The Secret Ingredient (11 page)

“Don’t worry, Dad, he’ll get out in no time.”

“Yeah?” he asks me, like I’m the parent or something.

I give him my most serious look. “Yes,” I say, trying desperately to believe it myself.

CHAPTER 14

When I was twelve, I basically had one friend. Her name was Jill, and she had a punk rock look but was shy if you tried to talk to her. Although I didn’t know the word at the time, she was all about duality. One morning she didn’t show up at school, and out of curiosity I went by her house on the way home. Not only was her whole family gone, there was a hippie couple moving in. They told me the family had moved to Wisconsin. When you’re twelve, I guess you believe your friends will always be there. Well, I did. I couldn’t fathom that she was gone, just like that. I sat on the curb for a while before getting up to leave. Everything—the sidewalk, the sky, the trees—looked a little different.

When I got to my front door and walked in, something shifted inside me. It was like the doorway was literally a
threshold and womanhood was on the other side. I felt sick to my stomach and looked down at the spreading stain on my thrift-store sweatpants. Of course I had heard that one day this was going to happen, but now that it had, I felt frozen in time, waiting for someone to help, to explain what was going to happen from here on out. It’s funny—health class explains stuff, but usually everyone is too busy joking around to really take in the facts. I knew I would get my period, and that would mean from then on I could get pregnant, but I didn’t know much else.

Enrique came down the stairs, and his face was even more panic-stricken than mine. Gay men don’t really like to deal with “female parts,” and I could sense his apprehension, but he got it together. He brought me a roll of paper towels and said, “Hold on.” Then he called Bell, who didn’t seem to have much advice, and finally, he grabbed me and led me to Davida’s door.

At that point, we didn’t really know Davida more than to say a quick hello on the street. So the word
mortification
does not begin to explain how I felt. But that was how it happened: one of my gay dads taking my bleeding self to a total stranger next door. When Davida answered the door, it was like she read the entire situation in the blink of an eye. She completely took charge, pulled me inside, and sent Enrique home. For some reason—I found out later that my senses, strong to begin with, had become intensified—I remember all the smells in her house: patchouli, some kind of lavender oil, ripe tangerines in a bowl on her living room table. All the smells permeated my head, making me
feel faint. Davida took me into the bathroom, taught me how to use a tampon, and gave me a large box of them. Then she suggested making me hot chocolate. I wanted to tell her I wasn’t six years old, but Davida is the type of person who prefers impulse to common sense. I mean, technically I had just become a woman, and she was making me hot cocoa? But I went with it, and when we entered the kitchen I heard a few tiny little barks and saw, in his cage, an eight-week-old Hank, his cherubic face begging to be let out. Twenty minutes later I had completely forgotten about my period—all I wanted to do was play with Hank. He was the cutest chocolate Lab puppy I had ever seen in real life, almost as if he had jumped out of one of those cheesy greeting cards.

For a while, Hank replaced the loss of Jill. I would play with him every day for an hour after school. One time Davida had to leave, and Enrique came over and found me and Hank sleeping together on the couch. “You looked like two angels,” he said. I remember counting the hours for school to be over so I could go home and play with the puppy. He was everything to me, and at the time, the idea of him not being around was the farthest thing from my thoughts.

Who had replaced Rose’s loss? This Eloise person? Could Matthew and Kurt be replaced? Now, looking at the flyer for Hank’s funeral, I suddenly feel helpless. I realize that as Hank had grown, I had taken him for granted. I even got mad at him and at times dreaded having to walk him. Now I would give my left arm to have him chew up my
favorite slippers, or knock over my orange juice, or slobber on my jeans. I even miss the things that annoyed me about him. I hold the flyer to my chest and close my eyes.

It’s not really a funeral. On the flyer it says
Drum Circle
, which unnerves me a little. But as long as it’s for Hank, I have to go. I’m glad Theo’s here with me, and that he was so understanding when I asked if we could go to this instead of going to Bean, after Davida stopped by with the flyer this morning. There are bowls of carrots and pretzels, and ginger ale. Theo picks up a carrot and smells it before taking a bite.

“Why do you smell your food?” I ask, giggling.

“I don’t know. I’m kind of animalistic that way,” Theo says. There are arrows drawn on paper, and we follow them out the back door.

Someone who calls himself a shaman runs Hank’s “service.” There’s a fire pit in Davida’s backyard, and we are all in a big circle. The shaman holds a stick that’s supposed to represent Hank’s spirit. As we pass it around we’re supposed to give it good thoughts and energy. I am used to Davida and her New Age friends, but I think this is a little new to Theo. He seems really nervous. Still, at the end, when the shaman is going around hugging everyone, Theo whispers to me, “Be careful. Whatever you do, don’t squeeze the shaman.”

I silently laugh so hard I almost pee, and have to go
inside to the bathroom. When I come back, Theo is, in fact, squeezing the shaman.

“Soft?” I ask him.

“You don’t even know.”

We say our goodbyes and start heading down to Sunset. We get on the westbound bus and just sit in silence for a while. Suddenly exhausted, I lean my head against his shoulder and doze off. When we get to Santa Monica, we head out onto the pier and Theo buys me a twenty-five-cent poem from a guy on the street with an old typewriter. He types it on the spot. It says:

Pulling petals for you

One by one

Coming nearer

To the sun

We have only

just begun

I fold it twice and put it in my pocket. We sit with our legs dangling over the dock and watch some of the sailboats coming and going in the harbor.

“So,” he says. “Third date starts at a dog funeral–drum circle. Definitely different.”

I smile. “That’s what you said you wanted. You seemed like you were really into it.”

“I was trying not to laugh.”

I punch him lightly on his shoulder.

“Thanks again for going with me,” I say, growing serious.

“Liv, I know you loved that dog. One time you brought him into the restaurant and I ended up walking him, remember?”

“No.”

Theo makes a noise and says, “You never really noticed me noticing you, did you?”

“Not really. But I noticed you when I saw that picture you taped to the wall.”

“And then you added the road—that was so cool.”

A boat horn goes off and some little kids start running down the dock.

“Did you ever get the bike?”

“No. My dad was supposed to send me money.”

“Where does he live?”

“Vegas. He has a whole other family. It’s like he just traded us in for a less screwed-up one.”

“And your mom?”

“She’s okay, I guess, but she doesn’t have time for Timothy. She resents him for being retarded, like it’s his fault.”

“That’s terrible.”

“T’s got a big heart, though. He just takes a lot of patience, which I never had until I started taking care of him. I can’t really explain it, but it’s kind of like nothing else matters, or everything else seems insignificant. But it’s really nice hanging out with you. It feels like there’s finally something else to … like. And I don’t feel anything missing when I’m with you.”

My stomach knots up, in a good way, but I turn the subject away from myself. “What is it about cycling for you? How did you get into it?”

“When I was little, I used to watch the races in the Valley. My dad took me, actually. Aside from liking the outfits”—he blushes, realizing that might sound weird—“I couldn’t believe the power. I wanted to know what that felt like. Now, when I ride, the bike is like an eighteen-pound geared extension of
me
. You know? And I feel this surge of energy. It’s a fine line between speed and catastrophe, safety and danger.”

“So you like living on the edge?”

“I guess so.”

Theo laces his fingers through mine, and we watch the sun fading behind the masts of the boats that stand tall as soldiers.

“I found out my mother’s name,” I say. “Yesterday.” It feels so right to tell him this—and different from telling Lola.

“Wow. Did you always wonder about her, or just recently?”

“Well, I’d thought about it in a fleeting way, and in middle school a bunch, but after I met the psychic I felt like this seed was planted—I found this key, and it basically led me to discovering my mother’s name.”

“Do you know anything about her?”

“No, but I think she looks like Julie Andrews.”

He laughs.

“Her name’s Jane Armont. I’m getting used to saying it out loud.”

“So what are you going to do now?” Theo asks.

“Find her.”

“Well, Liv, I’m totally here if you need me.”

We look out at some seagulls soaring through the darkening sky.

He leans over to kiss me, and even though he’s not riding his bike and I’m not cooking, everything bad slips away.

CHAPTER 15

I step into the elevator, thinking about the doors I have opened since I first stepped through these, and it’s starting to feel like a long time since I
didn’t
believe in connections. Janice isn’t in when I get to the office, so I take Rose’s cookbook out and flip to somewhere near the middle. Next to an illustration of a hand chopping what looks like celery, it reads
SIMPLE SAUCE
.

In the margin, in Rose’s delicate handwriting, is a list, with no date:

•
bring this sauce to Mother to cheer her up

•
have someone fix the leak in the bathroom

•
buy a new dress

•
be happy

My mind travels back to what Rose’s life may have been like at that time. Husband still gone at war; sad, but with a will to change, to be in good spirits in spite of it all. Still, there are some doodles that look like teardrops, as if she was lingering on the last word:
happy
.

For the better part of the morning, I follow Rose’s lead and make my own list. Between answering phone calls and sending out some faxes for Janice, it slowly forms.

•
find jane

•
help bell

•
go to paris (with theo?)

I look at it and almost crumple it up. Nearly all the items are basically unattainable. What now?

Around lunchtime, Janice puts her hand on my shoulder and notices my list. I quickly cover it with some head shots that are on the desk.

“Paris, huh?”

How did she read it that quickly?

She gives me a sweet, encouraging look, so I feel like I have to explain.

“Remember my dream of going to Le Cordon Bleu?”

“Yes. Who’s Jane?”

“Jane Armont. Just someone I—”

“Wait a second. Say that name again?”

“Jane Armont.”

I know the
t
is probably silent, but I pronounce it
anyway. She looks like she might laugh or be sick, I can’t tell which, and then the door opens. It’s her one o’clock meeting, some writers for a pilot she’s casting.

“Hold that thought,” she says, and greets the guys, motioning them into her office.

Why did she freak out when I said that name?

During her meeting, I email the Contact tab on the website for Le Cordon Bleu.

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Hi there—

My name is Olivia Reese and I’m almost seventeen years old.

I have been cooking since I was seven, and I actually create and serve a special in my dad’s L.A. restaurant, FOOD, once a week. Anyway, my dream is to study at CB. I was wondering what the requirements are to apply, and if there are any scholarship opportunities.

Thanks,

Olivia

I downloaded the application a while ago, but it seemed so complicated I figured I’d just ask to get a straightforward answer. I hit Send and then Google my mother’s name again to see if Lola missed anything, but it’s still just the old painter woman in Santa Fe. I go to page three to see if something got buried, and sure enough, there’s one
item. It’s all in French, but it clearly says Jane Armont, and the French word
propriétaire
, and something about Montreal. I try to uncover more, but there’s nothing. It doesn’t even seem to be related to the article that comes up. Is my mother in Canada? If that is the same Jane Armont, then she owns something in Montreal.

After Janice’s meeting is over, she keeps her door closed for a while, then comes out with another weird look on her face.

“Red, why don’t you come into my office?”

For some reason, I feel like this is it. She’s going to fire me. I was wondering why she’d hired a teenager in the first place. Yes, I have done some of my own stuff while I’ve been here, but only if I’m done with everything she asked me to do. Should I have gone the extra mile and started cleaning the windows or something?

“So, I was going back and forth in my mind during the meeting.”

“You’re firing me.”

She laughs, and I am momentarily appeased.