by Adi Alsaid
I finally muster the energy, clean up and then remake the sauce, serve a dish I am in no way proud of. People line up to eat and there is no joy on their faces. Drained, I take a break outside, wait for the island’s beauty to replenish me.
The beauty of Needle Eye feels muted, especially if I think about Chef keeping me away from Emma. A couple of minutes after I step outside, Elias comes out and asks me if I need a place to stay.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“Well, with Boris gone, we’ve got a spare room at our place,” Elias says. “Easier you than some stranger. It’s yours if you want it.”
It’s like every time I think my stay here is done, something happens that insists I belong here. So, maybe Chef’s warning makes things a little murkier than they were yesterday. Maybe I’m not suddenly an incredible chef. But I don’t want this to be a temporary escape, some experiment in joy before returning to the life Dad wanted for me. I want to be here.
My motel room is paid for through the week, but Elias tells me I’m free to move in whenever I want and just pay rent once I get my first check.
I spend the rest of my break looking through my emails on my phone, searching for the acceptance letter I got from the University of Chicago. I find it and click through the links until I get to the admissions page and figure out how to contact the school. If Dad hasn’t completely lost his shit yet, this’ll probably do the trick.
I send an email asking what I need to do to withdraw from school.
By the end of my shift, I have been up for nearly eighteen hours. My body is calling out for sleep, and my thoughts are muddled. The six hours in between now and my next training session won’t be nearly enough to recuperate, especially when I’m itching to see Emma and make it up to her for bailing yesterday. We meet outside a coffee shop to avoid discovery, and when I kiss her cheek, the comfort of her skin makes me want to fall asleep in the warm nook of her neck. How could I ever deny myself this? I lay my head on her shoulder and pretend to snore.
“Long day?” Emma asks with a laugh.
“Tell me the truth. Restaurant people have discovered a way to live more than twenty-four hours in a day, right?”
“Duh, it’s drugs,” Emma says. “If I learned anything from my dad, it’s that.”
I laugh but don’t pull my head away. “Shut up, that’s not true.”
“Oh, sweet, naïve Carlos. Chefs are fucked-up people. My dad had cocaine parties at home when I was eight or nine.”
My first reaction is horror, an anger that anyone would put Emma in that position. Or any kid, for that matter. “Jesus. What was it like growing up with that?”
“Cozy,” Emma says and gives a single laugh, the sway of which goes from her body to mine. “It wasn’t all that bad, really. Just some crazy moments. They both became much better parents after they split up. Even if they still won’t teach me their secrets to a perfect grilled cheese.”
I force a laugh, and a thought flashes through my head that Dad has his parenting flaws too, but I’m not sure whether he’d count as a bad parent. I don’t want to think about Dad, though. I want to just stay by Emma’s side, talk to her.
“Wanna go to the lake?” she asks.
I groan. “I should sleep.”
“No, you shouldn’t,” she says, and I agree, because how am I supposed to do anything else? I’m whole when I’m with her.
Amazing that the hike through the woods can get any better. But the world has its surprises, and with Emma’s hand in mine the night becomes Technicolor. Fireflies light the way to the meadow, where we pick up fistfuls of berries as a midnight snack.
I want to tell her about Chef’s stipulation, but I don’t want to accept that it’s really happened. That I might lose her or the kitchen. The words are stuck in the pit of my stomach, and nothing gets them out, so I decide to smother them, to keep them in there until they’re no longer true.
We get to the lake, slip our toes into the water, shoot electricity out across the surface. We lie on our backs, face each other. In an instant we’re pressed together, kissing like we are drunk, kissing like it’ll make us glow. The way she kisses, it’s as if this is the only way I can breathe, through her. She kisses a spot just below my ear that makes goose bumps shoot down my arms, presses herself close to me. She kisses like she’s proving to the world that we’re alive.
* * *
The next morning, one and a half onions into the training session, I nick my finger. Chef Elise throws a dish towel at my face. “Stop bleeding all over my fucking kitchen,” she mutters as she walks away. Instead of wrapping the towel tightly around the bleeding tip, I let a few drops escape onto the counter, stain the perfect, shimmering steel.
I stand at my sink, listen to the kitchen come alive, try not to slam dishes into shards. I run the water so hot that steam surrounds me like the island’s thick morning fog. In this cloud, I can hide.
Later that night, Elias comes with me to the motel to help me carry my suitcase and the assorted kitchen utensils I’ve bought during my three weeks on Needle Eye. The house is on the other side of the island, a little closer to where Emma lives. I’m already picturing the best route to get to the lake, trying to remember the shortcuts she’s shown me. It takes me a while to recognize it as Matt’s house.
“Home sweet home,” Elias says, opening the door.
Inside, Matt is on the couch, playing video games with a kid I remember meeting at the barbecue, another one of Emma’s friends.
“Hey, man,” Elias says. “What are you guys up to?”
“Day off.” He does some button mashing on the controller and then notices me and kind of nods but doesn’t say hi. “What’s the Fake-xican doing here?”
“Moving in,” Elias says. We pass in front of the TV, eliciting some yelling complaints. Elias shows me the kitchen, which, unlike the rest of the house, is perfectly neat. The downstairs bathroom is a mess, tissues overflowing from the trash bin. A dirty sock lies on the windowsill, and it looks like it hasn’t been moved in weeks. “Sorry,” Elias mutters. “It’s the price I pay for living with fuckin’ eighteen-year-olds, no offense. I’m still up to my ass in debt, so I can’t afford to live alone, and other roommates are never quite as understanding about having people over for drinks at two a.m. once a shift lets out.”
We go upstairs, where my room is. There’s a mattress on the floor, pushed up to the corner. A dresser with its drawers still open. A few clothes hangers are piled on the floor, evidence of a speedy departure, as if Boris was afraid that Chef would show up any second to chase him away. It’s nothing like my room in Mexico, with its TV and video game systems, its view of the hills and high-rises of my neighborhood. No Rosalba will come by to tidy up every morning.
I drop my bag down on the floor, giving Felix a clandestine smile when he shows up in the corner. Back downstairs, Elias slips into the kitchen to grab himself a beer, which is almost the only thing available in the fridge, apart from some bagels, deli meat and a few bottles of hot sauce.
We settle down on the couch next to Matt and the other kid, Rob, watch them shoot each other up for a bit. “I see you’ve been going in early,” Matt says after a while. “Chef got you shining her shoes or something?” He chuckles at himself.
“Just some training,” I say, though his reaction makes me regret saying anything.
Matt pauses his game, eyes wide. “Training? With Chef? What the hell?” He looks at Elias and then back at me. “You just fucking got here.”
“It’s none of your business,” Elias says, taking a drink from his beer. “It’s her restaurant.”
Matt doesn’t turn his attention back to the screen, though. He leans forward, eyes glued on me. “What makes you so special, huh?”
“I wouldn’t be jealous,” I say. “So far she’s just found different ways to call me a mo
ron.”
Matt ignores me, points a finger at Elias. “What the hell is Chef thinking, man? This kid is nobody.”
Elias raises his hands up, palms out. “You wanna ask her, be my guest. Let me know in advance so I can be there to watch her tear your head off.”
Matt’s nostrils flare. “I worked my ass off to get here. We all did. I don’t like little rich shits who get things handed to them.”
I feel myself wanting to diffuse the situation, calm things down. I think about telling him about Felix, that I’m out of my mind, just so he doesn’t think my life is perfect. I spend half my time in the kitchen trying to remember not to talk to the wall, I want to say.
But none of it comes out. Instead I just stare back at Matt mutely, like an asshole.
“Jeez, man, relax,” Elias says. “Just ’cause he’s getting a little extra attention doesn’t mean anyone’s gonna chase you out of the kitchen. This isn’t fuckin’ Chopped.”
This elicits a chuckle from Rob, who tells Matt that he’s going to start the game again. Matt keeps staring at me for a second and then turns his attention back to the TV. “Whatever,” he mumbles, before he resumes button mashing. “You earn your place in a kitchen is all I’m saying.”
Elias and I sit down and watch them play for a while. I get quiet as the three of them start shooting the shit casually. I’m guessing I’m the only one who sees Felix on the screen, trying to dodge bullets. He’s not that good at it.
Felix winks at me from the screen when he respawns. If I were back home, with Danny and Poncho, I’d probably laugh at this. But here I feel the need to suppress the laugh, not give Matt any reason to snap at me again. I sit there on the couch quietly, trying not to be weird, wishing everything came as easily as it does with Emma. I watch Felix die again and again. The joke gets old pretty quickly.
CHAPTER 18
FRENCH ONION SOUP
4 onions, sliced (not chopped)
½ cup butter
2 garlic cloves
½ bottle red wine
2 quarts beef broth
2 bay leaves
2 thyme sprigs
1 loaf baguette
¼ pound gruyere cheese
METHOD:
On my fourth day of training with Chef, I’m still chopping onions. She sticks around a little longer this time, observing. Matt shows up early and circles like a vulture. When I get through all four onions that she brought out, I wipe the tears from my eyes, hoping we’ll move on to something else. “Too slow,” Chef says, and she brings out a whole bag of them.
I sigh and get ready to chop, willing myself not to just let muscle memory do its thing but to focus on speed, on technique. Curl my fingers away from the knife, rest my knuckles against the blade, chop. About three onions in Chef yanks the cutting board away from me, almost making me cut off a finger. Onions scatter to the ground. “You have no idea what you’re doing,” she says, and she leaves me to clean up the mess.
Seeking solace from the shame, I find Emma’s name in my phone. I think maybe I should just leave the kitchen and focus on the joy she provides. Felix whispers in my ear that she’s leaving the island, that I’m putting the kitchen at risk. I cast the thought away.
Underwater fireworks tonight? I write. I’ll buy some snorkel gear.
It feels like stolen joy, sending this message. Stolen from beneath Chef’s nose, Matt’s threats, Dad’s dismissal, Felix’s death. In the moments between my lessons with Chef and my shift beginning, a nameless weight threatens to beat me down. It’s the one I’ve been trying to keep at bay for months. But before I had no way to deal with it other than the kitchen, and now Emma’s response keeps it at bay: See you tonight.
* * *
Day five, I chop. Blade sharpened, fingers curled away, wrist flicking as quickly as possible. Thwack, thwack, thwack, the knife slices through onions as if asking for a harder task. Felix stands behind me, trying to encourage me. “Too sloppy,” Chef says. “These have to be even, every time. Look at this,” she says, grabbing a pinch of onion and holding it under my nose. “Does that look even to you?”
I can barely see the onion, it’s so far up my nose. All I get is that sting of its smell, and I pretend that’s the only reason my eyes water. “No, Chef,” I say.
My phone buzzes a few minutes later and I dry my hands to pick it up. Do you think both of us could fit under my hostess stand?
Probably, I text back, knowing I’m smiling just as wide, and if Chef bothered to stick around she’d know right away what it means. I’m really good at folding myself. Why do you ask?
Not making out with you gets hard at work.
I get a sinking feeling in my stomach. A nagging voice within me tells me to just let Emma know what’s going on, be honest, ask her if we can sneak around instead of hiding this from her. Except I don’t think I can handle this one good thing turning hard, don’t want to think about anything but the joy in front of me.
* * *
Day six. Thwack, thwack, thwack. Last night Emma came over and we wore snorkel gear as I chopped my way through onion after onion, protecting each other from teary eyes, though I’m not so sure my eyes are affected anymore. There are now at least a dozen gallon bags full of chopped onion piled into the freezer at home. Matt asked what the hell we were doing, but when Emma’s around he’s a little more civil. All the more reason to spend my days with her.
“Not fast enough,” Chef says. “You’re wasting my time and my fucking onions. Bring your own tomorrow.”
I swear there’s a hint of a smile on her face as she says this. I’m becoming increasingly convinced that she’s just a sadist. That these morning sessions are nothing but a way for her to torture me. “Don’t be dramatic,” Felix says. “She’s just demanding.” I bite my tongue.
* * *
Day seven. I wait in front of the cutting board until Chef’s at my side. The longer she keeps me waiting, the more I notice that my shadow’s still gone, that my fingers are see-through. Nameless weights and ghosts build up, Felix as more than a memory.
I’m determined not to let anything she says get me down today, though. I think of Emma, think of the joys of the island. Chef finally shows up and gives me a little nod, and I pick up the knife exactly the way I know I should. I make sure the board is on a wet towel to keep it from moving, make sure the blade is sharp, make sure everything is in its right place. Then I let my fingers take over.
The onion is chopped into perfectly even pieces in a flash. It’s getting to be like I’m breathing this. I wipe my knife, put it down, step away to allow Chef to inspect the pile. There is no way she’ll have a complaint now. This was perfect.
“Jesus Christ, Carlos, a six-year-old would have learned how to do this by now.”
I’m ready to explode, tell her about Emma and be done with her bullshit, when one of the remaining onions takes the shape of Felix’s face. “She’s a lot like Dad, huh? He was always a stickler.” I have to take a few deep breaths, clutching the counter, before I’ll allow myself to say anything to Chef.
By the time I look away from the onion, she’s gone. I grip my knife, ready to slam something into bits. What’s left of the onions by my cutting board gets cut so quickly it’s almost like the onions fall apart on their own, not wanting to be subjected to my rage.
I go outside for a breather before shift begins. I run into Emma, and the mere sight of her makes me feel a little lighter. Without thinking much, I reach for her hand.
She smiles at me and then maybe notices the look on my face. “Everything okay?” she asks.
I want to just pull her close and nuzzle my face into her neck. I want to take us both beneath her hostess stand, pressed as close as possible, stifling our laughter so that the rest of the restaurant—the rest of the world—won’t hear us.
&
nbsp; Then I remember where we are and I have to let Emma’s fingers go so that our hands drop away. I mouth, Sorry, later at her and then go around the corner to take a seat at one of the patio tables.
The view of the island stretches out in front. Azure sky, perfectly white clouds, hills that could be colored by crayons. The water’s so reflective it’s almost metallic, and it turns the whole world into a mirror image. It’s funny how I’ve already grown to take it for granted. I’m still blown away by it, of course, but I would have imagined the amazement to stick around every moment of the day. Now it’s almost like any other thought, there for a moment before something else takes its place. Chef’s going to find out I’m seeing Emma. Or she’ll realize I’m not actually a cook at all. I can’t be taught. I’m just a runaway, a rich kid playing out a fantasy because he couldn’t handle having a dead brother.
I look at my phone to try to take my mind off things. There’s an email from Danny, asking me how things are going, saying he heard a rumor that I’m in Alaska, hunting grizzly bears. Doesn’t really sound like you, but you’ve been pretty AWOL on social media so who the fuck knows.
There are a few messages from Mom too. Three “how are you”s in a row, which I keep forgetting to answer. It doesn’t really help me feel any better right now. I send an enthusiastic response, hoping it’ll help Mom feel better and maybe hurt Dad a little, show him I’m doing great.
I tuck my phone away. It’s a hot day out, no fog at all, sweat already forming on my forehead. The kitchen’s going to be sweltering. People are going to be on edge and they’ll notice the moment I screw something up, which I probably will at staff meal.
“What the hell am I doing here?” I say, hunched over, eyes on the floor, assuming Felix will make himself known.
“I was gonna ask,” someone says, but it’s not Felix. I look up. Elias has a coffee mug in his hand, and he’s pulling out the chair next to me. “What’s up, man?”
Oh, you know. It’s been six months since my brother died and I still see him everywhere. I’ve been on this island for less than a month, I’m falling in love with a girl who’s on her way out the door and I’m apprenticed to the Soup Nazi of onion cutting.
