“Well, I’ll never look like her and have pretty clothes like her,” she snapped.
“Good,” Evan said. “I don’t want you to look like her, and I don’t want you to wear the things she wears.”
Clara was relentless. “I’m not good enough for you!” she cried. “Do you see the way people at school look at us? They wonder all the time why you’re with me. They think I’m a loser and that you just feel sorry for me and—”
He shut her up with a kiss. He pulled her close, holding her hostage in his arms as he kissed her hard. She squirmed to get away, but he wouldn’t let her. The longer she fought him, the longer his lips stayed glued to hers. He was in no mood to hear her talk anymore and wanted her to know it.
She stopped fighting and relaxed. He softened his kiss then, and drew slowly away from her face.
“Clara, I’m with you because I want to be. And I don’t give a shit about those other people. And I can’t take away this insecurity you have with the way you look and dress, but I’ll tell you over and over that I think you’re beautiful. Amy? She’s not beautiful. You are. So stop worrying about her. I don’t care about her, and neither should you.”
He looked at her in a new way. She’d never seen that look before. It dared her to argue, but it wasn’t threatening. She wasn’t afraid of it, but she felt she needed to respect that look, to respect the things he said to her, and to trust them.
She nodded. And then she flung her arms around his neck and squeezed him.
Evan chuckled. “So can we go put this star on the tree already?” he said softly into her ear while he stroked her back.
She nodded into his neck.
***
“I have no idea what I’m doing,” Clara said. She stood at the kitchen sink wrapped in her mother’s apron looking down at the thawed turkey. Beatrice stood beside her and glanced at the bird as well.
“Yes you do, Clara,” Beatrice replied. “You cooked that turkey with Ms. Debbie for Thanksgiving. You can do this. Just remember the steps.”
Clara breathed deeply. She wasn’t sure why she placed so much pressure on herself over this meal. She wanted it to be perfect, she guessed, more for Beatrice than herself. She knew she would never be able to do it like her mother, but she was going to try her damndest. Christmas Day would consist of a turkey, presents, and a holiday movie marathon. Those things always existed in the past—traditions that made the girls feel safe. Clara never felt so desperate to make herself and Beatrice feel safe.
“Okay. I remember Ms. Debbie pulling things out of the ends of the turkey that were wrapped in paper,” Clara said. She reached into the neck of the bird and pulled something out. As she described, it was wrapped in paper.
“What is it?” Beatrice asked intrigued. She leaned over to get a better look.
“I don’t know. Maybe an organ or something?” Clara offered. She set it on the counter in front of Beatrice noting her look of disgust.
Clara checked the other end and pulled more packages out. She lined them on the counter having no idea what to do with them.
“Okay,” she said taking a deep breath. “I think I should rinse it.”
“Agreed,” Beatrice replied. “I think I see blood and stuff in the hole down there.” She pointed and grimaced. “Clara, this is revolting.”
Clara laughed. “You know, anyone else your age would have said ‘gross’.”
“Because they don’t have my vocabulary,” Beatrice replied arrogantly.
“So true,” Clara said, turning the turkey over to rinse out the neck. She watched the blood and water mix to a soft pink then snake down the drain. “Remind me to sanitize this sink when we’re through.”
Beatrice nodded then grabbed the roasting pan and oven bag. Clara remembered Ms. Debbie go on and on at Thanksgiving about the importance of an oven bag.
“You have to use it, Clara,” Ms. Debbie had said. “Or else your turkey will dry out.”
“How did people roast turkeys before oven bags?” Clara asked.
“They had to take them out constantly and juice them,” Ms. Debbie replied. “Too much damn work,” and Clara watched as she cinched the bag with a tie and made a few small slits in the plastic. “So it doesn’t explode,” she explained when Clara asked.
Clara looked at the turkey she shoved in the bag. All she could picture was a huge explosion in her house, a Christmas up in flames, and she put more slits in the bag than she probably needed to.
“I’m so excited, Clara!” Beatrice squealed when the entire ordeal was done. The bird was in the oven, sitting on celery sticks tucked in a bag, rubbed down with oil and garlic, stuffed with the homemade stuffing that Clara made the previous night. It took her three hours, following the recipe carefully—her mother’s recipe with the oysters.
Clara looked around the kitchen. It was a mess. She let out a contented sigh.
“Wanna open a gift before we clean all this up?” she asked Beatrice.
“You bet!” Beatrice said scurrying to the living room.
“Okay, but just one,” Clara said, following behind her sister.
***
“I think I may just keep you around,” Evan said, taking another bite of his turkey. He closed his eyes in ecstasy. “This. Is. Amazing.”
Clara grinned her appreciation. “Well, Beatrice helped,” she said, though really all Beatrice did was stand around and watch.
“Did you know you could cook like this?” he asked, swirling his fork around his mashed potatoes, scooping up a sizeable lump.
“No,” Clara admitted. She watched him eat thinking she liked cooking for him. It wasn’t just him. She liked cooking for Beatrice, too, but she loved hearing him say he liked it, respond to it by closing his eyes, go on and on about it like it was the best food he’d ever tasted. She wondered if that was inherently female, to want to cook something for someone she loved and have him love it as much as she loved him.
Clara froze, afraid Evan could hear her thoughts. Did she mean it? Did she love him? She loved the way he responded to her food. But did she love him? Did he love her?
“Clara, I love—”