A La Carte (9 page)

I get asked about five more times about the party, and by the end of the week, I feel like sticking a sign on my locker—Loser: Not Invited.

I know I'm jealous. And I know it's stupid. I just hate Sim's other…friends. He has people he hangs with for different hours of the day—jocks before school, stoners at lunch, preppies in the quad when he's cutting second, the “ride” freaks around their tricked-out cars in the parking lot…and me, off campus, after school, and only if he needs a favor. When I'm telling myself the truth, I wonder if we'd be friends if it weren't for the history behind us. When we were younger, I knew Sim liked me for my house—a safe place to hang, away from his mom and his family. Now that he has a place of his own and he and Carrigan are magically best buds and throwing parties, I guess that leaves me…out?

Sim doesn't come over for kindergarten the rest of the week, and I amaze myself by finishing all of my homework before it's anywhere near time for dinner. I spend so much time on my mother's computer that by Friday, I'm almost proficient at sudoku. Time hanging on my hands encourages me toward the restaurant kitchen, and I find myself fiddling with the idea for carrot macaroons. The recipe I come up with, taking ideas from other cookie recipes, is pretty basic, and after a while, I feel like it's time for a test run.

While the kitchen staff is prepping for the dinner rush, I grate a few carrots. Mom looks over my recipe and says it sounds good. When the first batch of golden cookies emerges from the oven, she comes over to sample.

“Mmm.” She frowns. “How much coconut do these call for?”

“A half cup.”

“You know, you could leave it out.”

“I don't know. Would they still be macaroons?” We chew some more in silence as the kitchen rattles around us. “What do you think of the orange rind?”

“Good. You could use some extract if you wanted to define the flavor without adding another sugar source, like from a juice or something. Or you could try lime.”

“That might really be good.”

“You know, these are good enough to take to Sim's party.”

What?
I throttle down annoyance. “Try one of the ones with ginger.”

“Lainey?”

“I guess you could put in almonds—kind of an amaretti thing?”

“Honey, I overheard, you know. He didn't not invite you. He just thought you wouldn't want to come….”

“No almonds. But ginger. Yes?”

In the end, I decide to leave the orange rind and the fresh-grated ginger as optional add-ins so that the macaroons can pair with whatever ice cream or gelato is currently being featured. Pia comes by to taste and suggests pairing them with a pear granita, which is an Italian dessert ice that I love.

“This is a great idea to use for the holidays,” Pia says proudly, reaching up to tap me on the shoulder. “This is just what we need—tasty ways to replace the old standards.”

While she's talking, a big hand darts in between us to snatch a cookie. I turn and swat at it, laughing as the man attached to the hand holds the cookie out of my reach, which is easy for him to do. Stefan sniffs the cookie, looks at the color critically, and wrinkles his forehead.

“Well, it's pretty. What is it?”

“It's a cookie!” I poke him gently in the side. “Taste.”

Stefan pops it into his mouth whole and chews thoughtfully. “Good,” he mumbles. “Chewy, not too dense. The citrus is nice.” He reaches for another.

“One of those is mine.” Bethe, one of our sous-chefs, sets down her ladle and comes over with her hand outstretched. “I've been waiting for these.”

Roy nips in and grabs one. Gene breaks his in half. He doesn't like sweets much.

“Hey, these are good.” Ming, who ate Gene's other half, takes another. “I like the idea of an almond flavoring with these. Really nice, Laine.”

When Gene comes back and asks where the other half of his cookie went, I can't keep back a crazy grin. This is what it would be like to have my own cooking show.
Seifert's Secrets.
Or maybe
The Lainey Files.
Yeah, I know I've got to really pay my dues before I get on TV and become the next Saint Julia, but this right now feels like the real thing. Everybody samples and chews and looks impressed, but then Mom glances at the clock and says, “Look at the time!” Pia starts shouting, and the kitchen starts jumping as the service for the night begins. I'm left alone with a plate of crumbs.

Here's the truth: I'm more comfortable behind the scenes in the kitchen than balancing a plate and eating neatly and making small talk about things that mean nothing to me. Even if I'd been invited, I really wouldn't belong at Simeon's party.

At home, I turn on the TV and fall asleep to the blue flicker, an old episode of
Yan Can Cook.

8

By Monday, I have my head on straight. After hanging out at the restaurant all weekend, I realize that I know where my life is going, and I don't need people like Simeon Keller to succeed. It's just that simple. I vow to act like nothing is going on, like I did on Friday, and make a point of bringing fresh ginger macaroons to Vocal Jazz. I am awake enough not to need coffee and to sing along with Manhattan Transfer's “A-Tisket, A-Tasket.” Ms. Dunston is pleased. Ben is not.

“Show-off.” Ben grins, then cracks a mighty yawn.

I shrug. “I'm just awake for once.”

“I shouldn't have gone out this weekend,” Ben mumbles, like I've asked. “I'm still totally wiped.”

Still?
I hesitate, then delicately fish for information. “Good party, huh?”

Ben confirms my guess while knuckling his eyes. “Yeah, at Sim Keller's. I didn't go Friday, but I heard some guys from the junior college brought a keg on Saturday, so a bunch of us went. Heard the cops came after I left.”

I nod, but inside, I roll my eyes. The cops.
Please
. That's the epitaph every party gets—the cops came, broke up the action, everyone went home. The cops probably didn't show, but it's the mark of a successful high school party that the rumor says they did.

It's just as well that I didn't go. A keg?
See, Mom,
I think. Lainey and her little cookies would have been way out of their league.

Party-boy Sim isn't at school Monday, but Carrigan is, doing his usual “you're invisible” glance that slides over me. There's nothing unusual in that at all, but I do hear some kind of buzz going on about a couple of kids being in trouble, including Christopher Haines, not that I believe that, even if he did miss Vocal Jazz this morning.

Friday, Cheryl leans across the aisle before the warning bell and asks how Sim is doing. I'm annoyed by the question and doubly annoyed because I'm wondering the same thing. We have a physics test on Monday that accounts for twenty-five percent of our grade, and our tutorial was last night. I'm pretty sure Sim's going to show soon enough, trying to butter me up for my physics notes. Fat chance.

I shrug and root around in my backpack for a pen. “Sim? Beats me. We don't exactly talk these days.”

“Oh.” Cheryl sounds subdued.

I glance up, frowning. “What's up?”

Cheryl half shrugs. “Oh, you know, the party. After the cops came and busted everybody for the keg and the smoke and stuff, he bailed. I heard he got picked up, but I guess they sprung him since he didn't test positive for anything. Then his dad threw a fit, and I guess they had it out, and now nobody can find him.”

“What?”
My hand comes up to my mouth automatically as my brain processes three thoughts at once—Ben was serious, the cops were real, Sim is—“No way! I—” The second bell rings, and I break off abruptly. Mr. Wilcox is standing at the front of the room, ready to begin our chapter review. I have so many questions, but there's only time for one.

I drop my voice and lean across the aisle. “You were there?”

Cheryl nods. “For a while,” she admits.

Physics is a blur, and I stare at our video in European history without seeing much of it. I'm not hungry by fourth period, so I'm on my way to the library when I see that the door to the English room is open. I knock on the frame.

“Mrs. Spaulding?” The words are coming out of my mouth meekly.

The cramps excuse rarely works with teachers, and Mrs. Spaulding probably doesn't really believe me, but I don't care. I promise her faithfully that I will finish the reading and turn in an extra assignment tomorrow, then I'm out of there.

I, Lainey Seifert, am cutting class!

I don't know where I'm going or what I'm going to do, but I want to find Simeon. I hitch my backpack onto my shoulder and dig my cell out of the front pocket. I hardly use it, but along with Mom's, Sim's number is one of the few I have programmed in. I push the speed dial button and listen to it ring.
Pick up,
I think, but of course he doesn't. I nervously leave a message.

“Sim…it's me. I just…heard.” I'm breathless and talking too fast. I slow down, take a deep breath. “I just wanted you to know I'm sorry…. I…I guess you were right.” I take another deep breath. “About the party.” My voice gets wobbly. “Sorry, Sim.”

I hang up before I say anything worse.

It's a longer walk, but avoiding First Street, where Mom might see me, is best, since even I can't explain what I'm doing or where I'm going. All the way home I remember every single time Sim's said he's going to “just go” or “disappear” and I feel myself starting to worry. I lie down on my bed and try to do my reading for English lit, but eventually I lay aside my book and stare at the ceiling.

Sim had parties all weekend, and now he's been…nowhere—for a week. I close my eyes. There is so much I have said that I wish I could take back.

When the telephone rings, I know it's Mom.

“Hey, Laineybelle,” she says cheerfully. “Good, you're home. Simeon isn't over, is he?”

My throat tightens. “Sim? No.”

“You're not getting another cold, are you?”

“No,” I say clearly. “What about Sim?”

“His mother phoned this morning,” Mom says. “You'd already left for school…. She wanted to know if he'd been around this weekend. Did you two make up?”

“No.” The word holds a wealth of information.

“Why don't you come down to the restaurant, honey?” The sadness in my voice wakes an answering sympathy in my mother's.

“I'm okay, Mom. I'm just going to finish up my reading and cook something.”

“You sure, Laine?”

“Really, Mom, I'm fine.” I force brightness into my tone, and after repeated assurances, she hangs up.

I put down the phone and flip on my computer, then turn it off. No e-mail. I turn on the TV and flip channels. I can't settle, and there's only one thing in my life that lets me unwind.

I turn on some lights and go downstairs. Determined to lighten the mood, I turn on classical music, Camille Saint-Saëns and his romantic violins, and pull out a pot of Mom's leftover mushroom soup. When I have my cooking show, I think I'll use classical music for the show's theme, like Jeff Smith from the old episodes of
The Frugal Gourmet
before it went off the air. I can never hear that piece from Vivaldi's
Four Seasons
without remembering that show.

I open the pot of soup and sniff. Even cold it smells good. Much of what is in the fridge is from La Salle, but Mom actually made this mushroom soup herself, starting out with dehydrated mushrooms, onions, and white wine. I decide to make a matzo ball soup.

“To begin our stock, let's heat up the soup and add some leeks and four stalks of celery to revive the taste. While it is simmering, we'll mix up a cup of matzo meal with four eggs, a half teaspoon of plain club soda, finely chopped parsley, coarse ground black pepper, and a pinch of salt,” I inform my imaginary studio audience. I clear my throat. My studio voice needs work.

I mix up the matzo, place the sticky dough into the fridge, and go back to the soup. I add carrots and then hunt through the root cellar for something else. Our root cellar is just a wooden chest on the pantry floor, filled with clean sand, where Mom stores root veggies in the winter. There's not much in there now, but I find a rutabaga and a parsnip. I chop the rutabaga and add it to the soup, setting aside the strong-tasting parsnip for further study; Mom's constantly filling our root cellar with new and strange foods, and there's bound to be something good to do with this one.

I'm grating zucchini for the latkes, humming to the
Carnival of the Animals
and getting ready to talk to my audience about the merits of trying new flavors, when I hear the front door. Mom hasn't popped in to check on me in a long time. I must've sounded depressed on the phone. I'm feeling much better now. Cooking is such a beautiful distraction. I think when I have my cooking show, I'm going to have Mom drop by and do a show just on that.

“Hey, Mom? Do you think parsnips and carrots would work for latkes like the zucchini and summer squash? I think I might try…” I jerk, zucchini flying from nervous fingers.

“You rang?” Sim stands in the living room, holding his cell, a half smirk on his face.

“What are you doing here?!”

Sim's eyes are muddy dark, and his pupils are huge. He is pale and dusty, like he slept outside last night. He runs a hand through his hair and gives me a strained smile. “Sorry to scare you. I used my key.”

“Your key?!” My brain's still on “cooking show.” I can't process Sim being here.

Sim licks his lips nervously. “Yeah. Do you think you could—?”

“Wait, are you—?” Our sentences collide. I start again. “Sim, where have you been? Did you know your mom called here? And where'd you get a key?”

He holds out a key on a chain around his neck: our house key. “Seventh grade, remember? I watered the plants?”

“You made a
copy?
”

Sim sighs. “Laine, forget the key for a second, willya? I'm kind of stuck. I need a place to…” Simeon trails off, shrugs, and then smiles his usual smile. It looks more like a grimace.

“Sim, what's going on?”

“Ah, just the usual crap.” Sim smiles again, but he can't look at me.

“Oh, Sim…” Impulsively, I cross the room and awkwardly put my arms around him. He grips me like he's going to break my ribs. He has been outside for a while; I can feel it in the cold in his clothes. He smells like sour sweat, smoke, and other things that I can't quite name, like he hasn't changed clothes since the party.

“You can hang out,” I tell his collar. “I'm making soup, but you can have whatever. And you can sleep or talk, and Mom won't be home for a while, but I'll get you everything you need, and it'll be okay. Okay?”

I'm listening to Simeon's silence, my throat clogging as my words wind down. He doesn't make any noise as he holds on to me. No noise at all. And I fall silent in the face of such misery.

“Why,” Simeon croaks finally, “does everything always turn to crap?”

Man, what do I say to that?

Even as my heart is constricted in sympathy, I can feel myself wanting to run around the room screaming, “He's back! He's back!”

Simeon gives a huge sigh and leans away from me. “Um, Laine? Do you mind if I use your shower?”

My
shower?
“Um…okay. No problem. Do you want to wash your clothes? You can wear some of my old sweats….”

Sim nods. “Thanks. I…uh, haven't been home long enough to unpack.”

“Why not? Is—?”

“Laine.”
He sounds almost angry, and I back off. Things like, “Is everything okay?” and “Are the police looking for you?” are obviously not things someone cool would say. Instead, I show Sim our washer and dryer upstairs, dig out a pair of old sweats, comfort clothes from four sizes ago, and more of Mom's wool socks, and leave Sim clean towels. I go back downstairs and check on my soup, and because I can't think of anything else to do, I keep grating squash. That's what chefs do, I guess, when they need to. People have to eat.

By the time the latkes are done, I've chopped up a fresh apple, zapped it in the microwave until it's very soft, and added it to the warm applesauce and Chinese five-spice mixture I've made. I hesitate as I put it on the table; Sim might not like spicy applesauce. My stomach is cowering behind my ribs, and I hate how nervous I am. This is just Sim, my ex–best friend, the guy who totally blows me off unless he needs my physics notes. This is just food, just dinner, just something to eat. This isn't a cooking show, there are no lights and no studio audience, and there are no expectations for a gourmet meal, so why do I feel like this?

My hand shakes as I put out a bowl of plain yogurt to go with the latkes.

I turn down the mushroom soup, strain out the bits until I have a broth, and set aside the limp vegetables. The broth comes to a boil, and I roll the matzo dough, cold and stiff, into golf-ball-sized balls and drop them into the soup. The matzo balls sink like the sticky stones they are and finally rise, signaling their doneness.

Simeon still hasn't come downstairs.

I run my hands under the tap and dry them on a dish towel. I wonder nervously if Sim's okay, and I want to yell to him, like I would in times past, that dinner's ready, but the sound of his silence is strangling me. This is not a night for yelling and clomping up and down.

Finally, I go to the stairwell and suck in my breath, my heart banging against my ribs. Sim is sitting hunched over on the bottom stair.

“Sorry,” he mutters as I gasp and clutch my chest. “Didn't mean to scare you.”

He looks both better and worse. His hair is damp and curling back from his face, but his eyes look like empty, pink-rimmed holes in his tired face.