Matt ignores me, points a finger at Elias. “What the hell is Chef thinking, man? This kid is nobody.”
Elias raises his hands up, palms out. “You wanna ask her, be my guest. Let me know in advance so I can be there to watch her tear your head off.”
Matt’s nostrils flare. “I worked my ass off to get here. We all did. I don’t like little rich shits who get things handed to them.”
I feel myself wanting to diffuse the situation, calm things down. I think about telling him about Felix, that I’m out of my mind, just so he doesn’t think my life is perfect. I spend half my time in the kitchen trying to remember not to talk to the wall, I want to say.
But none of it comes out. Instead I just stare back at Matt mutely, like an asshole.
“Jeez, man, relax,” Elias says. “Just ’cause he’s getting a little extra attention doesn’t mean anyone’s gonna chase you out of the kitchen. This isn’t fuckin’ Chopped.”
This elicits a chuckle from Rob, who tells Matt that he’s going to start the game again. Matt keeps staring at me for a second and then turns his attention back to the TV. “Whatever,” he mumbles, before he resumes button mashing. “You earn your place in a kitchen is all I’m saying.”
Elias and I sit down and watch them play for a while. I get quiet as the three of them start shooting the shit casually. I’m guessing I’m the only one who sees Felix on the screen, trying to dodge bullets. He’s not that good at it.
Felix winks at me from the screen when he respawns. If I were back home, with Danny and Poncho, I’d probably laugh at this. But here I feel the need to suppress the laugh, not give Matt any reason to snap at me again. I sit there on the couch quietly, trying not to be weird, wishing everything came as easily as it does with Emma. I watch Felix die again and again. The joke gets old pretty quickly.
CHAPTER 18
FRENCH ONION SOUP
4 onions, sliced (not chopped)
? cup butter
2 garlic cloves
? bottle red wine
2 quarts beef broth
2 bay leaves
2 thyme sprigs
1 loaf baguette
? pound gruyere cheese
METHOD:
On my fourth day of training with Chef, I’m still chopping onions. She sticks around a little longer this time, observing. Matt shows up early and circles like a vulture. When I get through all four onions that she brought out, I wipe the tears from my eyes, hoping we’ll move on to something else. “Too slow,” Chef says, and she brings out a whole bag of them.
I sigh and get ready to chop, willing myself not to just let muscle memory do its thing but to focus on speed, on technique. Curl my fingers away from the knife, rest my knuckles against the blade, chop. About three onions in Chef yanks the cutting board away from me, almost making me cut off a finger. Onions scatter to the ground. “You have no idea what you’re doing,” she says, and she leaves me to clean up the mess.
Seeking solace from the shame, I find Emma’s name in my phone. I think maybe I should just leave the kitchen and focus on the joy she provides. Felix whispers in my ear that she’s leaving the island, that I’m putting the kitchen at risk. I cast the thought away.
Underwater fireworks tonight? I write. I’ll buy some snorkel gear.
It feels like stolen joy, sending this message. Stolen from beneath Chef’s nose, Matt’s threats, Dad’s dismissal, Felix’s death. In the moments between my lessons with Chef and my shift beginning, a nameless weight threatens to beat me down. It’s the one I’ve been trying to keep at bay for months. But before I had no way to deal with it other than the kitchen, and now Emma’s response keeps it at bay: See you tonight.
*
Day five, I chop. Blade sharpened, fingers curled away, wrist flicking as quickly as possible. Thwack, thwack, thwack, the knife slices through onions as if asking for a harder task. Felix stands behind me, trying to encourage me. “Too sloppy,” Chef says. “These have to be even, every time. Look at this,” she says, grabbing a pinch of onion and holding it under my nose. “Does that look even to you?”
I can barely see the onion, it’s so far up my nose. All I get is that sting of its smell, and I pretend that’s the only reason my eyes water. “No, Chef,” I say.
My phone buzzes a few minutes later and I dry my hands to pick it up. Do you think both of us could fit under my hostess stand?
Probably, I text back, knowing I’m smiling just as wide, and if Chef bothered to stick around she’d know right away what it means. I’m really good at folding myself. Why do you ask?
Not making out with you gets hard at work.
I get a sinking feeling in my stomach. A nagging voice within me tells me to just let Emma know what’s going on, be honest, ask her if we can sneak around instead of hiding this from her. Except I don’t think I can handle this one good thing turning hard, don’t want to think about anything but the joy in front of me.
*
Day six. Thwack, thwack, thwack. Last night Emma came over and we wore snorkel gear as I chopped my way through onion after onion, protecting each other from teary eyes, though I’m not so sure my eyes are affected anymore. There are now at least a dozen gallon bags full of chopped onion piled into the freezer at home. Matt asked what the hell we were doing, but when Emma’s around he’s a little more civil. All the more reason to spend my days with her.
“Not fast enough,” Chef says. “You’re wasting my time and my fucking onions. Bring your own tomorrow.”
I swear there’s a hint of a smile on her face as she says this. I’m becoming increasingly convinced that she’s just a sadist. That these morning sessions are nothing but a way for her to torture me. “Don’t be dramatic,” Felix says. “She’s just demanding.” I bite my tongue.
*
Day seven. I wait in front of the cutting board until Chef’s at my side. The longer she keeps me waiting, the more I notice that my shadow’s still gone, that my fingers are see-through. Nameless weights and ghosts build up, Felix as more than a memory.
I’m determined not to let anything she says get me down today, though. I think of Emma, think of the joys of the island. Chef finally shows up and gives me a little nod, and I pick up the knife exactly the way I know I should. I make sure the board is on a wet towel to keep it from moving, make sure the blade is sharp, make sure everything is in its right place. Then I let my fingers take over.
The onion is chopped into perfectly even pieces in a flash. It’s getting to be like I’m breathing this. I wipe my knife, put it down, step away to allow Chef to inspect the pile. There is no way she’ll have a complaint now. This was perfect.
“Jesus Christ, Carlos, a six-year-old would have learned how to do this by now.”