The Art of French Kissing

by Brianna Shrum

  I’m wrapping ingredients, arranging them on the plates, drizzling reductions in perfect patterns, and I have enough extra time to make up more than four. I wind up with six completed plates when time is called, and the prettiest four are set up front. I cut a glance over at Reid’s. He looks relaxed, like he can breathe. Hands in the pockets of his apron and slouching a little. He’s still kind of a wreck, covered in purple sauce and flour and who knows what else, but that easy expression is back on his face, in the rest of his muscles. I have no idea what on earth his dish is, but there’s some kind of green vegetable, zucchini probably, that’s all thin like a noodle and curling up around some kind of red meat in a sauce, and suddenly I am mad.

  He had twenty minutes, and he made that.

  I glance down at my dishes, which seem inadequate now. Not because they suck, but because I’m hearing Reid Yamada made this in twenty minutes! With a box of scraps! And his is so beautiful it’s like my covert ops last night did nothing at all.

  He catches my eye from across the kitchen and winks at me. I feel it in my toes.

  I face forward, and we present our dishes to the judges, one by one. After we go down the line, we are dismissed, because of the infuriating rule that says until the competitor numbers sink, we can’t be judged then and there personally.

  After we are free to leave, I pick up one of my little duck creations on a spare plate and eat it. So much tender loving care, so much good butter and wine spent, it feels like a crime to let it all go to waste. I shut my eyes for a second and the crisp duck skin, the velvet bitter-sweet of the wine, that hint of saffron, a little basil, takes me over. I love this moment. I love food.

  Food like this. That I never, ever get to indulge in at home except through a television screen, and every great once in a while, when my home-ec teacher lets me go nuts in the kitchen.

  “Proud of yourself?” says Reid when he passes me.

  “Yes, I am,” I say. The kitchen is still a whir of activity and everyone leaving, so I can get away with this, I think. With this conversation and eating my own food.

  “Is that duck?” he says, and it’s like he’s not even mad. He’s . . . chipper, even.

  “It is.”

  “Can I try one?”

  I’m so taken aback by his use of human manners that I say, “Go for it.”

  Why aren’t you furious at me? Halfway to murder? What is happening?

  He pops one in his mouth and I can see that instant change in his face that says it’s good—a flash of a look that people can’t fake. Then he schools his expression into a warm neutral.

  “Well?” I say. The room is clearing out so I move for the door.

  Reid says, smiling, “Not bad.” Then he winks at me again and leaves.

  Riya is waiting for me outside the kitchen, frowning at Reid when he passes her. “He’s going to get eliminated.”

  “I don’t know.” It comes out sounding completely robotic. Like I am an actual android tasked with never displaying human emotion, even under duress.

  Riya furrows her brow. “He completely wrecked his team’s dessert and then he gets shown mercy and shows up forty minutes late to a challenge this morning? Honestly, why is he even here if he doesn’t care about it?”

  I shrug, swallow hard. “I’m sure he cares about it.”

  “I thought we hated Reid Yamada.”

  I scrape my teeth over my lip. “We do,” I say, and we walk back toward the dorm.

  It’s like seven p.m., just after dinner, when I hear voices coming from the other side of the common room. One of them is sharp and feminine, and the other is definitely Reid’s.

  I am walking in the opposite direction, toward my bedroom. I have an epic night of Netflix and literally nothing else at all planned and I have been looking forward to it all day, but that sharp voice is going all in, and I think I hear Reid stuttering. I have to turn around.

  I’m quiet, walking through the common room, feet padding softly on the ancient-looking rug on the floor, and I stop by the fireplace. It’s lit, like I think it always is, and the light crackles will camouflage the sound of my breathing, I think. I shrink against the wall just outside the hall.

  “It’s unacceptable, Mr. Yamada.”

  “I know, I—”

  “Do you?” It’s Dr. Lavell. I recognize her voice now. “Do you understand how exactly you’re coming off here? After the disaster the first week—”

  “I swear that was not my fault. I—”

  “Do not interrupt me, Mr. Yamada.”

  There’s this charged silence. Then a quiet, legitimately humble, “Yes ma’am.”

  “After the disaster the first week, we thought you would take this seriously. As seriously as someone who’s been given a second chance in a program where even the first was a significant privilege. But showing up halfway through a challenge like that is a serious problem. It shows a lack of discipline, of dedication, of passion, and I am nearly inclined to send you packing right now.”

  “Dr. Lavell, please.” His voice cracks and there is that throat-crushing guilt again. This is not as fun a game as I had thought it would be, maybe. Stupid conscience, ruining everything. “I swear I want this more than anything.”

  “Do you?” Her voice is Alan Rickman–level nonplussed.

  “It was my alarm, and I know that’s a bullsh—terrible excuse. I know. I’m an idiot and I should have double-checked a.m. or p.m.. Trust me when I say I have spent the last fourteen hours doing nothing but regret this. But I want this so bad I can taste it. And I’m a good chef, I know I’m a good chef. And I’m so, so sorry. I swear if you give me another chance, I’ll prove it to you.”

  His voice is so sincere, and I am digging my fingers into the wall, clenching my jaw until it hurts.

  I hear her answer as they’re leaving the hall, and my only hope of avoiding detection is to shrink back into this wall until I disappear. She says, “Very well. But one more misstep and I will throw you out of this program so fast your head will spin, young man.”

  “Yes ma’am. Thank you, ma’am.”

  Dr. Lavell doesn’t see me. I’m breaking into a cold sweat hoping Reid won’t either when he says, without looking at me, “Hey, trouble.”

  “Who, me?” I say, stepping out of the corner and smirking with a confidence I absolutely do not feel.

  Reid does this almost-laugh and looks over at me, scratching his chest. “I’m so screwed,” he says. His voice is thin and drawn and frustrated. Sad, almost, which makes me wildly uncomfortable.

  “So I heard.”

  “Your mother never taught you not to eavesdrop?” He faces me finally, raising his eyebrow.

  “I’m sure she did.”

  “Rebel scum,” he says, and I laugh.

  There’s this feeling in my chest, light, like there are little bubbles in it, like I’m going to just lift off the floor, while at the same time I want to burrow down into its depths.

  “This one isn’t even your fault. The irony.” He furrows his brow. “It’s not really ironic, I guess. Just bullshit. Ha.”

  A sweat breaks out at my hairline. “Yep. Ha. Not ironic, though, that’s an improper use of that word, but you know. Mistakes. And all.” Stop babbling, oh god, stop.

  He narrows his eyes. “You okay there?”

  “Me? Fine.”

  “You’re looking a little . . .”

  “Tired?”

  “Nervous,” he says. His voice rings with finality and something zings in my throat. He takes a step toward me and I would step backward except I’m already standing in the corner, and there is nowhere for me to go. I cross my arms over my chest.

  “I don’t know where you’re getting that,” I say. It’s hard to swallow.

  “I set two alarms for today,” he says. “My phone and my actual clock.”

  I shrug.

  “Holy shit,” he says. He takes another step forward, and I can see the vein pulsing in his neck, the set of his jaw. He looks me up and do
wn, appraising. Evaluating. Then comes to his conclusion. “It was you?”

  When he inhales, his chest expands, and we’re standing so close, I’m surprised it doesn’t brush against my arms. I breathe.

  I’m not actually scared of him, there’s nothing about him that really freaks me out. But I am scared of getting caught. Because, dammit, I crossed a line. There was a line that neither of us had talked about and I knew I was crossing it while I was doing it, and . . . shit. Shit shit.

  “Back off,” I say.

  He immediately puts his hands in the air and takes a step back. I could leave if I wanted.

  “Say it,” he says, hands still in the air.

  I meet his eyes, and now I’m defiant. That’s the only thing I can feel, even though what he is accusing me of is entirely true. “Say what?” I speak spite, I think, more fluently than English.

  “Carter. Admit that you did it.”

  “I don’t—”

  “Carter—Jesus. Just—”

  “Fine!” I say, and my voice is louder than I thought it would be. “I did.”

  He drops his hands. “You snuck into my room? You were in my room.”

  “Listen—”

  “No. You listen. Every person here knows that would be bullshit. Going into my room without my permission, going through my cell phone, like, in what world is that okay?”

  “You started this, Reid.”

  His voice slices like a knife when he says, “Okay, then FINISH IT.”

  I blink.

  “I almost got kicked out of the program, do you get that?” He looks up at the ceiling, blows out a breath. “I. Am. Sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I screwed you over that first day; how many fucking times do I need to say it? IIII. AAMMM. SORRRRRYYYY.”

  Shame is burning me up from the inside, curling my stomach like paper on fire.

  “I told you I would get you back.”

  “Yeah, but I didn’t think it would mean you going through my shit, Carter. That’s not a proportional response to me switching out cream of tartar for white vinegar powder.”

  “That’s the nature of revenge.”

  He looks down at me, backs up a couple steps. “Okay.”

  I frown. “Okay?”

  “Yeah,” he says. He shrugs and looks over my shoulder at the wall instead of me. Then he just says, “Have a good rest of your day.” And leaves.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  One from each team goes home after the tiny plate challenge. Reid is in the bottom four again, but everyone knows it was the lateness that did it, and he must be an incredible chef because whatever he is making keeps pulling him through, even though the judges obviously want to send him home.

  There are sixteen of us left, eight on each team, and tonight everyone is hanging out just off campus, by the actual river. It’s this roaring thing, not at all like the creek, and if this was not a teacher-sanctioned event, I would be very concerned there would be alcohol, which would prompt me to be very concerned that someone would fall into the river and never be heard from again.

  But the program heads are here, and even they are all just having soda. There’s food laid out on the table—not gourmet food. Hot dogs and southern potato salad, and like three different types of barbeque. I didn’t even know there were three different types of barbeque. It’s refreshing, honestly.

  Everyone is just . . . relaxed. Addie is flirting with this cute freckled girl in pigtails, and cute freckled girl is laughing pretty hard, which is probably a good sign.

  Will keeps acting like he’s going to jump in the river, which keeps prompting Riya to scream, to which he responds, “Riya, this is a classy event. Please try to keep your voice down.” At one point, she tries to hit him for it and he catches her by the wrist and smiles, and she blushes so hard I think she might need to be thrown into the river to cool down.

  They are so obviously “just friends” that it’s painful.

  “I’m trying to keep you alive, William.”

  He doesn’t let go of her wrist. “Dooooon’t.”

  She drops her hand slowly, and it looks intentional. Like if she goes slow enough, he won’t have an excuse to let go. He doesn’t. “Don’t what?”

  “William is the worst name.”

  “I heard that!” yells some kid whose name actually is William (Will’s is not) and they both jump, and Will drops her wrist immediately.

  “Eavesdropping again,” says Reid in my ear, and then I jump harder than either Riya or Will did. We haven’t spoken in two days. Since he left me standing there alone in the common room, choking on guilt. He tsks and I roll my eyes.

  “It’s not eavesdropping if everyone can hear it.”

  “Oh, is that the rule?”

  “What do you want?” I say.

  “To accept your apology.”

  My mouth actually falls open and I turn to face him. “What did you say?”

  “You know what I said.”

  I scoff. “Lord, you’re intolerable.”

  “Let’s have it, plum cake.”

  I roll my eyes. “Plum cake. You are reaching, my friend.”

  “Not until you apologize.”

  “What?”

  “You can call me friend,” he says, biting into an apple—a Red Delicious, which is just objectively a terrible choice, “after you apologize. Also it’s not reaching; your hair is purple.”

  I fold my arms over my chest again, which is not a gesture I usually make that often but I find myself doing a lot of it lately. Reid, the common denominator. “It’s reaching because it’s not a nickname.”

  “Well.” He smiles and my heart flip-flops. Curse it! “It is now.”

  He starts off toward the riverbank, and I grab a sweet tea that lives up to its name, and I guess I follow him.

  The sun is starting to fall, and back in Montana that would mean putting on a jacket no matter what season it was, but in Savannah, it just means it gets darker. I’m out here in shorts and a little red tank top and I’m not even beginning to feel cold. It’s warm and humid, moisture all in my skin and in my mouth when I breathe.

  The crickets are out, too, but they’re hard to hear over the river. Reid sits right there on the wet grass and I sit, too, and pick up a rock and toss it down to the flowing water below. It’s farther off than it looks, and my rock hits dirt. Reid picks one up, too. His makes it. But barely.

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  He looks over at me, and I pick up a heavy rock from my left, then hurl it as hard as I can. It lands with a splash farther out than his did.

  “Bravo,” he says. Then he watches the water.

  “I took it too far, okay?” I can’t look at him because even here, just sitting throwing rocks into a river, he makes my blood boil. I still get mad that he started all of this for legitimately no reason, whether or not my retribution has been arguably a lot worse. And I don’t want to see the satisfaction on his face when he gets this apology, but I have to give it. Because it sucks that he’s not wrong . . . but he’s not wrong. “I should have . . . I shouldn’t have gone into your room without your permission.”

  “As though there is a scenario in which I would have given it,” he says.

  I can’t tell if he’s smiling but I don’t look to see. If I take my eyes off the river, I won’t get this apology out. I’m choking on it as it is. “I’m not sorry I screwed you over. I’m sorry about how I did it though.”

  It’s quiet for so long that I have to turn and look at him.

  He’s looking at me. Like he’s contemplating. “Okay,” he says.

  “Okay, what?”

  “I said I came here to accept your apology, short stuff, and that is what I am doing.”

  “Okay,” I say.

  I look back over his shoulder and see Riya glancing our way. Will and Addie look over here, too, and I’m about to get up and leave to shut down the chance of any kind of weird speculation that I am not here for when Reid says, “Just so we’re clear, I still hate
you a lot.”

  I’m so surprised by it that I actually snort-laugh. He just raises his eyebrows and I say, “Well. The sentiment is mutual.” He’s rolling another little rock around in his fingers, not saying much, so I say, “In fact, I usually fall asleep thinking about punching you in the face.”

  He looks at me out of the corner of his eye and makes a (pretty impressive) throw. “How convenient. As I wake up thinking about wrapping my hands around your throat.” He side-eyes me, deadpan. “Not hard enough to actually kill you.”

  “Thank you for your restraint.”

  “Well, I’m not a monster.”

  The fireflies are coming out now, lighting up the grass. Under any other circumstance, it would be unbearably romantic. I am doubly annoyed now.

  Reid stands, brushes off his pants, and doesn’t help me up, which is good because I would have spat on his hand. I stand and say, “I’ve considered just suffocating you with your pillow, Reid.”

  He says, “How rude. At least pick a quick or creative murder method. I can’t abide one that’s neither.”

  “You really are insufferable.”

  We are walking back to the picnic now. “Thank you. That means a lot coming from you. Moriarty to my Sherlock.”

  “I mean it sincerely. Brutus to my Caesar.”

  He laughs. “High-brow. Vader to my Skywalker.”

  “Technically, Vader is a Skywalker.”

  “Ugh, spoilers,” he says.

  “You are the Zuko to my Katara.”

  He stops, raises an eyebrow. “Oh? Well. That changes the dynamic, doesn’t it?”

  My mouth clamps shut of its own volition. “I always shipped Katara and Aang.” (It’s a lie. No one ships Katara and Aang. Zuko and Katara are the greatest rivals to what should have been lovers of all time.)

  He narrows his eyes. “That. Is bullshit.”

  I stand my ground.

  He just kind of laughs, then turns around. Ostensibly to head back toward the barbecue.

  “So this hatchet,” I say, and he looks back at me over his shoulder. “We calling it buried? Or?”