kid who doesn't have a clue.

What makes it worse is that she's right. I have been waiting for Simeon. I'm lying to my mother, I have investigators watching my house, and where is he?

Saint Julia always said that in cooking, there are very few mistakes that can't be corrected. You can add a pinch of salt and some chopped herbs to the butter if you forgot to put salt in your bread. If your soufflé falls, you can serve it with a sauce over it, and it'll look just fine. Gummy mashed potatoes can be resurrected as potato pancakes. But once you add too much pepper to something—it's over. You can't make something less spicy than it is.

I stand and rinse out my mouth. My stomach feels like a fist, knotted and quivering with tension.

Sim's history. And now I have to figure out what to do next.

13

“Lainey? Is that you?”

Who else?
I throttle back the urge to snarl as I close the hallway door behind me. My mother has a heavy grasp on the obvious.

The mail is full of junk circulars and advertising, a King Arthur Flour catalog, and nothing from the
Just Tomatoes
recipe contest I entered two weeks ago. I throw everything on the kitchen counter and stomp up the stairs.

“Come here,” Mom calls from her room. She sounds excited. “I've got something neat to show you.”

I mutter expletives. It's been a horrible day already, and Mom's voice is so light and cheerful I know this “something neat” is going to be one of her Good Mother ideas. In the land of Mother-Daughter Quality Time, so far we've gone to Dea's church and fed the homeless, toured vineyards and art galleries in the Napa Valley, and even gone to Bingo Night at Dea's senior club. Mom tried to get me to go to a Women's Health fund-raiser at St. Joseph's with her and Mrs. Haines, but she let me get out of that when I said I had too much homework. I can't go anywhere anymore without her poking her nose in, smiling at everyone. When I'm at the restaurant, I see her watching me. She's even come to my gym, just popped in one day while I ran faster and faster on the treadmill, trying to get away.

I grind my teeth at her cheery little voice and clomp up the stairs to her doorway.

“Look!” My mother excitedly points to her computer screen. “It's the Elderwood Estates Cooking School. They have an opening during your spring break for a Wednesday-to-Friday course.”

“Uh-huh.” Sighing inaudibly, I glance at the computer and make my way down the hallway to my room.

“They've got vineyards and orchards and their own herb garden!” Mom continues. I can
hear
the exclamation points. I keep walking.

“Does that sound like someplace where you might like to intern?” Mom calls after me, oblivious to my disinterest.

I turn back to her room. “Maybe. I don't know. Why?”

Mom is typing something. “Well, I told you that you ought to be looking for places where you can get in and get a different kind of experience than you would at school,” she says. “A cooking school like Elderwood is just one of many options for your summer.”

My stomach curdles. “I said I'd find something for myself for summer.”

Mom swivels around in her chair and sighs. “Well, get to it, Elaine. I need to know you have a plan.”

“Why?” I look at her, bewildered.

Mom shakes her head. “It looks like this is going to be a busy summer. Pia's afraid we're going to get audited this year, and they've just announced that the
Michelin Guide
is coming back to the Bay Area—really, when Pia and I got into this, we made a decision to be in a partnership with this restaurant…and I'm not holding up my end. And since we debuted the new menu, we're getting reviewed again, and there's always so much to do this time of year…I just need to make sure everything's covered.” Mom sighs a little and turns back toward her computer, looking pensive.

I turn down the hall and go to my room, opening the door, taking off my jacket. In a moment, Mom follows and props herself in the doorway.

“So, we need to explore internship opportunities for you,” she continues as I plop down on the bed and stretch out.

“Whatever.” I yawn. I'm tired, but I have miles to go before I sleep. The midsemester schoolwork crunch has been kicking my butt lately, and I've got to catch up on my studying. Somehow with one thing and another, school's been the last thing on my mind.

“Laine.” My mother sounds suddenly suspicious. “You don't have plans for spring break that I don't know about, do you?”

I open my eyes a crack. Is she joking? Isn't this the woman who's always complaining I have no social life and should cultivate more friends like the ever-wonderful Lorraine?

I stretch my arms over my head and sigh. “Of course, Mom, I'm going to Botswana on a safari. What makes you think I have a life all of a sudden?”

Instead of showing irritation at my snarky response, Mom's face clears of a tension I didn't know was there. She nods. “Well, that's good…. That's what I told Mrs. Keller. Their investigator is of the opinion that Simeon will be contacting friends over this break. I expect that little gray car will be parked out front again all week.” She flashes me a humorless smile.

“Oh, great.” I toe off my shoes and flop over onto my stomach. “Like our own Neighborhood Watch.”

My mother sighs. “Well, Laine, that's how it goes. I'm not sure what good it will do them, but eventually, they're going to find out what they need to know.” She pauses a moment. “I hope you've told Mr. Keller everything.”

I feel a flash of annoyance. “Mom. You've been in my face practically every second for the last three weeks. You could tell Mr. Keller yourself: there's no one hiding under my bed. I already told you everything I knew.”

My mother is silent for a moment too long. I look up at her and catch a weird expression on her face, part anger, part something else.

“What?”

Mom just shakes her head. “We're going back to the restaurant. Grab your books.”

I sigh. “Mom…”

“No negotiations, Isabelle Elaine.” Mom's voice is stiff. “This is the agreement.”

In return for her not pressuring me about spending time with MaDea's sister in Baton Rouge, I agreed to find a summer internship and be “supervised” when I was outside of school. That means going to the restaurant with her, doing prep work, and doing homework in her office. It's not as bad as it sounds. When I get sick of it, I can stretch out on her love seat and plug in my music, but today I'm so tired not even that has any appeal.

“Fine.” I sit up and slide my feet into my shoes. “This is the agreement, but it doesn't last forever, okay? It's not fair that I'm being punished when I haven't done anything wrong.”

Mom gets a strange look on her face again and turns to go. “Just get a move on, Elaine.”

Ms. Dunston is still sipping her coffee, and “Deep River,” the spiritual we've been working on, is echoing in my brain. I'm humming along to myself, digging in my book bag for a highlighter, so Christopher Haines standing next to me barely registers.

“Hey, Elaine.”

“You want something, Chris?”

Christopher jams his hands in his pockets and leans against the wall. “You're never going to call me Topher, are you?” He sighs, looking aggrieved.

I stifle the urge to laugh. Even with the baby dreadlocks in his curly dark hair, the faded jeans, and the striped vintage shirt, Trendy Topher still looks like the clumsy little junior high kid I remember as Chris. Even though he was at Sim's party and supposedly got busted like everyone else, he's still geeky Chris to me.

“All right, Topher. What d'ya want?” I pull out the novel we're reading for English and hope I have a free moment to finish the assigned chapter. After getting yelled at some more by Stefan last night, I didn't feel like doing anything but flopping down and watching TV. The trend on cooking shows now is to convey the “reality” of a “real” kitchen. There's a lot more drama on TV: people get yelled at, and the whole kitchen goes quiet. Stefan yells at me so often nowadays that not even I notice it that much anymore.

“…and so I thought I'd ask if you were busy.”

Chris—or Topher, actually—is still talking. “Wait, what? You're going where?”

“Yosemite,” he repeats patiently. “You know, the national park? I wondered if you wanted to go over break.”

“Oh.” I give up on finding my highlighter and frown. “Thanks, but I'm going to be busy.”

“Right.” Topher is deflated. “You're going to Santa Cruz with everyone else.”

I blink. Since when do I hang out with “everyone else”? “Nope. Mom's making me check out internships.”

“Oh!” Christopher grins. “Interning. Always a good plan.”

“Yeah. Lovely. I'd rather go to Yosemite.”

“Really?” Chris's, no, Topher's carefully crafted cool wavers. Something sparks in his eyes. “You're serious?”

I notice with relief that Ms. Dunston has set down her coffee cup. “Uh, yeah, Yosemite's great, Chris. Have fun. Look, class is starting, so…”

“I'll talk to you after school,” Chris says immediately, digging his cell phone out of his pocket. He flips it open importantly. “Your digits?”

How very Topher. I sigh noisily. “Um, your mom has it, right? I mean, it's the same number I've had since the fourth grade,
Chris.
” No way does he need my cell number.

Chris sighs and flips closed his phone. I give a barracuda smile. “Sorry, um,
Topher.
”

Chris/Topher looks resigned. “Never mind. Nobody remembers. Anyway, I'll call you.”

“Whatever…,” I say, and shoo him toward his seat.

 

The sad thing is that Christopher Haines is the one to point out that something big is going on. When I actually take a listen to my classmates, I realize that people are excited about spring break. There are people going to Santa Cruz for a massive house party the first few days, and it hits me that if Sim were here, this is the kind of thing he'd be all over. He'd know the details, and he'd probably be going, and I could be assured of knowing all the dirt that went on there. It would be almost as good as going.

Study hall is full of people whispering, eating, laughing, text-messaging, passing notes, sleeping, and slumping with earphones in their ears. Except for the stoners spacing out and the three people actually studying, everyone else is interacting and interested in each other. It hits me how much of an outsider I am. Sim was into everything, and I've spent my time just watching, looking at the action. Even now, he's off having an adventure, and I'm home waiting for him to at least send a postcard and tell me what's up. And what makes it worse? It's my own choice.

Throughout European history, every time Mr. Fritz walks near my desk, I snap to attention as if I've just wakened out of sleep. Are the Kellers right? Will Sim be showing up somewhere during spring break to reconnect with his friends? Am I one of the ones who will hear from him? What if he's going to be at this big house party in Santa Cruz? Wouldn't he call?

Maybe not. Maybe he's really all the way in Alaska by now.

I pick up my pen and doodle a few notes, wishing Chris Haines hadn't even told me about the house party. I mean, how does
Christopher
know anything, anyway? It's not like getting busted at Sim's party has made him popular, is it? He's as vanilla-plain boring as I am. Chris has always been kind of on the edges of Sim's and my friends, and he's always wanted to hang out with me. With us. Honestly, when he got in trouble at Sim's party, it was probably because he was just there, not because he was involved in anything. Chris probably only found out about the house party lurking on somebody's blog, not because anyone invited him. I mean, people would think to invite me before they invited him, right?

The thought is so petty it makes goose bumps stand up on my arms. My head hits my desk with a thud. I am jealous of Christopher Haines. I am
brain-dead.
It's official.

“Reason, thought the sages of the eighteenth century, would cure fear, superstition, and prejudice, and in the case of Ben Franklin, it was hoped that it would even conquer death.” Mr. Fritz is standing behind me. I get a tighter grip on my pen and frown, trying to look studious and attentive.

“But there was only so much that reason could do. There is a difference between Enlightenment and the enlightened age. And who said that, Elaine?”

“Uhh…Immanuel Kant?”

“Are you asking us or telling us, Ms. Seifert?”

Sigh.
“Telling you, Mr. Fritz.”

“Excellent. So, Immanuel Kant, insofar as it could be said that any of the social engineers of the Enlightenment in the new Europe had a common goal…”