“Not Latin after all?”
“No. Not Italian, Portuguese or Romanian either.”
“We need to keep looking for a translation.”
“Yeah. What with all the words looking like French or Spanish, I thought I was onto something trying Italian.”
“Hey—Italy—that reminds me. Gwyn says you make great pizza and asked if you could make it tomorrow? For the biology paper study session?”
“I’d forgotten that was tomorrow. Sure. It will be a good bribe to get Mick to help us on the research.”
“Your sister loves pizza?”
“Mick’s been on me about how she’s got all these tomatoes that need to be used up, but I don’t like making sauce in the cabin in this weather. However,” he grinned hugely, “seeing as you have air–conditioning, that won’t be an issue.”
“How’d you learn? To make pizza?”
“School.”
“Really?”
“I attended an alternative school. We had to volunteer a couple hours a week. I got good at pizza. I even got jobs catering because of my wicked crust.”
“I wish you’d open a pizza place in Las Abs. You should advertise your talent.”
Will shrugged. “Last year I was already a geek with being small and being a new kid. You throw in cooking and I don’t think I could have survived the teasing.”
I smiled. “So now that you’re all buff you can admit to being an iron chef, huh?”
He flushed. “And this would be why I keep a lid on it.”
“I think it’s cool you can cook. Seriously cool.”
It was time to take off for practice, but neither of us wanted to be the one to say, “Let’s go.” Instead, we spent a few minutes more drinking in the cool of the morning, watching hawks circle over the canyon.
Finally Will stood up, smiling at me. “You’re going to love my pizza!”
Yeah.
Because I so needed things to love about Will.
Excerpted from the private journal of Girard L’Inferne, approx. 1943
The hungry boy sits upon his cot, his back to the corner, waiting for whatever might appear from behind the sealed door. Night approaches. Soon the meager light leaking into the room will be gone. He is not afraid, exactly; his emotions run more towards anger, or at times, desire. He knows he can endure more pain than any of the other children, and that without crying. This gives him a sense of his own superiority which serves to feed him when food is scarce. He does not mind being placed apart from the others; he despises them. There is only one person whom the hungry boy does not despise.
If he could order the world according to his liking, I would remain at his side, perhaps an advisor, maybe a servant. Amusing, the things he whispers into the dark when he thinks himself alone.
The door opens and the boy rouses himself, ready to fight or run.
“Hansi,” I whisper. I carry a single candle—more than enough light for the boy to see and recognize me and the food I bring.
“I’m sorry it’s been so long,” I tell him. “I haven’t been able to get away until now. Here.” I hand a basket to the boy, pulling back the cloth covering the food. “My lunch and dinner. I do not need it as much as you, my young one.”
The boy twists his mouth into something of a smile, with nothing of friendliness in it. “I knew you would come,” he says as he chews through a large mouthful. “You come every tenth day.”
“Do I, indeed?” My visits are, in fact, spaced in ten day intervals. This is the first time a secluded child has noticed. Hans is special. Intelligent, brave, a leader. “I wish I could do more for you. I don’t need half the food I am given, but most days, it would be noted if I tried to steal away with it.” He does not recognize that I lie. He has no idea of my pre–eminence in this laboratory.
“You are like me,” says the boy. “I can go hungry without complaint as well. That’s why you bring food to me, isn’t it? Because I am so much better than the other schwein.”
I cannot help smiling. “You are special. But you must never mention me to the other children. One word from any of them to my superiors, and that would be the end of the meals I bring for you.”
“I can keep secrets,” says the boy.
“Some day, perhaps, I can do more for you,” I say, clapping the boy’s shoulder.
The boy smiles. He is not capable of giving love—of that I have made sure, but he can feel its cousin, gratitude. His burden of indebtedness grows great, indeed.
–translation by G. Pfeffer
Chapter Twelve
PIZZA AND PANNING
On Saturday morning, Will and Mickie showed up at my house an hour ahead of Gwyn, who was gathering gold panning pledges for the event on Monday.
Will carried a heavy–looking box of tools and ingredients, setting them on the kitchen stand. “Can Mickie use your high–speed to play around on Google Earth?”
Mickie carried in a tub of very ripe tomatoes. “I want to confirm the red dots mean hot springs, but our internet’s been down.”
“Back this way.” As if I minded spending time alone with Will. By the time I’d gotten Mickie connected on Sylvia’s computer, Will had already started in on the tomatoes, peeling and seeding them.
“Making a salad?” I asked, planting myself on a barstool across from Will and the tomato pile.
“We are making the world’s best pizza sauce. Do you know how to mince?”
“What, like with a knife?”
“Yeah.”
“No.”
“How about peeling carrots?” He rolled one my direction. “And garlic.”
I knew how to peel a carrot. “Garlic makes sense for pizza sauce, but why the carrot?”
“It tones down acidity. You mince it so fine you can’t even see it in the sauce.”
“You mean you mince it,” I said, passing him a peeled carrot.
“Come over here,” he said. As I walked around the island to him, he sliced the carrot in half lengthwise and placed the halves flat–side–down on the cutting board. “Mincing is a simple action. Here.” He placed his hand over the top of mine, showing me how to curl my fingers under so I wouldn’t accidentally cut off my fingertips. Then he showed me how to rock the blade, keeping the tip anchored to the board as we knifed through the carrots. It was awkward to do this side by side.
“Hang on,” he said.
He moved behind me to bring an arm around me on either side. Warmth hummed between our bodies, and I shivered as he closed in, reaching once more for my hand over the knife.
I let it slip at exactly the wrong moment. Staring stupidly, I watched a blossom of red spreading across Will’s knuckles just as Mickie wandered in.
“Oops,” said Will, noticing the cut.
“That’s what you get for moving in on a girl’s personal space like that,” Mickie muttered as she grabbed a paper towel, pressing it on her brother’s hand. “You got Band–Aids?”
“Yeah,” I said. “I’ll be right back.” I slipped away from Will’s arms and raced upstairs to my bathroom. “Idiot, idiot, idiot,” I whispered as I grabbed polysporin and Band–Aids, and then sprinted back down to the kitchen.
“I’m so sorry,” I said, handing the box to Will. “Does it hurt badly?”
“Can’t even feel it,” he said, smiling.
Mickie gathered up the bits of Band–Aid wrappings and paper towel, grunting, “Trashcan?”
“In the pantry,” I said, pointing to the far side of the room.
“Didn’t mean to cross any lines, there,” Will murmured, too low for Mickie to hear.
I stared, wanting to communicate he shouldn’t be embarrassed, that he didn’t need to say anything. That if he would fall in love with me, he wouldn’t have to worry about crossing lines.
Of course I couldn’t say any of that.
“Where’s the oregano?” Will asked his sister. He threw the minced carrots and all of the tomatoes into a sturdy looking pot on the front burner.
“You didn’t say oregano,” she replied.
“I specifically said we needed oregano.”
“You said basil.”
“And oregano.”
I jumped in. “I think Sylvia grows it in the herb bed if you need fresh.”
They looked at me as if suddenly remembering I was in the room, and Will guffawed.
“I don’t exactly know what it looks like,” I admitted. “And Syl’s out this morning.”
“I’ll go,” Mickie said, a peace–making gesture.
Will passed a basil plant to me, picking up where we’d left off like nothing awkward had happened. “Chop some basil,” he said.
I winced at the word “chop,” but he passed me a pair of kitchen shears. “Snip the leaves in this bowl over and over ‘til they’re super–tiny.”
“Yes, Chef. Right away, Chef.” I grinned.
He threw a potholder at me, then minced the garlic and tossed it in oil.
“So you catered for people—making pizza?” I asked.
“Graduation parties, a bat–mitzvah, a fundraiser for a deaf parenting organization. That one was messy,” he laughed, “me trying to cook and sign—there’s like, cheese and sauce flying everywhere.”
“You sign?” I asked.
Mickie re–entered with a fragrant handful of oregano stems.
“Yeah, some.”
“He’s fluent,” said Mickie. “Plus he had two years of Spanish, right mi hermoso? So he can spout like an idiot in three languages.”
“Tri–lingual? No wonder you’re so good at French.”
“Not as good as you,” he shrugged. “But I like words. Got that from my mom. She was learning to sign so she could interpret in classrooms. She would come home from her lessons, and she’d teach me because it made her learn better.”
“Your step–mom’s garden is amazing,” said Mickie. “I need her to tell me how to grow berries in this climate. Mine didn’t make it through the winter.”
“Sylvia can talk berries with you all day,” I said, grinning. “By the way, thanks for sharing your garden tomatoes—I hope you’re not using them all up today.”
Will barked out a laugh.
“There’s way too many for us this year,” Mickie said. “Plus, now I get to enjoy some of my little brother’s fresh tomato sauce. He won’t make it when it’s just us. This is a major honor he’s bestowing here.”
I looked at Will, who was busy dumping basil into the sauce. I thought I saw his face redden.
“Will’s not actually letting you help, is he? He doesn’t let anyone near him in the kitchen, usually.”
A smile spread across my face.
Will’s mouth turned up slightly at the corners. “I don’t let you anywhere near me in the kitchen, Mick.”
“Can you come stir, Sam?” Will asked. “I need to rescue the garlic.”
I grabbed the bamboo spoon, buttery–smooth against my palm and warm from where he’d held it. Will added slivers of nutty–bright–scented garlic. My stomach growled.
He gestured for me to hand him the stirring spoon, and our fingers tangled as I passed it. He grinned at me and blew on the sauce, then put his lips to the spoon and sucked in a teeny taste.
“Try this.” He guided the spoon carefully to my mouth. “Blow on it first,” he cautioned.
I blew, but not gently enough, and sauce pushed across onto his fingers. I giggled and then tried a taste from the spoon.
“What do you think?” Will asked.
I watched as he licked the sauce off his fingers. “Intoxicating.” I felt my skin warming. “You missed some.” I tapped the side of my mouth to demonstrate where.
He tongue moved alongside his mouth.
I swallowed. “Wrong side.” I pointed again, touched his face.
“You missed some too, unless you’re saving that for later.” Will gently swiped around my mouth. I blushed five shades of red and turned away as the doorbell rang.
Gwyn.
Will turned to grab the dough and I let Gwyn inside.
“Omigod!” she said. “It smells like I’ve died and gone to pizza–heaven.” She flopped dramatically into a barstool on my side of the kitchen island. “Well, I think I’ve visited every business in greater Las Abuelitas, and I’m up to two–hundred and five bucks an hour. With numbers like that, who cares if I find gold?”
“Wow.” I seriously hoped she wouldn’t ask where my pledge total stood at the moment. I’d been meaning to call my grandma and hit up my folks. I just hadn’t done it yet.
Gwyn pulled a stack of papers from her purse and set them on the counter. “Possible additions to our research.”
Mickie glanced over Gwyn’s printouts. She pointed to two of them, “You’ll never find enough on these …”
I stood up to let Mickie take my place where she could examine the topics more easily. Staring outside, I crossed to the sliding glass door; the Panning for Felines event was the day after tomorrow, and I still didn’t feel confident that I could spend the whole day at the creek without rippling. My gut knotted. What if I failed? There’d be camera–men from Oakhurst, followed by helicopters from Fresno, followed by the National Guard, and ending with me being kidnapped or killed. My heart hammered.
I needed to calm down.
I watched sunlight flickering upon our swimming pool. I took some deep breaths. From a few feet behind me, I heard my friends murmuring over our biology paper. I began to calm, looking at the water. The pool looked so inviting. I should have told everyone to bring swim stuff.
“Where’s Sam?” asked Gwyn, interrupting my reverie.
I turned back towards my friends, pasted on a smile and began to move back towards the kitchen island. At which point I realized I was no longer solid; gliding invisibly felt entirely different from walking on the ground.
Crap. I can’t even stay solid at my own house for five minutes.
How would I manage a day at Bella Fria creek? Will shot Mickie a meaning–filled glance. They knew what I’d done. I needed to go somewhere so that I could ripple back solid without Gwyn seeing it. I ghosted through the sliding glass door—delicious—and passed out of sight around the side of the house. After rematerializing, I flicked the waterfall switch—an excuse for having stepped out—then ran back to the sliding glass door and let myself in.
“Where’d you go?” Gwyn asked.
“I wanted to see if Dad got the waterfall fixed,” I said.
“Focus, Sam, focus,” said Gwyn. “Biology? What do you think of this for our final topic: Designer Babies: How Far is Too Far?”
“Uh, great,” I said, splashing some cool water on my face. I returned to the kitchen island and rifled through the print–outs Gwyn had brought with her. One of them caught my eye and I skimmed through it.
It was disturbing.
“Sam?” asked Will. “You okay? You look a little pale.”
I turned to Gwyn. “Did you read this one?”
“Girlfriend, I haven’t read anything. Ma’s been on my butt all week about the damned cat fundraiser.”
“What’s it say?” asked Will.
“It says that there was a state that sterilized tens of thousands of people involuntarily in the twentieth century. Any guesses which one?” I asked.
“Duh, Sam, Nazi Germany,” said Gwyn.
“California,” I said. “If you suffered from chronic depression, or had Autism, or if you were a lesbian, you could be locked up and sterilized without your consent as being unfit to reproduce.”
“That’s true,” said Mickie.
“That’s awful!” said Gwyn.
“Also true,” said Mickie. “California was the perfect state for the idea of Eugenics to take hold. Farmers were making incredible discoveries in the twentieth century—breeding and cross–breeding that revolutionized crop yields. That same reasoning led the state of California to conclude it was justified in allowing the incarceration and involuntary sterilization of over thirty–thousand people.”
>
I scanned through the rest of the article. “This says that during the Nuremberg Trials, Nazi officials who practiced their version of Eugenics cited the origin of the practice in the United States of America as a justification for what they had done.”
“Wow, Sam, do you know how to pick a research topic or what?” asked Gwyn.
The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur. The article on Eugenics was troubling, but it wasn’t immediate. I had other things to worry about. Like my inability to control my body. Like the fact that there was no way I could do the panning event and guarantee I’d stay solid. And how there was no way I could explain to Gwyn why I couldn’t do the event.
***
The following morning arrived and the sky was gray and ominous, thunder rattling in the distance. I dreaded having to tell Gwyn I couldn’t go panning at Bella Fria Creek, but the event was tomorrow, Labor Day. So I had to tell her today. I dug through my sock drawer and found one–hundred–sixty–five dollars: a twenty–dollar–an–hour pledge. As though I could buy forgiveness.
Rain splattered against my window, the first storm of the season, and I pulled on sweats and a hoodie. Following the storm east towards the Sierra, I biked to Gwyn’s, wallet bulging with my guilt offering. After parking my bike in front of the café, I walked around back and rang the buzzer.
Gwyn thumped down the stairs and opened the door. “Hey, Sam. Geez, you’re soaked. I haven’t had a minute to shower with this damn cat–a–thon. I should just step outside, huh?” She held her hand out in the rain for a moment, then withdrew it, climbing the stairs ahead of me. “There’s a zillion details, and of course Ma can’t do any of it that involves computers. How’s your pledge sheet looking?”
I hesitated. My mouth felt stuck shut like I’d filled it with crazy–glue. I took a deep breath. “I can’t do it.”
“Huh?”
“Gold panning.”
“What? Sam, what do you mean you can’t do it? Did something else come up?”
I crossed to look out the window down over the cat houses. I didn’t want to lie to her. “No,” I said at last. “I just … can’t.”
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