“Because I want to yell at someone!” I slump into a booth and pick at a chipped spot in the Formica table. Ben slides in across from me, setting the cookies between us. Whether as an offering or a barrier, I can’t say.
“Who do you really want to yell at?”
“Ugh. I don’t know. Candy, maybe. Her dumb, creepy boyfriend, definitely. My mom and Rick, sometimes. And I’d share my tips with you, but I don’t have any, which means I worked all afternoon for nothing.” I rest my head on the tabletop.
“No one tipped you?” He finally sounds outraged.
“Everyone tipped me. But I gave it all to Candy.”
“Well, you earned a cookie.”
“I don’t like gingerbread.”
“That’s because you’ve never had my gingerbread.”
I narrow my eyes. “Is that some sort of chef pickup line?”
He blushes. The way the red blooms in his cheeks as he struggles for an answer is almost too sweet to handle, so I grab a cookie to let him off the hook.
“Díos mío. What did you put in these? Are they laced with crack? Gingerbread cookies are supposed to be hard and crunchy. Not good. These aren’t normal.” They’re soft, not quite cakelike, more like the consistency of a perfect sugar cookie. The spices zing my taste buds without overwhelming them—a dusting of powdered sugar counteracts the fresh ginger—and the whole thing is warm and wonderful and tastes like Christmas used to feel. How did he do that?
“See?” he says. “Not a pickup line.”
“Good, because that would’ve been super lame.” I take another cookie and lean back into the cushioned booth. Usually at the end of a shift I feel heavy, leaden, and ready for bed. But right now I feel light and soft. Like these cookies.
So I take a third. And, feeling generous, I decide to be nice to Ben. It’s not a hard decision. He’s kind, and even if he weren’t the only guy around my age in Christmas, he’d still probably be the prettiest one. “Everyone loved your food.”
His voice is shyly delighted. “I’m glad.”
I’m glad, too. He’ll make the time until I get out of here far more bearable. Maybe even exciting. “So, where’d you learn to cook?”
“Juvie.”
I sit up. “Juvie? As in juvenile detention?”
His face loses none of its pleasant openness as he nods.
“When were you in juvie? What for? Did my mom hire you straight out of their kitchen or something? I knew there was a reason why you were willing to work here.”
He laughs. “I’ve been out for six months. I applied for this job because I love Christmas, and it felt like … fate. Or serendipity. Or something. And I don’t like thinking about the person I used to be, so if it’s okay, I’d rather not talk about it except to say that I wasn’t violent.”
I wilt under the weight of my curiosity. “Fine. But it’s gonna kill me.”
“It’s not, and neither am I, because again, not violent.”
I flick some crumbs at him. “I gotta get cleaning.” I stand, stretching, and remove my apron. Ben is staring at me. I raise my eyebrows. He looks away quickly, embarrassed, but I’m more than a little glad I’m not wearing my uniform tonight.
I survey the damage. Not too bad. Mostly it’ll be dishes, but I’ll mop up and wipe down the tables first.
I switch off the sound system in the middle of “Baby, It’s Cold Outside.”
“Thank you!” Ben shouts from the kitchen. “That song is the worst.”
“I know, right?”
“Also terrible? ‘Santa Claus Is Coming to Town.’”
“Santa as Big Brother. Just imagine his posters, staring at you from every wall. SANTA IS WATCHING.”
“I love Christmas, but Santa is creepy.”
“Thank you, yes! No one understands. If someone is watching me sleep, it had better be a hot vampire, otherwise I’m calling the cops.”
Ben laughs and dishes start clanging. He must be prepping some food for tomorrow. I put in my earbuds and clean, dancing along to Daft Punk. Candy introduced me to them back when she still liked music. When I finally finish, I wheel the yellow mop cart to the kitchen, bone-tired and not looking forward to the dishes.
But the kitchen is pristine. All the dishes are done, the counters wiped. Even the handles to the massive freezer have been sanitized. A few trays of dough are out to rise overnight, but there’s nothing left for me to do. A sticky note is stuck to the door, with a big, sloppy happy face drawn on it.
I clamp a hand over my smile, try to wipe it away. Because I don’t like Christmas, so I can’t like anyone here. Not even talented cooks with crooked noses.
* * *
Normally I drag out my after-school routine—locker, bathroom, library—as long as possible before shuffling to the car. But on Monday I practically sprint there.
You’re excited about the tips, I remind myself. Not the cook.
Rick jumps in surprise as I throw open the passenger-side door. I buckle my seat belt as he fumbles to remove the tape that’s already in the deck. “Quieras bailar conmigo?” a woman asks in a soothing, slow tone. There’s a pause, and then Rick manages to get it ejected.
“What was that?” I ask, reaching for it. “Are you … learning Spanish?”
“Nothing. No.” Rick tucks the tape into the pocket of his button-down shirt, clears his throat, and puts the car into drive. I watch him suspiciously but he doesn’t even look at me. Spanish is my territory—the thing my mom and I share that he doesn’t. Even if she won’t speak it with me anymore. I don’t want him there.
As we get close to Christmas, I lean forward, bouncing. This time Rick eyes me with suspicion. Embarrassed, I pack up my bag. I’ve never been so relieved to be out of that car. It’s a long enough drive when we’re pretending not to notice each other. But when we’re both being strange, well, it was interminable.
I take a shower, then mess around with my makeup. I skip to work ten minutes early, whistling cheerily.
For the tips.
“Ho ho ho yourself, you old sicko.” I pat the animatronic Santa on the head. This place is hopping, not its usual dead zone. Candy’s taking orders. She’s stayed the last two nights to help with the extra crowds, even though she had to keep running to the bathroom to puke. She looks hollow today.
Angel is sitting at the counter. He grins. “Hola, Maria!” I’ve never seen his teeth before, much less his smile. I didn’t realize his scowl lines weren’t permanently fixed.
“Can I get you anything?” I hope I don’t look as confused-slash-unnerved as I feel.
“Take your time, chica, you just got here.”
“Right. Thanks.” I barrel into the kitchen. “What did you do to Angel?”
Ben shrugs, clapping his hands together once in a satisfied sort of way. “He needed a good meal.”
“Right. The man who has spent the last three years growling orders at me is now calling me chica and smiling.”
“Yup.”
“Okay, be serious. Are you a drug dealer? Is that why you were in juvie?”
He laughs, stirring something on the stove range. “No. Not drugs.”
“I’m pretty sure you spice your cookies with something illegal.”
“Cinnamon is not a controlled substance.”
“That should be the title of your memoir.” I reluctantly button my uniform over my tank top and leggings. Candy comes back as I’m clocking in.
“Hey!” Ben’s eyes are bright and hopeful. “I made you something.”
She puts a hand over her stomach. “No, thanks.”
“I think it’ll help.” He holds the to-go container while she removes her apron and hangs up her uniform.
She takes the container. “Okay. See you tomorrow.” She shuffles out.
Ben goes to the window, bouncing on the balls of his feet. Then his shoulders stoop, his whole body turning down in disappointment.
“She gave it to Jerry, didn’t she?” I ask.
“It wasn’t
for him. It was for her.” He frowns. “Tomorrow I’ll make her something at the start of her shift, instead.”
Animatronic Santa ho-ho-hos at a customer, and I’m swept up for the next few hours. Ben more or less cooks what people ask for, and no one complains. My feet are sore from how busy we are, but my tip-collecting pockets are happy.
Angel has moved to the corner booth, leaning over the back to chat animatedly with Lorna, the gas-station owner. He’s drawing pictures on her napkin. I’ve never seen them so much as glance at each other before. But the way they’re acting, you’d think they were best friends. They’ve been in here every day. A lot of the locals have been coming more frequently than new-cook curiosity can account for.
“Bennett,” I say.
“Not short for Bennett,” Ben answers.
“Do you have Angel’s order?”
He puts up a tray, and I frown. “This is not his.”
“It’s for him.”
“He ordered chicken-fried steak. He always orders chicken-fried steak. This is … what is this? Fruit salad? Have you seen Angel?” I gesture toward him: hulking, tattooed, shaved head with several prominent scars. “He’s not the fruit-salad type.”
“It’s beets, carrots, jicama, and fruit with a citrus dressing. Ensalada Navidad! And here.” He presents a second plate.
“Tamales.” A sort of pain, like a sore muscle, pulses through my whole body. I’m filled with an inexplicable need to hug my mom. “We don’t serve those here.” The sudden ache inside my heart makes me sad. I scowl at Ben. “Make him the stupid steak.”
“Maria. Trust me. Take it to him.”
“No.”
He sighs. “How about this: if he doesn’t like it, you don’t have to share your tips with me for the rest of the week.”
“And you tell me how you learned to cook in juvie.” His eyebrows come together so I raise my hand. “Not why you were in juvie. Only the cooking part.”
“Deal.”
I take the plate, surly but certain of victory. Angel has ordered the same meal for as long as I’ve worked here. When I set down the food, he looks shocked.
“I didn’t order this,” he growls.
“I’m sorry, it’s the new cook, he—”
“Are those tamales?”
I still have my hand on the plate, ready to whisk it away. “Yes?”
He leans forward. His eyes wrinkle upward in a smile. I swear his skin creaks, having to force decades of grim frown lines in that direction. “Y ensalada navidad! Mi madre siempre…” His hard black eyes soften, looking far past this dinner.
“So … you want the food? Because I can take it back!”
“No!” He leans over it protectively. “I want it.”
“Great. Let me know if you need anything else.” I scowl at the kitchen window, where Ben is giving me his full-wattage smile. I give him the finger down low, where Angel can’t see it.
“Maria!” my mom says, aghast.
I shove my hands into my apron like that will erase the offending digit. “What are you doing here?”
“Kitchen. Now.”
I follow her back, dragging my feet. She pushes straight through the back door into the alley between the diner and the gas station.
“What was that?”
“Just … goofing off.”
She throws her hands up in the air. “We can’t afford to goof off!”
I fold my arms, take a step back from her. “I’m not getting paid. So goofing off is about all I can afford.”
“Ay, Maria, we’ve talked about this. We’re a family. Everything we earn goes into the same account, so—”
“We haven’t talked about it! We never talk about anything. What do you need all my money for? So you can live in a crappy, nowhere town, in a crappy, freezing duplex, with your crappy, tightwad boyfriend. Yeah, Mama, I get it.” I turn away from her, slam into the kitchen and past Ben, who is leaning over the stove so intently I’m positive he heard every word.
* * *
My mom stuck around for a while, talking to Ben about his weird food supplies requests. He convinced her to go along with it. I guess he can afford to goof off. Meanwhile, she ignored me until she left for the mine. When I finish closing, I’m going home, straight to my room, to recount the tips I’ve managed to save. Angel left me fifteen bucks tonight, which still blows my mind. That puts me at exactly $2,792. Three years of working every day, and that’s all I have to show for it.
I turn around to find Ben, yellow bucket filled with hot, soapy water. He squeezes the excess out of the mop.
“That’s not your job,” I snap.
But he shrugs and gets started without a word. With his help, the restaurant is clean in record time. Ben and I shove the cleaning supplies back into the closet.
I hang up my uniform. “I’m still mad at you. I should have won that bet.”
He pulls out a tray of cookies. “Eggnog-chocolate-chip peace offering?”
“Follow me.” I take him out back, where a rusting ladder is bolted to the side of the building. We climb up to the diner’s flat roof. I show Ben where to step to avoid tripping on the peeling tarpaper as we make our way toward the two lawn chairs that Candy and I hauled up years ago. She hasn’t been here with me in ages.
The last time I climbed up was Christmas Eve. My mom and Rick took an extra night shift for overtime. We “celebrated” early, but sitting by myself in Rick’s duplex was too depressing. So I came here, alone, and glared at the junky buildings around me, hating Christmas and Christmas.
The night is cold. Our breath fogs out in front of us. During the day it’s warm enough, but at night the desert temperature drops. We sit, and Ben passes me a cookie. It’s obscenely good. Warm, bright bursts of chocolate, with the creamy comfort of eggnog.
“Show-off.” I elbow him in the ribs. I keep finding excuses to touch him.
I need to stop that.
I lean back, looking up at the sky. That’s the one benefit to living in a census-designated place. The stars don’t have any light to compete with.
“Everyone had to help at my juvie center,” Ben says, without preamble. “Laundry, cleaning, kitchen duty. I’d never cooked anything before, but I had a knack for it, and, before long, they put me on permanent kitchen rotation. The staff was great—they want the kids to get better and have good lives—so they let me play around. I loved it. I’ve never felt anything so right as I did when I was making food for other people.”
I shiver deeper into my jacket. “How do you guess what people want to eat?”
He looks at me sideways, eyes hooded. “What do you mean?”
“The woman with the macaroni that first day—no one even took her order. Don’t think I forgot. Angel and the random Mexican food. And this weekend, that horrible green Jell-O with whipped cream, pineapple, and shredded carrots no one in their right mind would ever order, but that you made special for Lorna. She cried. You made Lorna cry with Jell-O. None of this is normal, Ben.”
He shifts uncomfortably. “You’ll think I’m crazy.”
“You willingly moved to Christmas, California, to work in our dump of a diner. I already think you’re crazy.”
“Fair enough. I figured it out while I was in juvie. Kind of like … a sixth sense? For what would make someone happy to eat. I see someone and I just sort of know.”
“So you’re a food psychic.”
He cringes, his friendly face shifting into something defensive, shielded. I don’t like that look on him, so I hurry on. “My mom’s aunt could tell every disease or health problem someone had by looking at their eyes. I kid you not. She had a perfect track record.”
“Really?”
“We lived with her for a while in Los Angeles when I was little. People were constantly dropping by to have her diagnose them. So. Having a food sense seems way more pleasant than her eyeball trick.”
He relaxes, more at ease now that I haven’t dismissed him. “I think if you can find the right food
to connect yourself to a happier time, or a happier version of yourself, it can help you remember. Help you get back to who you were when you were happy. It can change everything. For example, when did you start liking me?”
I stammer, grasping for some response other than The moment I saw your face. Is it that obvious?
Ben answers for me. “When I made you the gingerbread cookies. That’s when you decided to be my friend.”
“Right! Exactly. Yes, gingerbread.”
He gives me a look that makes me think maybe he was saying more. Maybe he wants me to. But I don’t know what to say, so he turns away again. “I like using something I’m good at to help other people. Even if it’s something silly like cooking.”
“That’s not silly. You know what you love, and you’re good at it. I wish I had something like that.” The moment stretches between us, too honest, and that sore-muscle feeling wells up in my heart again. I clear my throat. “Besides, as long as you keep making cookies, I don’t care if it’s magic or not.”
He balances a cookie on the tips of his long fingers. His ring finger is bent at an odd angle. Like his nose, it’s a testament of broken bones in his past. “If you were a food, you’d be a gingerbread cookie. Spicy enough to keep life interesting, but with just enough sweetness to balance it out.”
I laugh. “I’m not sweet.”
“You gave your tips to Candy.”
I dig my shoe under a strip of tarpaper. I don’t want to talk about her, so I say, “What would you be if you were a food? No, better! What food would you use your sixth sense to feed yourself?”
He puts a hand on the edge of his chair, holding it palm up, almost as an offering. It would be so easy to slip mine into his. I nearly do, but … it’d be an anchor. I can’t be anchored.
“I haven’t found it yet.” He flexes his long fingers, opening his hand even more. “I like it here. I’m renting a room for almost nothing, so I save what I earn. And small towns are cozy. Familiar. You can slip into other people’s routines, become a part of them. I’m staying here until I have enough money saved for culinary school.”
“I’m getting out of here as fast as I possibly can,” I blurt.
His fingers curl up. “Why?”
“Why not? There’s nothing for me.”
My True Love Gave To Me: Twelve Holiday Stories Page 26
