What part of ‘never again’ didn’t she understand? ‘Mom, I wouldn’t serve Nani and Nana pork.’ I’m cursed enough without bringing the wrath of God into it.
Reaching for her trusty bottle of bleach, Mom prepares to purify. ‘Saliyah. Keep your grandparents busy in the garden till I can clean up. Tip over another begonia if you have to.’
My sister turns from the fridge. There’s a ring of chocolate around her mouth and two strawberries husks in the palm of her hand. Grinning at me, she grabs another strawberry and heads for the door.
Mom lights a homemade vanilla-and-bergamot candle to mask the scent of sin. Then she pulls on industrial rubber gloves and rinses pots and cutlery before stacking them in the dishwasher.
An expert in forensic cookery, she opens cupboards one by one to take inventory, wiping each item I touched. She checks the fridge, the recycling bin, and the garbage pail before announcing her conclusion. ‘You’re cooking dinner for Rico.’
‘I’m cooking for Dad.’ It’s not a total lie. He’ll get the leftovers.
She crosses her arms, rubber gloves and all. ‘You used hot pepper flakes and chilies. But you hate spicy food, and so does your father.’
‘Dad’s changed since you kicked him out.’ Again, not a total lie. ‘Now he brings home curry a lot. I guess it reminds him of home.’
‘I did not kick him out,’ she says. ‘It takes two people to make or break a marriage.’
‘Fine. I’m just saying he’s lonely.’ I taste the tomato sauce and make a show of putting the spoon back into the pot.
Mom shudders. ‘Use a fresh spoon.’
‘The germs will boil off,’ I say. ‘It needs more basil.’
Naturally, Mom’s already put the basil away and washed the cutting board. I take them out again.
‘I thought your dad was in Chicago,’ she says.
Saliyah must be the weak link. My parents avoid communicating directly if they can, and I’m counting on that today. If Mom decides to confirm Dad’s plans, I’ll be setting another place for dinner.
‘He’ll be home early,’ I say. Early tomorrow, since his plane lands close to midnight. ‘And he wants to meet Rico.’
True again, although I’ve worked hard to keep that from happening. Dad dislikes any guy I bring home until they’re history, at which point he starts talking about how great the guy is.
‘I’m surprised you’re subjecting that boy to your father already,’ Mom says.
I stay focused on my priorities, specifically getting home in time to straighten my hair. ‘You’ve met Rico, so now Dad wants to.’
‘Bumping into you two making out in the Arboretum Mall parking lot hardly constitutes a meeting.’
‘It was just a kiss goodbye.’
‘Tonsils included,’ she says, putting the basil back in the fridge. ‘This Rico … is he treating you well?’
‘Mom.’ I test the sauce again and decide it needs another pinch of pepper. I might not like heat, but Rico loves it, and the dinner’s for him. ‘Rico’s a really nice guy.’
She’s scrubbing the cutting board hard enough to break a normal woman’s fingers. ‘You said he doesn’t always return your calls.’
Mom and I haven’t had one of our heart-to-hearts over chai tea since the day Dad and I moved out, yet she still manages to collect and catalogue information to use against me. She has too much time on her hands. I wish she’d get a job or something. ‘Rico’s a busy guy. He has a lot of interests.’
‘You’re sure?’
There’s only one way to get her off my case. Turning away from the stove, I let tomato sauce drip off the spoon in a wide arc onto her clean counter and the floor. ‘Yes, Mom, I’m sure my boyfriend is a nice guy.’
Happily, her need to sterilize outweighs her desire to follow up on the B-word. Because it’s not exactly official.
Yet.
The evening is going exactly as planned. The pasta is delicious. Rico is saying all the right things. I am saying all the right things. Even my hair cooperated. Rico pushed it aside to kiss my neck earlier, and it didn’t snag his hand like a Venus flytrap.
I worked hard to keep things completely casual. It was Rico who arrived with the single red rose that’s now standing on the table in a water glass, since we don’t have a vase. It was Rico who dimmed the lights as we sat down. And it was Rico who lit the only candle I had on hand – a fat, wax Santa Claus that Mom nearly sent the way of pork. Oliver James might not approve, but no one is running for the hills. The boyfriend-killing Cookie Curse appears to have been broken.
The conversation flows easily, about music and art and places we want to see someday. For once I manage not to rant about my parents and ask about his instead.
‘Just the usual,’ he says, helping himself to more pasta. There’s plenty left because it burnt the skin off my tongue. ‘Dad’s got a big court case and Mom’s still teaching yoga. But let’s talk about you.’
Rico’s phone buzzes again, for maybe the fifteenth time, and although he ignores it, I start to feel a bit insecure.
‘Did you want to get that?’ I fully expect him to say no, but he pulls the phone out of his pocket, checks his texts, and grins. ‘What’s so funny?’ I ask.
‘Nothing,’ he says. ‘Just a friend goofing around.’
His grin worries me. It’s the same one he gives me when I tease him about his cowlick. That grin is supposed to be just for me. ‘Which friend?’
‘Pete,’ he says, without a second’s hesitation. ‘The guys are checking out a band tonight and want to know if I’ll meet them there.’
‘You made plans for later?’ I try not to sound hurt, but I can’t help it. I slaved to make this night special, and Rico cutting out early was not on the agenda.
‘Of course not,’ he says, tapping at his phone. ‘I’m telling Pete to stop bugging me.’ He drops the phone in his pocket and reaches for my hand. I try to pull it away, but he quickly links his fingers through mine. ‘Did I mention that you’re the best cook I’ve ever met?’
It might be a line, but it’s one I like hearing. ‘You did mention that.’
He leans forward and gazes at me with eyes that look black in the dim light, but are really the most beautiful blue. ‘You’re going to be a famous chef someday,’ he says, with a dazzling smile. ‘But tell me this: if you plan on calling your show The Sweet Tooth, how come you’ve never baked for me?’
I lean forward in my seat, too. ‘Who says I haven’t?’
‘Oh, right.’ He runs his fingers lightly along my forearm until my skin tingles. ‘We haven’t gotten to dessert.’
Thank God I ignored the dissenting voice in my head and followed my instincts. There’s a tub of cookies sitting on the kitchen counter now – peanut butter with dark chocolate chunks. I managed to whip them up because Rico was nearly an hour late for dinner.
I think about getting them, but I don’t want to spoil the moment. He’s gazing and I’m gazing, and though it’s intense, I could definitely get used to it.
‘You have the most beautiful eyes,’ he says. ‘And you’re so talented.’
OK, he’s really laying it on thick now. He must feel bad about Pete’s calls.
‘You are,’ he insists, reading my expression. ‘I admire your commitment.’
That’s nice, but I was hoping he’d talk about another kind of commitment.
‘I have something for you.’ He reaches into the pocket of his coat draped over the back of his chair. ‘A hostess gift.’
I tear off the tissue and try not to look disappointed when I find a pot holder inside. A romance vacuum has opened under the table.
‘Turn it over,’ Rico says, grinning.
On the flip side is an adorable, long-lashed cartoon character in the shape of a molar. She’s wearing a pink gingham apron with a matching bow in her curly red hair, and holding a cupcake. Underneath are the words The Sweet Tooth.
‘I figured you’d need a logo,’ he says. ‘So I designed it and h
ad it printed.’
I was wrong – this is the most romantic gift ever, because it says he believes in me. It’s a grand statement. Today a pot holder, tomorrow a diamond. I can imagine us sitting this way when Rico’s hair is silvery in the candlelight. Hopefully, I’ll still be surprising him with my cooking. That never gets old.
‘You like?’ Rico prompts me.
I snap out of my trance and reach across the table for his hand. ‘I love.’
‘Good,’ Rico says. ‘Because there’s something I want to tell you.’
This is it! Our big moment. My heart is racing but I try to sound cool. ‘Yes?’
He leans so far forward that all I can see are teeth and eyes. ‘Zahra, I—’
The phone cuts him off. Mine, not his. It’s probably Mom, and if I don’t pick up, she’ll call the cops. Or Dad’s cell. Either way, I’ll be dead.
‘Hold that thought,’ I say, reaching for the phone. Rico does better than that. He continues to hold my hand as I say, ‘Oh, hi, Dad.’ Brightly. Casually. ‘Where are you? Oh. You caught an earlier flight.’ Rico lets go of my hand. ‘No, nothing’s wrong. I have leftovers for you. See you soon.’
Rico is already slipping his arms into his jacket when I hang up.
‘You don’t have to leave,’ I say. ‘He’s still a half hour away.’
Rico’s phone buzzes again, and he pulls it out of his pocket. ‘No worries. I should get going anyway.’
I trail after him to the door. ‘But you were about to tell me something.’
‘This weekend,’ he says. ‘We’ll go for a drive and talk.’ What felt so right now feels so wrong.
‘Wait,’ I say, heading into the kitchen to get the cookies. ‘At least take these.’
‘Thanks,’ he says, leaning down to kiss me.
With Rico’s lips on mine, and his hands in my hair, everything starts to feel right again – so right that we’re still kissing twenty minutes later when a key turns in the lock. We look up, stunned, as the door opens and light from the hall floods in.
Dad looks stunned, too. His eyes bulge as they drop from my face to Rico’s hand, which has migrated to the small of my back, under my T-shirt, then jump to my hand, which is in Rico’s back pocket. ‘Zahra, what is going on here?’
His eyes bounce up and almost pop out of his head as he looks over my shoulder.
I turn quickly to see flames licking across the dining room table.
‘My pot holder!’ I scream. ‘Oh, Rico!’
But when I turn back, Rico is gone.
Chapter Two
Dad didn’t need to wreck his suit jacket. The old blanket on the couch would have done a better job putting out the fire, and maybe saved the table, too. Besides, this whole situation could have been avoided if he’d tested the smoke alarm and let me equip the kitchen properly. All the cooking shows warn you to have a fire extinguisher on hand. Maybe Dad expects me to carry that back and forth from Mom’s, too.
Rico feels terrible about what happened. I wish he’d stuck around to help put out the fire, but while Dad and I were panicking, it was Rico who called 911 and waited downstairs until the fire trucks came. I guess he was scared of Dad, and I can’t blame him. But Dad didn’t say much that night. He just kept checking and rechecking the dining room to make sure the fire was really out.
The ax fell the next day. I expected grounding. I expected withdrawal of e-privileges. I even expected Dad to send me back to Mom’s for round-the-clock supervision.
I did not expect to end up in group therapy. Yet that’s where I am only three days later, sitting on a folding chair in a church basement with three other girls and two guys. My parents, who took years to decide to split, managed to make this decision overnight so I could enroll in the fall session. They even sat in the same room for ten minutes to break the news that I’ll be attending every Thursday after school. Apparently it’s not ‘real therapy,’ just a support group for teens who have ‘families in transition.’ In other words, we’re not crazy, we just have crappy parents.
They claimed it’s not a punishment for the ‘Rico incident,’ but it sure feels like one. I should have told the whole truth and nothing but the truth (and kept an eye on the candle), but is it so wrong to want a little romance in my life? I guess it is, or I wouldn’t be plagued by the Cookie Curse. Well, I will never bake for a guy I like again. Lesson learnt. No need for group therapy.
My parents could use some counseling themselves. They sat at opposite ends of the couch during the sentencing, and the second they finished, Mom bolted. She accidentally brushed Dad’s leg on her way out, and they both flinched. That’s messed up.
Well, I’m done with them anyway. I’m not going to waste another second worrying about their happiness when they’re so willing to hand over their parental responsibilities to a complete stranger – a stranger who looks more like an avatar than a human being. The guy is tall, thin, and dressed entirely in black. His blond hair is precisely cut, and his blue eyes are so pale they’re frosty. I’m pulling up the drawbridge and filling the moat. This guy isn’t getting near my brain.
On the bright side, with an avatar in charge, there shouldn’t be much hugging. I was worried about that, even before I saw the other people in my group. One of the guys looks ready to blow. His eyes are dark and sinister under the brim of his black baseball cap. It’s a warm day, yet he’s wearing a worn leather jacket, with his hands buried so deep in the pockets that I can’t help wondering about concealed weapons.
The other guy looks stoned. Crossing his scuffed work boots, he checks me out and gives me a lopsided smile. He can’t be serious. Even if I didn’t have Rico, I’d never hook up with someone from group. The ‘how we met’ story would be too embarrassing.
The avatar claps three times to bring the meeting to order. ‘Welcome to Transitions,’ he says, circling behind our folding chairs. ‘My name is Dieter Schmitt and I’m a licensed therapist. Before we begin, I want to lay out a few ground rules. No electronic devices. No bullying. No whining. No tardiness. No—’
‘That’s more than a few,’ one of the girls says, as she digs through a gorgeous red leather bag that I recognise from In Style magazine. In fact, her entire outfit looks high-end. I’m sure she’d rather be shopping than stuck here with us.
‘No wallowing in self-pity,’ Dieter continues as if she hasn’t spoken. ‘No wishing you could change the things you can’t, or excuses for not changing the things you can.’
Rather-Be-Shopping looks up from her bag. ‘Did I walk into Alcoholics Anonymous by mistake?’
‘No snarky asides,’ Dieter says. ‘No disrespecting the process.’ He comes to a stop beside another seat. ‘And no dogs.’
A girl who looks pissed off at the world is twisting a brown leather leash around her fingers. At her feet is a hundred pounds of snoozing Rottweiler.
‘Banksy goes wherever I go,’ Pissed-Off-at-the-World says in a low, raspy voice that suits her offbeat style. She’s wearing a frayed velvet skirt with motorcycle boots, and her shiny black hair is cut into a 1920s-style bob. On her cheek is a black beauty mark that may or may not be penciled on.
‘Not to school, I’m sure,’ Dieter says. ‘And I doubt he’ll benefit from therapy.’
Banksy stirs in his sleep and bares two rows of very sharp teeth. Pissed Off smirks as I tuck my feet under my chair. Well, she can smirk all she likes. These boots were a guilt gift from Mom, and I don’t plan on leaving with fang marks in them.
Holding out his hand for the leash, Dieter stares the girl down with unblinking eyes until she releases it. ‘Good luck getting him to move,’ she says.
Dieter gives the leash a single, sharp tug. ‘Banksy, come.’ The dog stands immediately and follows Dieter out the door.
‘I’ve tied him up in the shade,’ Dieter says when he returns. ‘The tai chi group will keep an eye on him.’
He spends a few moments rolling up the sleeves of his shirt. When they’re just right, he continues his speech. ‘Gro
up therapy works, but it also takes work. You have to listen to each other and offer your perspective. You have to come to terms with your new family situation and focus on moving on with your own life.’
‘Moving on,’ repeats a girl with blond curls and green eyes. Her long legs are crossed in front of her, and she looks so relaxed that I wonder if she’s been here before.
Dieter reaches for his clipboard to take attendance. ‘Evan Garrett?’
Stoned gives a lazy wave with one hand while scratching his bare knee through a hole in his jeans with the other. His bloodshot eyes are half closed. ‘Here,’ he says. ‘Mostly.’
Ignoring the snuffle of laughter, Dieter ticks off Evan’s name with a silver pen. ‘Lauren Archer?’
Rather-Be-Shopping nods. Her hair is shiny and straight, a mockery of my own, which is threatening to take over the room. The basement of this huge old church is so damp that the industrial gray carpet is curling up in the corners, and the framed picture of Noah’s ark is swampy with mildew. You’d think the least my parents could do is send me to some upscale therapist with a leather couch. But Dad just couldn’t pass up a cheap community program that’s way too close to school for my liking. I’m bound to run into people I know – once I actually know people. ‘Sydney Stark?’
Pissed-Off-at-the-World flashes eerie, topaz eyes at Dieter and grunts an acknowledgment.
‘Zahra Ahmed-MacDuff?’
‘Here.’ I aim for casual but it comes out overly cheery. I can’t help it. No matter how I really feel, cheery is my default. I have a future in customer service. ‘But it’s just “MacDuff” now.’
‘Interesting,’ Dieter says, making a note on his clipboard.
Great. The session hasn’t even started and I’m already noteworthy. My goal in dropping Mom’s Pakistani surname was to distance myself and start fresh. Instead it’s made me look like I have issues.
Been-Here-Before starts singing: ‘“Nameless faces, trading places. I can run, but I can’t hide in the crowd …”’ Her eyes are closed and she’s fingering an imaginary guitar.
Love Inc. Page 2
