A La Carte (16 page)

“Okay. Could you oil it and then crush me a package of graham crackers?”

Chris looks up. “Graham crackers?”

“Yep. All the way into crumbs, please.”

“What are you doing with graham crackers?”

I wish I knew. “A good sous-chef follows directions, Chris.”

“Right.” Chris grins. “I can do that.”

I give him a panicky little smile as I try to think of what to do next.

At least being put on the spot like this has pushed everything else out of my head. Mr. Haines is still watching me cook and offers to fill the muffin tin when I get the batter stirred. I've added some of the canned corn, drained, a can of chopped chilies, and some sliced, jalapeño-stuffed green martini olives to the mix to make it seem less commercial. Mr. Haines works with great concentration, filling each indentation to an exact depth in spite of the chunky texture of the batter by shaking the pan and occasionally smacking it on the surface of the counter to remove any air pockets. After a particularly loud slam against the counter, Chris and I share a glance of fleeting amusement. Mr. Haines carries on, carefully filling and leveling each muffin. I almost feel a little guilty that all we're going to do is turn out his works of art and eat them.

The Haineses' kitchen is all about canned, jarred, and boxed items, and it takes a while to find what I need. Chopped garlic is in a jar in the fridge, and I add a teaspoon of its pungent paste to about two tablespoons of olive oil in a deep saucepan. I add a chopped onion and a few scallions from home, wishing I'd packed more.

I don't find the electric can opener until I've already opened a can of tomatoes with a manual opener and added them and about a half cup of salsa verde that I found in the back of the fridge, looking a little old but none the worse for wear. I open two cartons of vegetable broth I brought from home and measure four cups into the pot.

Both Mr. Haines and Chris look startled when I add a half teaspoon of cinnamon to the soup. I tense, not realizing that they were still watching me so closely. But they are my studio audience, after all.

“It's good,” I promise them. “Really.” Aware of their dubious looks, I pull out my mortar and pestle and grind up about two teaspoons of cumin seeds. A pinch of thyme adds even more complexity to the dish. As soon as Mom gets back, I'll add the canned hominy (may she please find some, oh please, please), chop the cilantro, and add the canned corn. I wish we had fresh. An investigation of the freezer doesn't turn up any, but I do find some frozen fruit, a little treasure I keep in mind for later.

I assemble the dessert topping, using Chris's crushed graham crackers seasoned with freshly ground nutmeg, two tablespoons of butter, two tablespoons of water, and a few spritzes of butter-flavored nonstick spray.

“Why do you use butter and butter spray both?” Mr. Haines asks, looking up from his muffin construction.

“Oh! Well, to start with, it's lower fat,” I blurt in my best cooking show voice, and then freeze.
Nice one, Lainey.
My neck heats in shame.

“Good to know.” Mr. Haines nods. Chris flicks me a glance but doesn't comment.

I feel like an idiot. Unnerved, I go for another rummage in the freezer. Finding frozen peaches makes my embarrassment seem less important. I drag them out gleefully, not even allowing the words
enhanced with natural flavors
(who knows what those are?) to dim my happiness. The addition of peaches will make the crumble phenomenal.

Mr. Haines is taking the muffins out when Mom and Ana get back almost an hour later. Mom hands me a big bag of frozen corn with a look of restrained triumph.

Thank goodness.
“Oh! Great. Did you find…?”

Mom hands me a can with Spanish and English labeling, and I relax. “Hominy. Perfect.”

I dump in the hominy and get Chris started alternating the apples on the bottom of the graham cracker crust with a layer of peaches atop them. The peaches are frozen, but he and Mr. Haines eat more than a couple before the job gets done. Ana contributes a cup of her high-fiber breakfast cereal, crushed, which I add to a cup of plain rolled oats moistened with milk and a half cup of sugar to make the paste, which will bake into a crunchy topping for the fruit.

Chris eyes the chunky concoction over the fruit. “You got ice cream, right, Mom?”

“I did,” Ana says.

“We even got some of the kind you like,” Mom tells me, and I smile sheepishly.

“You didn't have to do that,” I mutter. Mom shrugs and smiles. In spite of myself, I feel a little warmer toward her right now. It's true she's being unreasonable about everything and dragging me on this stupid vacation, but it's hard to carry a grudge against someone who buys you a pricey little pint of soy ice cream out in the boonies.

The muffins are fragrant and golden brown. The soup is mildly spicy and delicious, the savory cilantro and juicy frozen corn a flavorful last-minute addition. The hominy is bland and creamy, the perfect comfort food. There is a complimentary silence as the first bites are taken.

“Nice job. You outdid yourself,” Mom murmurs.

“Elaine, this is amazing,” Ana gushes. “You have got to teach Christopher to cook!”

Chris gives them a disgusted look, and his parents share a laugh at his expense. Then Ana launches into a story about the first time she experienced hominy grits, somewhere in Charleston, South Carolina. Mr. Haines counters with an explanation of what hominy is and how it is made. I make short work of a muffin (it's decent, even for a mix) as he explains how the early Americans used a samp mill to grind the grains and an ash hopper to rinse wood ashes and create the lye, which was used to soften the tough outer kernel of corn. As Mr. Haines talks, Chris gives me a sideways glance, his expression measuring, but I barely notice him. Mr. Haines, once he finally starts to talk, is really interesting.

“Are you a history teacher?” I ask him.

He smiles, suddenly awkward again, and I see a quick shadow of a vulnerable Chris in his expression. “Nope. Engineer.”

“He watches cooking shows,” Ana explains fondly, giving his hand a squeeze.

A kindred spirit!

Everyone makes a big fuss over the soup, but dessert is a hit I didn't expect. The raisins in Ana's cereal got plumped up with the peach juice and are exclamation points of flavor throughout the chewy, crunchy topping. The rich sweetness of the peaches is contrasted with the more-tart flavor of the apples. Chris smothers his serving in ice cream, then offers a scoop to me.

“Oh, no thanks,” I say. I've eaten more than I should have.

“It's good,” Chris coaxes. “It's vanilla bean.”

“Well, okay,” I agree awkwardly, and scrape out about a teaspoonful from the scoop. He's incredulous but puts the scoop back into the carton and passes it along the table.

Everyone is clearing the table, groaning from fullness. Ana tells me I should sit and not do anything, but I get up good-naturedly and take my plate to the dishwasher. Christopher is bagging the leftover raw vegetables.

“Hey, Lainey. You're not…on a diet or something, are you?”

“Christopher Sebastian Haines,”
says Ana, catching his comment. “Really!”

“No, I was just saying.” Chris ducks his head, embarrassed. “You shouldn't be. I mean, if you are. You look, uh, fine. I mean, okay. You know, good.”

My skin tightens with embarrassed heat as blood rushes to my face and neck. For a moment, I'm silenced by disbelief. Christopher Haines is hitting on me? My life has reached a new low. “Um…thanks.” I look around uncomfortably. “I…um, I'm going for a walk.”

“Oh, Christopher, you should go with her. Walk down with her to the river. If you're quiet out there, you might see some wildlife.”

“If we're that still, we're going to come back with malaria from mosquito bites,” Chris mutters.

My mother says, “Long pants, long sleeves, and repellent. Remember the West Nile.”

“Watch out for the long grass,” Mr. Haines says mildly.

The grass? I shoot Chris a bewildered look.

“Deer ticks,” he says pleasantly. “They hang on to the tips of long grass blades and then jump on you when they feel your body heat. They give you Lyme disease.”

I flinch. Maybe I don't want to go outside.

This far from home, the light seems to linger longer. The sun is filtering crookedly through the trees as we walk down the front stairs and away from the house. I wish Chris weren't with me. Everything he says makes me feel uncomfortable, and he keeps on talking to fill the silence. I'm horrified by what he said. Does he really think I look “good,” or was that just him being polite? I'm even more horrified that I care.

“Lainey. Wait up,” Chris orders. I'd started away from him at a brisk walk, and I'm not ready to slow down.

“Keep up,” I call over my shoulder, and keep going. I'm aware I'm being difficult but don't know what else to do. My plan for this vacation was not to spend moonlit nights walking by the river with Christopher Haines.

Chris closes the distance between us easily. “Wait. I'm supposed to be showing you the wildlife. Slow down.”

“Yeah? Well, I'm not sure I want to find it.” I keep striding. I hear his shoes crunch the pine needles on the road as he jogs to catch up.

There's a silence as he catches up and walks at a stiff-legged lope to match my pace. I'm practically running just to keep him from walking right next to me. Finally, he shoves his hands in his jacket pockets and stops. “Lainey…,” he sighs. “What did I ever do to you?”

Oh
no.
I slow to a guilty walk, my face flaming. “Chris—”

Chris interrupts. “Never mind. Look, I just was going to say I was glad you guys came, that's all. I wasn't looking forward to just hanging with my folks all week, and Loren's probably bringing friends down too, so I'm glad you're here. That's all I was going to say.”

I stop in the middle of the path, feeling a moth blunder into my head. “Yeah, thanks, Ch…Topher. It was cool of your parents to invite us. I'm…It'll be fun.”

“Yeah?” Chris brightens visibly; even in the darkness I can see him standing up taller, straighter. My words making such a huge difference to him immediately depresses me.

“Let's walk.” I start off again.

We move out of the trees and up a little rise where we can better see the sky, which is slate blue with a flaming rosy glow that fades to the palest of pink-washed gold. Chris continues his nature walk, pointing out bats making their graceless flight between the dark sentinels of trees. At least a hundred times I open my mouth to ask him how many badges he got in Cub Scouts or whatever, but I stop myself. He's trying to be nice. I sigh and nod like I actually care.

A whine in my ear alerts us to mosquitoes, and we hurry back to the house, pulling our sweatshirts up around our necks. We're almost to the door when Christopher, kicking a pinecone, says, “So…you and Keller still going out?”

What?
I stumble on something invisible, then recover. “Who even said we were?”

15

“What are you up to, Laine?”

Mom finds me atop my bunk late in the afternoon, digging in my bag for my headphones. It's been a strangely quiet day. Mr. Haines went fishing, and Topher slept until almost noon. Mom and I had the kitchen to ourselves and, at the lazy urging of Ana, made loads of blueberry crêpes for a late brunch. We started out with a pancake mix but with the berries I found in the freezer made a passable compote, so it wasn't all that bad. Still, I made a note to bring along a real crêpe recipe next time I go on vacation.

I shrug irritably, flinging things out of my bag on my quest now for batteries. “Topher wants me to go out with him to that hotel.”

“Sounds like fun,” my mother says noncommittally, smiling.

I make an impatient noise. “Well, then
you
go. I can't see the attraction.” I find the batteries and bend my nail trying to open the back of my MP3 player.

Last night, I wanted to talk about Simeon for the rest of the evening. I wanted to
grill
Topher on everything that happened at that party. I wanted to know who else was there and what else was said. Instead, as soon as we walked into the house, Mom and Ana dragged us into playing canasta with them, and then we stayed up late watching movies. This afternoon Topher stuck a note under my door, reminding me about dinner at the hotel again. He seems to think I came on this trip to hang out with him.

“Elaine.” Mom's voice is sharp. “I hope you're not being rude to that boy.”

“No, I'm not.” I'm exasperated, wishing my mother didn't always think the absolute worst of me. “Mom, even
you
can't think that just because I'm here, I have to go out with him.”

Mom laughs dryly. “No, I don't think that, but there's such a thing as courtesy, Elaine, and I expect you to show you have at least a nodding acquaintance with that.”

“I know how to be courteous,” I mutter grouchily. I slam my headphones back into my bag. “And anyway, I hear the restaurant does a world-class steak!”

Mom sighs and ignores my sarcasm. “Have fun,” she says tiredly. “I'm going to find somewhere my cell phone will work and touch base with Pia. Last I heard from her, we were having some trouble with one of our distributors, and the thermocouple in one of the ovens went out last night during service.”

I immediately feel guilty. “Mom, you're
supposed
to be on vacation, you know.”

“I know. So, go and have dessert for me tonight, okay? And…be nice to Topher. He really is such a nice boy, Laine. Remember what I said about being open to new experiences?”

I grit my teeth. I should have known better than to feel sorry for my mother, who is happiest when she is arranging everything, including my social life.

When I'm finally dressed, I walk down the stairs into the middle of another one of Ana's effusive welcomes. Loren Haines is a taller, heavier version of his brother, and it's almost eerie looking at him as he shakes my hand.

“Nice to meet another one of Topher's friends,” Loren says, but he's loud and friendly like Ana, and so it doesn't come out sounding like he means anything more than what he says.

“Loren's only here to drop off his laundry,” Ana announces dryly, shaking her head. “He's off to see his friends, even though he just got here.”

“I'll be here for dinner, Ma,” Loren protests. “The party's not till late.”

Ana rolls her eyes and motions toward her other son. “Topher, you two had better get going.”

Topher's just wearing a striped shirt and jeans, but I feel a little underdressed. The nicest thing I brought is a V-necked pink sweater, which looks only so-so with a gray T-shirt and short denim skirt underneath. If I had known I was supposed to pack something other than granola-girl gear, I might have come up with something better.

“Does this look okay?” I mutter to Topher. My hair is as shiny as I could make it, and I'm wearing lip gloss and Mom's silver filigreed hoops.

There is surprise, then confirmation in Topher's smile. “Yeah.”

“You two go and have a good time,” Ana encourages us warmly, beaming, and I see Mr. Haines give Topher's shoulder a squeeze and tuck a wad of bills into his shirt pocket. Mom stands by, dimpling, and I have the horrible sense that someone's going to insist on taking pictures pretty soon. Topher must be feeling the too-interested parent vibe too, because he rushes me out of the door as fast as he can.

The hotel itself is a little bit of a distraction. It's old-fashioned enough that the horse and buggy sitting in front doesn't look out of place. A fountain sunk into the lawn blows crystal drops of water into the air. The long, broad porches that surround the hotel look like they've seen the likes of Mark Twain and John Muir relaxing in their shadowy depths.

I find myself looking around, derailed, for the moment, from anything but the scenery, but Topher leads the way into the hotel. I feel a twinge of embarrassment the moment we step into the high-ceilinged lobby. Creamy patterned wallpaper and gilt-framed pictures surround antique chairs and other furniture. My already-tight stomach lurches when we enter the hotel dining room. Tiffany-style, painted chandeliers illuminate rows of white-clothed tables.
This
is not a little woodsy lodge with fast food. Topher pulls out one of the tall-backed chairs.

“Oh…thanks,” I say inadequately. The waitress hands us menus, and Topher orders soda water with lime for both of us. Fancy. I glance around the room and fidget with the napkin in my lap until the waitress goes away.

Topher clears his throat and plays with his fork. There's a weird nervousness to his movements. I'm not sure what to think, and I don't want to focus on Topher right now. I keep looking around. “Those pinecone chandeliers are interesting.”

“Sequoia.”

“What?”

Topher traces a pattern with his finger. “They're sequoia cones”—Topher gives a vague nod with his chin toward the windows—“'cause of the giant sequoias.”

“And the difference is…?” I'm just messing with him, but I know it's going to set him on one of his nature rants.

Topher takes a breath. “Well, the difference,” he begins, then stops, catching something in my expression. “It's not that big a difference,” he sighs, shaking his head. “I know you don't actually care anyway.”

I smile. “Not really.”

I people-watch for a while, noting aloud that Topher and I are probably the youngest people in the dining room without parents. This is nothing like La Salle: though the servers are nicely dressed, there's definitely a more-casual vibe from the diners, as a family comes in with strollers and shorts.

“Miss?” The waitress interrupts with our drinks. Topher takes his napkin and opens my bottle, then his own. He's being very formal, which makes me want to laugh.

“Christopher, you don't have to keep pretending we're on a date.”

Topher flinches. “I'm not.”

Oops. “Well, I just mean you're being really nice. You don't…have to. I mean…”

Topher shrugs and studies his menu. “Do you see anything you want? You can get whatever. Dad gave me enough.”

“No!” I give him a horrified look. “Chris, I have money. You're not paying for me.”

A shrug. “Whatever.”

Uncomfortably, I scan the menu, glancing up periodically to study Chris's face. He didn't really think this was a “going out” kind of dinner, did he? It's all I can do to keep from asking him, which is just as well. He doesn't say anything else until the waitress comes.

We make it through dinner only because there's nothing else to do. Topher orders the flatiron steak, which comes with garlic whipped potatoes and toasted cumin-avocado butter, which on any other day I'd really want to try. I request a bowl of minestrone soup and a house salad, which includes roasted walnuts and cherry tomatoes in a soy ginger vinaigrette. Topher gives me a disbelieving look.

I'm almost too edgy to notice how good the soup tastes, but not quite. I make note of the ingredients, tucking them away in my memory to try out later.

“How's the cumin-avocado sauce?”

“Fine.” Topher wipes his mouth and keeps his eyes down.

O-kay.
I give up and go back to my minestrone.

The white-aproned waitress returns, perky and smiling. “Did you save room for dessert?”

“No, thank you,” I say automatically, glancing across the table at Chris. He's been so silent all evening I thought he'd just want to get away, but he looks irritated. Does he think I'm trying to be cheap? I never get dessert in restaurants anymore, but how can I say that?

“I'll make dessert,” I tell him, coming up with the idea suddenly. “When we get back.”

The waitress beams. “That sounds like a lovely way to end the evening.”

Topher shrugs, blowing out a breath. “Whatever. We'll take the check, please.”

The waitress gives a plastic smile and glides away.

Prickling with embarrassment, I stare at Topher. “What's up with you?”

He shrugs.

“No, seriously. What's wrong? You don't want me to make dessert?” I study Topher's face for any sign of amusement, hostility, anything. His pointed chin is set, and his usually cheerful expression, framed by bleached, twisted baby dreadlocks, is cold. He flicks a glance at me, his dark grayish eyes flat.

I realize I have rarely ever really looked at Christopher Haines. There is something shuttered tight in his gaze. He turns away and mutters something.

“What?”

Topher leans forward and speaks slowly, enunciating every word. “I said, this is stupid.”

I sit back. “Stupid?”

“Should I say it again?” There is a sullen expression on Topher's face.

I bite my top lip, my toes curling with discomfort. “What—”

“I thought it would make a difference if we weren't at school.” Topher's voice is leaden. “Even without everybody else around, you still act like I'm something you stepped in.”

“Wait.
Wait.
” This conversation has gotten entirely surreal. “What do you mean?”

Topher looks across the dining room out of the tall windows to the slowly fading light. “You're blowing me off just like you always do. What, now I'm such a freak you can't even eat with me? Whatever.”

“Chris…” I flail for words. “I don't think anything of you, I swear. I mean…I don't think anything bad about you, okay?” I'm feeling panicky. “And…”

“Your friend Keller blew me off too.” Topher is still talking, watching the candle flickering in the middle of the table. “At his party, I watched him get all messed up, and then, when the cops came, he suddenly remembered my name. He's like, ‘Topher, I need a huge favor.' And he gives me this little bag…. Then he's all, ‘I got your back, man,' and when I get picked up, he gets away clean, but they thought I was dealing.” Topher's chin comes up. “It was my own fault. I'm not stupid. I know you don't just ‘hold something' for someone and get off scot-free. But I just thought—”

“Chris…” My stomach is curdling. I don't want to hear any more.

“It's Topher,” he snaps, and I flinch. The waitress chooses that moment to return with the check.

“Have a lovely evening,” she chirps artificially, her eyes above our heads, already moving on to the next table.

Topher grabs the bill and reaches for his wallet, his level stare challenging. I don't move. I'm afraid if I reach for my purse, he'll start shouting.

Topher tosses down a few bills and pushes back from the table.

I take a deep breath. “Topher?” I lean forward. “I'm sorry. I didn't know…. Look, I'll make it up to you….” I hear the phrase and freeze. Never have the words sounded quite so false. My stomach congeals. I breathe out slowly.

“Actually? I probably won't. That's really just a polite excuse, isn't it? I don't think there's anything I can do to make up for…anything. Will you excuse me?”

The noise of cutlery and polite conversation is drowned out by my choppy breaths as I escape from the dining room. I'm walking as fast as I can, knowing that Topher is probably watching me, knowing that I'm attracting attention from the other hotel patrons. I need some air.

Julia Child didn't cry when her soufflé collapsed on national television. I can't cry. Not here in the lobby of this gracious hotel full of Victorian antiques. I don't have any tissue.

Outside, the wind is ruffling the tops of the trees, and it whispers drowsily. In the hotel dining room, someone starts playing the piano. The evening is turning into night, and it's going to be a gorgeous one, for someone. The moon is a thin white wafer in the sky. The wraparound veranda provides a shadowed place for me to stand and just breathe. I lean against a chair, trembling.

Oh, Sim. What a horrible thing to do to poor, stupid Topher.

At least now I know what happened at the party. I wonder whether, if I had gone, I would have been the friend who was conveniently on hand when things went wrong. I can't believe Topher was so gullible…. I run my fingers through my hair and sigh. Topher isn't the only one.

“I owe you one, Laine.”
I shake my head. There's no point in denying that Sim used me too. He needed more than my physics notes. He needed me to be his audience, to admire him and keep on coming back when he blew me off. He was like the worst restaurant critic, tasting dish after dish after dish of the house's best and saying there was something wrong with each of them.

Why is this hitting me so hard? Because I thought I was someone special? That I was the only one he used?

“You're one sick chick,” I mutter to myself, pinching the bridge of my nose.

Topher's probably tired of waiting for me. I steel myself to endure the half-hour ride back out to the cabin. He probably won't even speak to me, but that doesn't matter. I wonder if I can talk Mom into letting us go home early. All I want is for this vacation to end.