I wasn’t born with it, but I’d cultivated it over time. Away from home, I’d learned from my new friends how easy it could be to socialize. Now I could go to a party where I didn’t know anyone and be okay, even have fun. I’d met some of my best company this way. I wasn’t the life of the party, but I no longer felt like the death of it.
However, knowing everyone at a party could be even worse than not knowing anyone—so I was a little nervous as I approached Chad’s house Friday night. I knew every family and every kid and every cousin in town, and every single one of them knew me. Especially after my triumphs, winning cooking contest after cooking contest as a kid, started to make me stick out. Being emotionally invested in things like Vietnamese cinnamon versus Cambodian cinnamon tended to draw attention in your average American high school. And though Chad had been a “nice” popular kid, some of his friends sometimes fell over into the “mean” category. And some of them might be here tonight.
I was excited to be invited to a party; it made the prospect of spending the summer here more fun. But I’d be lying if I said there wasn’t a little bit of High School Roxie lingering as I reached the doorstep. I reminded myself that was then, this was now. Besides, I was carrying my famous Tuscan white bean dip, studded with lemon and garlic and accented with perfectly bias-cut brioche crostini. So there. I took a deep breath and rang the doorbell.
Logan answered the door with a big hug and a smile, took my dip, handed me a brush and pail, and just like that, I was at a Cool Kids Party. And yeah, there were people there whom I remembered, but they were actually glad to see me. They asked if I was still cooking, and expressed admiration at my graduating from one of the top cooking schools in the country and envy at my living in Los Angeles, a place that was still considered very exciting and “cool” and “awesome” and “dude, that’s fucking great!” No one knew how butter had sunk my career; they were just impressed I was doing something most people would never do, and they were curious.
It had never seemed hard or adventurous to me; it was just what I supposed to do. So now, chatting with people who thought I was brave for venturing out and doing something different from everyone else? Dude. I was cool.
I mingled happily, seeing more of the house. A big and sprawling old Victorian, it was in rough shape but beautiful. The main floor had gorgeous wide windows, wainscoting, and an enormous fireplace with built-in bookshelves on either side. The kitchen had been recently renovated, and Chad told me that when they knocked down an old closet to gain more room in the new kitchen, they found old newspaper clippings from a hundred years ago. The house oozed charm, even in the state it was in.
Everyone was assigned a room to paint, with each part of the house telling a different color story. I was trotted up to the third floor, where there was a giant converted attic space, with a small room off to the side with a curved exterior wall.
“Oh my goodness, is this the turret room ?” I exclaimed.
“Yes, it’s my favorite room in the house. The rest of the attic will be sort of a second living room, but I thought I’d make this into my home office,” Chad said as I explored.
“It’s perfect, I love it! What color will it be?”
He opened up a can and showed me the deepest, silkiest slate gray I’d ever seen. “I know conventional wisdom says a room this small shouldn’t be this dark, but I thought it’d be cozy.”
“No no, I think it’s perfect,” I said, laying down a drop cloth. “Now get outta here and let me paint your office.”
“Knock yourself out, sister. There’s more people coming over, and I’ll send a few up to paint the rest of the attic so you’re not alone up here for too long,” he said, then headed back downstairs.
I started pouring the dark, inky paint into the paint tray. This would be a great room.