I’m really more of a baker, but it used to make my mom happy when dinner was already made when she got home. Paul can barely make toast on his own, so it was up to me. It’s kind of refreshing that there’s one thing he can’t do.
No, I’m not self-conscious about liking to bake. Yes, I’ve definitely been teased about it before, but screw them. They can’t feed themselves and I can. That’s powerful. It’s really the only truly powerful thing about me. I might not always have a handle on my life, but if I’m hungry, I have more options than grilled cheese and cereal. And if I ever need to cook for anyone else, I can do it. There’s something liberating about being able to make food. No one will ever have to slave over a hot stove for me. I have that at least.
I also don’t experience as many symptoms when I’m cooking. It takes too much of my concentration. It’s a precise art. Okay, you can take a few liberties with herbs and spices, but every detail can be replicated with the right amount of practice.
The other night, when I went to make breaded chicken, I noticed that someone had hidden all the knives. When I asked my mom about it, she hesitated before telling me that Paul thought it was a good idea for someone to be home if I was going to be cooking. She didn’t look me in the eye, which made me think about the conversation they must have had about getting rid of dangerous stuff. It was kind of out of character for Paul. He has a reason for everything he does. I have no idea what might’ve spooked him.
It was pretty crappy of them. I mean they could’ve just told me. I would’ve understood. I don’t want them to be afraid of me. They didn’t have to hide everything so I looked like some unbalanced psychopath. It’s not like I’m going to stop cutting the chicken and go after people because I’m feeling “stabby.”
I mean, it’s unlikely.
Right?
—
Maya saw my notebook. The one I keep my recipes in. When she asked me about it, I just shrugged and told her I like to cook.
“Cook what?” she asked.
“Everything.” I told her about my mom and how she always worked late, but no matter how tired she was she still dragged me to the kitchen table to talk about my day over a meal. Even if it was only cereal. She thought that was important. Sharing a meal with someone. And ever since then, I’ve thought that the meal should matter. It should mean something.
Which is funny because Mom is a pretty average cook. I don’t mean that she’s bad or anything. In fact, most of the stuff she makes is tasty. She just doesn’t love cooking, and you can always taste that in the food.
Country-style biscuits are the only things she makes with absolute love. Big, fluffy, butter-filled lumps of cheesy goodness. They’re the first things I learned how to bake, and they’re the only things my mom still makes better.
I guess I’d been talking for a while, because when I looked up, Maya had taken off her glasses. She was different without them. I hadn’t noticed the tiny flecks of green in her eyes until then. Then I realized I was staring at her.
“So that was a lot of personal, warm, fuzzy information that you probably didn’t need,” I said. She handed back my notebook and smiled.
“My mom can’t stand cooking,” she said. “She’s always hated it. There are three of us kids, me and my little brothers. Plus my dad. When she gets home from the hospital, she doesn’t even want to look at the kitchen. Dinner is basically whatever I feel like making. So a lot of scrambled eggs at our house.” She looked tired for a moment.
“My dad doesn’t make a regular paycheck,” she told me matter-of-factly. “He’s a freelance plumber. And he makes decent money when work is stable, but when it’s not, my mom takes on extra shifts and he stays home with the boys.” She looked at me again. “They weren’t ready for twins.”
“I don’t think anyone is ready for that. That’s like one hundred percent more baby,” I said.
“And so much poop. The diapers were unreal.” She shuddered and I laughed.
She didn’t say any more on the subject, so I had to fill in the blanks myself. Two kids when you are only expecting one makes for more work and costs more money. Maya didn’t say it like her mom felt as if she had been dealt a low blow. She’d accepted it and moved on. And the fact that her dad was there with her brothers was a good thing.
You asked me to describe Maya. Did you mean physically? Seems kind of pervy for you to ask me to tell you what she looks like in excruciating detail.
She’s tiny.
I’ve said that before, but I’m not sure you understand. People have called me Sasquatch and Frankenstein my whole life, and when Maya sits next to me, I actually look the part. Seriously. Torch-wielding villagers would come to her aid if they saw us together.
She’s got huge eyes, like an innocent woodland creature’s, and small hands that always move when she talks.
Personality-wise, I probably should also mention that Maya isn’t exactly friendly. From my limited experience so far, it’s absolutely clear that she doesn’t like people in general. I mean, she’s kind and everything—but she has a finite circle of people who she actually cares about. If she chooses you, it’s kind of a big deal. She doesn’t like to waste her time. So I guess I should be clear. She’s not indiscriminately kind. She’ll size you up, and if she deems you worthy, she will talk to you.
She doesn’t really give a shit about too many kids at school, but she does act weird around Ian. Instead of walking headlong through the crowd of kids gathering around the bulletin board between classes, she pulled over to one side to let him pass.
She didn’t exactly do anything differently, but the air around her seemed to press in as she watched him go.
“Problem?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said. But she didn’t elaborate. She does things like that a lot.
She came over last night for dinner. It was my mom’s idea. Actually, she just couldn’t handle not meeting Maya for another second. No matter how many times I tell her we’re just friends. She’d just smile in that annoying way she always does, like she knows something I don’t. Then she’d wink.
I hate winking.
I made macaroni and cheese from scratch with broccoli and chicken. I didn’t want to go too fancy, even though I make a wicked béarnaise sauce, because I didn’t want to look like a douche. Anyway, Maya seemed to really like it.
“So, Maya, how did you and Adam meet?” Paul asked. My mom threw him a sharp look. I’d made her promise not to ask too many questions, and Paul had just wasted one that wouldn’t give her any new information. Or so she thought.
“You saved her from drowning?” my mom shouted a few minutes later when Maya finished telling the story.
“Well, that actually wasn’t the first time we met. I got lost on the first day, and she walked me to class,” I said.
“Yeah,” said Paul. “That’s the more interesting story. You should lead with that.”
Maya and my mom laughed, and I shrugged.
“You didn’t tell me anything about this!” Mom protested, looking at me with indignation.