We end up playing a game called Turn of Phrase, which is basically a mix of Cards Against Humanity, Pictionary and charades. I’ve always been kind of bad at charades; I can never translate the movie or whatever into actable motions quickly enough and always end up standing there awkwardly gesturing lamely with my hands and looking frustrated.
Tonight, though, the normalcy of the evening makes me dive into the game completely. When it’s my first turn to act, I draw the card and stand in front of everyone, and I don’t feel like they can see right through me. I have to act out the phrase not a single fuck was given, which would normally cause me to just stand there giggling and shrugging until time was up. But instead I wag a finger and thrust my hips and pass out imaginary items to everyone. It takes Emma only about twenty seconds to get it, and we hug in celebration. I’m so into the game I even forget about my exhaustion.
When I’m not acting, I find myself reaching out to Emma. In small ways, mostly, light touches that individually would probably be innocent and friendly but cumulatively speak to something more. At least I mean them to. I’m not sure how Emma sees it.
The game ends and the others jump into the lake. We lag behind, my hand reaching for hers. Crazy how I can tangibly reach for joy this way. Just be near her and I’m better. Emma bites her lip, looks at me seriously. “What was that about today? In the restaurant.”
I should say something true. I should tell her about her mom’s caveat. I should tell her that I had to go have a talk with my dead brother because sometimes I feel like I’m made of hay and that the wind could carry me away back to Mexico or else just scatter me into oblivion. “I had a phone call coming in,” I say. She studies my face for a moment, and I offer such a fake smile that I’m shocked she doesn’t see through my bullshit right away. Eventually she turns away, apparently believing me.
I don’t want to be the guy who lies to the people he loves. But I don’t want to make what we have about anything other than joy, don’t want it to unravel because of such a small thing. Emma splashes into the lake; an aura of electricity surrounds her. Her friends laugh nearby, and she swims over toward them, the glowing water harder to see in the distance. So I follow.
The night’s so warm, the water just as nice. I think: What a world. All of this feels unearned, sudden. It feels like it can be undone. I know everything can be, all too well. I splash over to Emma, catch my reflection in the water, whole despite the ripples. We float on our backs, looking up at so many stars it feels like the Milky Way is bearing witness to us.
CHAPTER 20
CHICKEN SKEWERS AL PASTOR
6 pounds chicken breasts
3 red bell peppers
3 green bell peppers
3 red onions
For the adobo:
2 cups orange juice
1 cup white vinegar
1 cup guajillo peppers, rehydrated
1 head of garlic
6 chipotle peppers, rehydrated
2 tablespoons oregano
2 tablespoons cumin
METHOD:
On my tenth day of training with Chef, I’m making another omelet. I rushed the first one and it fell apart before I could plate it, making Chef snort derisively and put me back on onions for the day. The second one looked good to me, but Chef stopped at the first bite, reached for the nearby ramekin of salt and dumped it over my head. I’d been so focused on the cooking time that I forgot to season.
This one, though, looks perfect. Not a tinge of brown, perfectly shaped and fluffy. I garnish it with a sprig of parsley on top. Even if she finds some fault in it, I hope she eats the whole thing, I’m so sick of eating eggs. Aside from the staff meals, it’s all I’ve eaten the last three days. I cook them back at the house constantly, for anyone that wants one. I beg them to.
Matt says the omelets are awful, but he eats them anyway. He’s toned down his insults in the kitchen when Chef’s around, but he still blames me for the other day. At work he simply doesn’t talk to me, including when he drops off hot pans, so I reach for them and burn myself. At home it’s a constant barrage of insults, most of them involving the word "crazy," which tells me he for sure heard me talking to the clouds that one day. Worst of all, when he saw Emma come over the first time he smirked and said, “I see what’s going on now. Chef playing favorites with the son-in-law. Smart move, rich boy.” It felt like I’d roped a noose around my neck and given Matt the other end.
Now Chef is examining the omelet, lifting it up with her fork to inspect the bottom. She lets it drop with a sneer, and pushes the plate back toward me. Her eyebrow’s raised. “You expect me to eat that? That’s not how you make an omelet.” Then she grabs the parsley sprig and pops it into her mouth. “Don’t waste a garnish on shitty food.”
When she’s gone, I pull out a squirt bottle of hot sauce I made at home, write out “fuck off” on top of the omelet. I’ve been buying ingredients out of pocket, bringing them for the staff meals in the hopes that it’ll impress someone. I had to stop buying Emma coffee in the mornings, partly because it looks too suspicious, partly because I’m running out of money. My first paycheck disappeared into rent and onions. I take a few bites of the omelet before pouring on the sauce, trying to figure out what’s wrong with it, why Chef pushed it away. The eggs are still runny, or I over-seasoned or, in the few seconds it took me to transfer the omelet to a plate, it lost all its warmth and I just served Chef a cold omelet.
I have no idea what’s wrong with it.
*
On my break, I take my phone outside. The messages from Mom have started to pile up, and my guilt has reached a breaking point. Today I realized when I think of my parents now, the first thing that comes to mind is no longer Dad’s parting words. There’s enough of a distance to it all finally, and I don’t even care that Dad cut off the credit card. Mostly.
Instead I just want to share things with my parents, tell them about everything. About Emma, about Chef, about how I’ve actually been cooking in the kitchen. I want them to know what’s going on here, want them to know I’m okay.
Taking a seat on a wooden crate outside, I scroll until I find Mom’s number and then dial, actually looking forward to the phone call.
“Carlos?”
“Hi, Mom. Sorry it’s taken me a while.”
There’s some background noise as she steps away from a conversation, maybe leaves whatever restaurant she’s having lunch at to talk outside. “It’s okay. I just missed your voice.”
“Voices aren’t a thing people miss, Mom.”
“I miss you, you idiot, that’s what I’m saying.” She sighs, and then there’s the sound of someone honking nearby. Just one honk at first, but then it’s answered by a choir of other cars, as if people think whoever acted first really had a good idea going and needs some support. Strangely enough it makes me miss Mexico City.
“How are you?” she asks.