A La Carte (5 page)

4

Early Sunday morning, Mom and I head for Whole Earth Grocery. I think I could make a life's work out of going to the grocery store. Just the vivid colors of the produce, the salty tang of the seafood, the neat lines of bottled oils and vinegars, make me slow down and feel creative. Mom and I take about two hours to do the same pick-up-and-go type of shopping that takes most people fifteen minutes to do—mostly because we're scanning the produce aisles for anything new and checking out the seasonal varieties to see what's ripe. When Mom was working for the
Clarion,
we'd hit farmers' markets all over the county, usually bright and early Sunday mornings. Now we usually just hit our local market and find the extras cruising the store aisles.

I'm looking at tofu cream cheese and Mom's frowning, trying to decide between crème fraîche and Devon cream, when I hear someone call us.

“Vivi! Lainey! Hi!”

I cringe. It's Mrs. Hesseltine and her daughter, Lorraine. In elementary school, Lorraine and I used to be really good friends, but by the time we got to junior high, Lorraine figured that hanging around with a fat girl whose mother wouldn't give her a subscription to
Seventeen
wasn't good for her image. Lorraine is on her cell phone, looking reluctant to be in the store at all. I see her eyes sort of slide over me while her mother bustles up to us, waving.

“Hi, Tammy!” Mom brightens up and receives a hug. She and Mrs. Hesseltine used to be pretty close friends before Lorraine pulled her popular-person act and started being too cool to hang with me. I give Mrs. Hesseltine a lukewarm smile.

“Viv, it's so good to see you. And Elaine! You've really lost all of your puppy fat, haven't you?” Mrs. Hesseltine gushes. I cringe.
Puppy fat.
“Lorraine…? Oh Lord, she's on the phone again.” Mrs. Hesseltine looks aggravated. “I swear, I can't get her off of that thing for more than five minutes. Well, Elaine, how have you been? Lorraine says physics is giving her fits. Are you getting it? Maybe you girls can work together….”

“Mom!” Lorraine is suddenly in the conversation. “I don't need a tutor.”

And I don't want to tutor you either
. I remember what else I don't like about Lorraine. We used to be close friends until I figured out why she started hanging around at my house: Simeon. Every time he showed up, she turned into giggle girl and I turned into one person too many at my own house. What was really rough, though, was when she dropped me as a friend and started dating Sim the next week. Then it was like
both
of them had something better to do than hang out with me. I was really happy when Simeon dumped her. I never could figure out what he saw in her.

“I'm sure Elaine is hearing from all kinds of colleges—Lorraine is hoping for early admission to Stanford.” Mrs. Hesseltine is still babbling, smiling at Mom. “You know, we should catch up sometime. Give me a call next week. I'd love to come by for lunch!”

I'm happy when Mrs. Hesseltine finally stops talking. At the rate we're going, we'll never get the groceries done, and I'm hoping Mom will have some time to hang out in the kitchen with me before she leaves for work. Everyone is exchanging pleasantries, and I mutter an unenthused, “Bye, Lorraine,” when Mom pokes me with her elbow. All I want to do is get home.

“Why didn't you talk with Lorraine?” Mom asks as soon as we get away. I knew she would.

“She was on the phone, Mom,” I say defensively. “I know you think I don't make an effort, but I do. Lorraine and I aren't exactly friends anymore.”

“I know,” Mom says slowly. She glances over at me as she pushes the cart toward the checkout counter. “Sometimes I wonder if you don't need more of a social life, Lainey. Maybe you should get out some…do something fun. You know, the teen years just go by so fast. Next year you'll look back, and
whoosh!
you'll be diving into college, and it'll be over, and you'll have spent all your time with your old mom. We need to get you out there. I know Ana's boy is so friendly—I'm sure he would—”

“Mom.”
All I need is to be paired up with “Ana's boy,” Christopher Haines. Really, my life can get no worse. “
Please
don't start this again.”

“I'm only making a suggestion,” my mother says, looking resigned. “Lainey, I just wonder if you've gotten too isolated. Don't you keep up with any of your friends anymore?”

“I'm fine, Mom.” I start unloading our cart onto the conveyor belt. “Everything's fine.”

 

Smashing bananas was one of the first jobs Mom ever gave me to do in the kitchen when I was three, and I still do it by hand, with a fork, so the bananas in my banana bread are nice and chunky. Today I am doing it hard and fast, with violence.

It's a good thing banana bread is easy. I need something easy to make right now, something that doesn't take my total concentration and that will turn out well no matter what I do. Mom talked to me all the way home about “opening up to new experiences” and not “setting my standards for friendship unrealistically high.” Where does she get this stuff?

I address my invisible audience again. “Place the banana purée into the bowl with the other wet ingredients and stir gently. If you need something to pulverize, you can crush your allspice with a handy mortar and pestle.”

The cool stone pestle in my hand and the scent of the spices calm me a little. I know Mom means well, I do, but I feel freakish when she points out how different I am from other people in my class. Yeah, I know most of them would rather hang out in a crowd at the mall instead of in a restaurant kitchen, but I'm not like them, and I can't help it. Why does Mom expect me to be just like them and everyone else? Why isn't it enough that I'm me?

“If you'd like, you can add crushed pecans to the mix, but be sure to find all the bits and pieces of shell. Make sure your oven is heated to three-fifty, and divide your batter into two greased loaf pans. Set your timer for an hour, slide your loaf pans into the oven, and—voilà—you've got time for a quick cup of tea.”

I'm just picking up the last of the banana peels from the counter and waiting for my water to boil when someone rings the bell downstairs.

Mom forgot her key. Sighing, I go to the security panel and press the button.

“Forget something?” I call into the intercom.

“It's me,” says a familiar voice.

My jaw drops. I stand and listen to the buzzing in my ears.

“Laine?” His voice is tinny through the speaker.

“Uh, yeah, Sim.” I push the button to unlock the lobby door. “Come on up.”

Sim knocks again when he gets to the top of the stairs, and I open the door. He's standing there holding two cardboard cups from Soy to the World in a cardboard container. He holds one out to me.

“Chai?”

“Um, thanks.” I wipe my hands on my jeans again and accept a cup awkwardly. Sim stands in the doorway waiting, his long black coat and boots spattered lightly with rain.

“Can I come in?”

Is this like vampires, when you have to invite them into the house?

I swallow and move back. “Sure.”

The kettle starts screaming, and I'm startled into the moment. I hurry into the kitchen and jerk it off the burner, nerves jangling. I fiddle with a sponge, turning it over in my hands, trying to get my brain organized, as he walks into my space and just waits.

“So, what—”

“What are you making?” Sim's sentence collides with mine, and I pause until he motions me to speak.

“Um…tea. Well, I was. And banana bread.”

Sim bends and peers into the oven, shrugs out of his coat, and drops into a chair at the table. “Smells good.”

I cradle my chai. “Yeah. Thanks for this, by the way.”

“I thought I should bring something if I was just barging in.”

“Yeah. Well, thanks.”

“No problem.”

I worry my bottom lip with my teeth, my stomach tight. The silence grows. In the past, I was comfortable with Sim in my house. Now it's been so long since he's been here that he seems awkward, misplaced, like something not meant for this room.

Simeon sips his tea and looks around, while I sip too big a gulp and scald my tongue. Eyes watering, I put down my cup and peer into the oven, just to be doing something. The top of the bread is golden, and I open the oven slightly, frowning. That was fast. I shrug and pull the pan out all the way.

“Man, that looks good.”

I find a bamboo skewer and do the toothpick test. The bread seems pretty done, but…I gently press the top, then lean forward and inhale. It smells amazing.

“Is it done?”

“Mmm…I guess.”

Simeon comes around the table to the counter. “So, are you cutting it, or is this for something special?”

“It's got to cool for twenty minutes.”

“And then we're cutting it?”

I give Sim a look. “We?”

“Oh, c'mon.” He regards me over the top of his chai cup. “You know I'm your best taste tester.”

“Is that why you're here?”

Sim sets down his cup and crosses his arms, leaning against the table. “You know it. And to see what's up with you.”

“What's up with me?” My voice rises. “What do you mean,
me?
What's up with
you?
”

Sim's eyebrows rise. “Whoa. I just meant, I wanted to see what you were doing. Don't get dramatic on me.”

Immediately I'm angry, and just as quickly, I try to squash it. “Simeon…shut up, okay? I am not dramatic. You haven't just showed up here in, like, weeks. Since last semester.”

“Yeah, well.” Sim gives a dismissive shrug. “You know how it is. People get busy.”

“Yeah, well,” I mimic him, “people get sick of being blown off.” Then I practically choke. I can't believe the words just came out of my mouth.

Simeon's eyebrows rise again. “Wow. I'm sorry, Laine. I didn't know you felt that way.”

My face is prickling hot. How could he have not known I felt that way? “Yeah, well,” I say again lamely, and turn back to the counter.

“Seriously.” Sim reaches out and taps me on the shoulder. “I mean it, Laine.”

I shrug. “It's okay.”

“So, we're cool?” Sim taps me again.

“Yeah.” The word comes out thickly. I'm embarrassed at how emotional a little apology makes me. I clear my throat and deliberately change the subject.

“We might as well go ahead and cut this, huh?”

“Yeah? Do we have ice cream?”

“We” again. “You know where it is.”

The bread is far too hot and crumbly, and I can hardly make the slices come out of the pan intact. Saint Julia must be sighing deeply right now, but all I want to do is fill our mouths and stop talking. Hearing Simeon say he's sorry has me feeling oddly off balance, since he's not the type to apologize for anything. I want to be angry, to fight this out, but after an apology, it makes me look bad. It's hard to let it go.

I serve up a slice of banana bread in a bowl. Sim adds a scoop of vanilla bean ice cream. We slide into seats at the kitchen table, spoons poised, and begin.

“What do you think?”

“It's good,” Sim assures me around a mouthful of crumbs. “Not too sweet, good spiciness…I'd give it an eight out of ten.”

“Only an eight? What's wrong with it?” I glance up sharply.

“Needs frosting.” Sim smiles and shovels another bite into his mouth.

Right
. Frosting. On
banana bread
. I roll my eyes. Sim is one of those people who put salt on their food before they taste it. In short, I don't know why I even asked.

Sim's spoon scrapes the bottom of his bowl. “I tell you I got a job?”

“No. Where?”

“At the little coffee shop near the Fourth Street freeway exit. They've got chai lattes.”

“Soy? You're working at Soy to the World?” I frown and sip my drink. “Their chai is great, but their scones are awful. Why would you want to work there?”

Sim smacks his forehead. “I knew I'd forgotten something! At the interview, I meant to ask what the heck was up with their scones.”

I catch myself smiling. “All right, don't start with me. What I mean is, why are you working?” The Kellers aren't stingy with their money. Sim has always had more stuff than anyone.

“I'm saving up for an apartment,” Sim confides, taking another chunk of bread. “I'm thinking I'll move out by the end of the semester.”

“An apartment? Huh.” I twist my spoon. “Your parents are letting you?”

Sim makes an exasperated noise. “Letting me? Please. I'm eighteen in two months. They can't stop me.”

Simeon takes another scoop of ice cream. “You know how it is, Laine—you just get to the point when you need your own space. I'm sick of my parents snooping around, treating me like I'm still some little kid. We just need some distance.”

I nod a bit. I guess I can see needing distance from Sim's parents. In middle school, Mr. and Mrs. Keller were the type of parents that are all about their kids' winning—soccer games, spelling bees, and science fairs in elementary and junior high and, later, scholarship and essay contests. Sim has never really gotten into the competitive thing, and his laid-back “whatever” attitude drives his high-powered attorney father nuts.

“I remember your dad being pretty intense back in the day. Remember Little League?”

Sim grimaces. “Ugh, don't remind me. He argued with Coach so much he got me kicked out. He hasn't changed; he's still all over me with the ‘be a winner' thing. He said if I don't pull a 3.0 by midterm, he's thinking of sending me to military school for spring semester.”

“Seriously? That's crazy! What does your mom think about it?”

“My mother has been out in the desert with some meditation retreat thing. She's coming back next week, and she ‘wants to share the changes in her life,' blah blah blah. It's going to be a freaking nightmare.”