When I look up, Emma’s got her eyes on me, her legs swinging slightly so that the heels of her sneakers hit the cupboard by her feet. The arrhythmic beat fills the motel room, and I can’t even hear my thoughts over it.
I’m afraid she’ll bring up the fact that she caught me talking to myself. The thumping of her shoes feels like that countdown music on Final Jeopardy and I have to say something or a buzzer will go off and someone will take away ten thousand dollars from me. So I ask her if she knows what she wants to do with her life, because that’s a question everyone lobs at everyone else, right?
She opens her eyes, tilts her head toward me with a look that says: Really? “No idea. I’ve got time to figure that out. Probably a few more drunken makeouts before I need to really decide.”
I force a chuckle. Wipe the knife blade, put it on its block. Petty jealousy in the pit of my stomach, and I think that maybe it’s replacing some of the other pain I’ve been living with but that it’s pain either way. “What about school? Do you have that figured out yet?”
“Yeah, to an extent.” Emma reaches over to the plate of cheese I sliced into thin strips since there’s no grater, scoops a pinch into her mouth, chews with pleasure. “I know I’m going to University of Washington in the fall. Not much more than that. Go around looking for imaginary friends, I guess.” She laughs. I fold the cheese into the tortillas, press down with the back of the fork so the cheese will melt the two sides together. A little square slips out of the pocket, sizzles as soon as it hits the pan. I let it brown for a second before I scrape it off with the edge of the fork, and offer it to Emma. She uses her finger to grab the burnt cheese off the fork, slip it into her mouth, gives a gentle sigh. “You? You have it all planned out, right? The glamour of the kitchen. I could see it in your eyes yesterday. I just wanted to help, you know...” She flicks both wrists forward, as if she brushing flies away from her food. “Push things along.”
“I don’t know if planned out really applies to me. I have no idea what I’m doing,” I say, and then try to chuckle when I realize that’s exactly right. I have no idea what I’m doing. Maybe what she saw in my eyes yesterday was only psychosis. “I don’t know why I stayed to work today,” I admit. “My brother used to tell me I should work in kitchens. But I never really thought it was an option.”
“Well, it sure is now.”
“Yeah, did I mention how weird that was?” I laugh. “I’m only supposed to be here a week.” I slide the fork under each quesadilla and lift them off the pan, placing them on a small plate. I try to appreciate this moment and not cling to anything else. Just this.
She takes the plate and looks me in the eyes, swaying a little but not breaking eye contact. “You should stay longer,” she says, taking her glasses off and resting them on her lap. I want to say something smooth and flirty, but nothing comes to mind. “You are the nicest dickhead I’ve ever met,” she says, barely acknowledging her own joke before she takes a large bite of the quesadilla.
I laugh and take a bite of my own, thinking maybe this is where the night changes. After this we’ll go out into the breezeway, chat until the sun rises, her head resting on my shoulder. It’ll be one of those nights where secrets spill out and bind you closer to another person.
But Emma takes a few bites and then leans her head back against the wall, falling asleep before we can say anything else to each other. So I go to the bathroom and scrub at my forehead with soap and a sponge that barely works. When the water and suds start to drip down my neck and onto my shirt, I realize that I still smell like dirty dishes and grease, so I hop in the shower, trying not to be lulled to sleep by the warm water. Condensation on the tiles forms into Felix’s face, and I immediately smack the wall, wiping the droplets away. I keep my eyes closed the rest of the shower, breathing slowly, trying to think of nothing but water.
When I come back out, Emma’s gone. Our empty plates are pushed to the side, half-inch-wide trails left in the salsa, perfect fingers running through the spilled leftovers. I stand for a long time looking at the space she occupied, wishing she hadn’t left me alone.
CHAPTER 10
GRILLED CHICKEN KEBABS
3 pounds chicken breasts, cut into 1-inch cubes
1 red bell pepper
1 green bell pepper
1 red onion
1 cup mushrooms
For the marinade:
1 bunch parsley
1 bunch cilantro
1 shallot
3 tablespoons dried oregano
? cup vegetable oil
? cup red wine vinegar
3 cloves garlic
1 tablespoon red pepper flakes
METHOD:
Ah, coffee.
Now I get it. Why the whole world reaches for this first thing in the morning.
It’s six in the morning, and the kitchen is preparing for another brunch. Everyone’s quiet as they arrive, bloodshot eyes, sleep still creaking their joints. Without coffee I’d be a zombie. Felix, fucking class clown that he is, walks through the kitchen as an actual zombie, hands out in front of him, groaning.
I bought a second coffee for Emma at a nearby bakery, figuring she’d need it after last night. But she’s not in, so I offer it to Elias instead. “Did you get enough sleep last night?” he asks.
I laugh, a little confused. “We got off work, like, five hours ago.” Last night when I set my alarm, I was sure I was doing the math wrong, no one could possibly survive off this little sleep and go work around flames and blades. I can’t imagine this exhaustion being a part of your daily life.
That thought makes me wonder why I’m here. Why I bothered getting out of bed to come back. Why I’m not on the way to Mexico. Instead, I filled out that application and gave it to Sue first thing this morning, imagining the look on Dad’s face if he saw me doing it. I didn’t want to picture the look on Mom’s face.
Elias smiles wide, a smile that reminds me of Felix when he was being a smartass. “Welcome to the restaurant world.” I get giddy at the words and start thinking that this island really is magic; that’s the only explanation for how I’ve managed to find myself here so quickly. Then, keeping that same smile, Elias says, “Don’t fuck anything up today. If the dishwashers fall behind, we all do, and I do not feel like falling behind.” The giddiness dissipates a little.
I go to my station to check in with Roberto, but nothing’s piled up yet, so I get to go back out in the kitchen, watch it slowly come to life. Lourdes comes in carrying a huge vat of something, which she puts on a burner. A few cooks gather around her station, talking about last night. Vee has a distinctly rum-like smell to her. Memo stayed past the bar’s closing, so there’s conjecturing as to whether or not he and the bartender, Lisa, went home together. Isaiah bets Gus three prep-sheet items that Memo was successful. I’m happy to feel invisible, as long as no one brings up the whole penis-on-my-forehead thing.