How to Meet Boys (18 page)

Gus answered the door with a smile. I felt myself blush a little as he looked at me. “Hi! Come on in.”

“Mom, this is Gus,” I said. “Gus, this is my mom.”

“Call me Kerri,” she said, shaking his hand. “What a gorgeous space you have here.”

I’d have to tell Gus later that my mom couldn’t look at a house as anything other than an investment. We followed him into the back of the house—a gigantic kitchen with gleaming stainless steel appliances, white accessories, and French country décor (sue me, I know these things thanks to my mom). There was a long island with a black marble counter and three white stools lined up at it. “Have a seat,” Gus said. “Chef Michael? Kerri and Lucy Carpenter are here.”

“Who?” He glanced over his shoulder at us. “Ah yes. Hello. Bring me the samples, Gus.” He clapped his hands together briskly.

“This is great!” my mother said cheerfully. “I actually like to see how people work, where they do the cooking.”

“Good, because you’ll need to. I’m in a rush,” the chef replied.

“I’m sorry?” Mom asked. “I thought we had booked an appointment with you.”

“You may have, but I took on a last-minute engagement party. You know how that goes. Suddenly the mother of the bride realizes she’s not up to serving fifty people, she calls me,” the chef complained, sounding proud at the same time.

“Yes, but . . . a person can say no,” my mother said, “when that person has a prior engagement.”

He didn’t seem to hear her, which was probably a good thing. “I have all your samples ready to taste. I took the liberty of selecting some wine samples as well.” Chef Michael had shoulder-length hair, was a bit on the heavy side, and wore a white apron over a ratty gray T-shirt, baggy shorts, and leather Greek-style sandals. He looked kind of sloppy, but then again, he was in his kitchen.

“Some people are front of the house,” my mother said under her breath, “and some people are back of the house. Or they should be.”

I was beginning to think that Blue Cove didn’t stand a chance of becoming the caterer for my mom’s wedding. But then he started handing us plate after plate of sample appetizers. I tried a chicken satay stick, a spring roll, a shrimp puff . . . I was so hungry. Everything looked so good.

“What’s this?” I asked, pointing to a spread on a cracker.

“Walleye caviar,” the chef said. “It’s my special recipe. Try it.”

I investigated the cracker more closely. It looked terrible to me, but I knew I should be more adventurous when it came to gourmet food.
Do the opposite of what you’d normally do, for once
, I thought.
Take a chance.

I took a small bite. It tasted salty, but that was about it.

“People would kill to have a free sample like that, right?” Chef Michael asked me.

“Mmmmmaybe,” I murmured, feeling like caviar was just another word for glue or paste. My lips felt stuck together.

“I read about that in
St. Paul
magazine,” said my mom. “That’s one of the reasons I’m here. What’s in it?”

“A chef never tells. Unless he is paid to tell.” He smiled a sort of smarmy smile that made me wonder if he really thought he was being charming. Because he wasn’t. “Gus!” he suddenly yelled, again with the hand-clapping. “Cheese plate. What are you waiting for?”

“Here you are.” Gus set down a basket of sliced baguette bread and a plate that was covered with small wedges of a variety of cheeses. I admired him for being so polite when his boss was screaming at him.

“No. This bread is sliced too thickly. Do you want the old ladies to break their dentures?” He grabbed a fresh baguette from a different basket and whacked it onto the counter in front of Gus. Was it my imagination or did he nearly hit Gus on the nose? “Do it again,” he said.

It was like catering boot camp.

“Old ladies?” my mother said. “To whom are you referring?”

“The engagement party. Any engagement party. There’s always a lot of old birds,” Chef Michael said.

“They’re called matures,” my mother replied, “in the real estate business. You should show some respect. Your customers will notice. Now, I’d like to try a couple of your salads. The watercress, in particular.”

My mother verified that the Caesar salad was made with real Caesar dressing—lemon, egg, and anchovy—and then told me to taste a few bites, as if I knew what a top-of-the-line Caesar salad should taste like. “Mom, why am I sampling everything and you’re not?” I asked.

“I’m waiting for the desserts,” she said. “Everyone remembers the desserts.”

“Well, I need a break.” While they talked salad options and prices, I went over to the prep counter where Gus was working. “Wow,” I said as I watched him chop almonds. “You really know what you’re doing.”

Gus looked slightly insulted as he glanced up at me. “Of course I do.”

“Sorry! I just—I have no skills when it comes to chopping and slicing. You look like someone on
Top Chef
.”

“I wouldn’t go
that
far,” Gus said, laughing.

“Neither would I,” Chef Michael commented, peering over at the cutting board. “You missed a few.” He pointed to some larger pieces of almond.

Gus cleared his throat. “I always do that,” he said, sounding a little irritated, as if he’d explained this before. “Then people know they’re hand-chopped,” Gus said. “It’s more authentic.”

“If someone wants authentic, they can cook at home,” Chef Michael said. “They’re coming to us for a professional product. When they order the almond crème brûlée tart, they want small pieces.” He leaned over, took the knife from Gus, and rapidly chopped the remaining almonds.

Gus looked at me and mouthed “Why am I here?”, partially crossing his eyes.

I was in the middle of sampling a mini cheese quiche and nearly choked from laughing.

“Now, on to the dessert tray,” Chef Michael said.

“
Now?
” I said. “After all that?”

“Take littler bites in the future,” the chef said.

“Could have told me that before,” I whispered to Gus. My mom was barely sampling anything—while I had eaten about three meals’ worth. “Mom,
you
taste the cake. I’m done.”

“I have four cake samples for you. One’s very traditional. . . ” Chef Michael started pulling plasticware out of the giant stainless refrigerator. He cut small pieces from each and set them in front of her. While she was tasting the cakes, I edged closer to Gus. “Is this guy for real?” I whispered.

“Unfortunately, yes. You okay?” he asked. “You look a little full.”

“Oh, yeah. It’s like Thanksgiving. In June. But whatever,” I said. Then I whispered, “How can you stand him? He’s horrible.”

Gus nodded. “Told you,” he said, barely opening his mouth.

“Lucy, you
have
to try this,” my mom insisted, handing me a small plate. “Chocolate mousse cake.”

“People think it’s cute up north to call it ‘moose’ on their menus. Like the four-legged creature.” Chef Michael sniffed. “I, however, do not.”

“Well, la-di-da,” I whispered, thinking that if Chef Michael looked like anything else in the mammal world, it was most definitely a moose. A conceited, badly dressed moose. “Please don’t pick him, Mom,” I said when he left the room to fetch some wine samples for her. “I mean, no offense to you,” I said to Gus. “You’re awesome.”

He blushed bright red, and as I noticed that, I felt my own cheeks flush with color. We were really a couple of dorks, trying to out-embarrass each other. If there were an Embarrass Olympics? I’d get silver to his gold. That’s how bad it was.

“Uh, it’s . . . no problem,” he said, his voice all rough and strained as if he had suddenly developed laryngitis. “So I was wondering. Do you want to go kayaking sometime?”

“Kayaking? Um . . ”

“I know what I’m doing. I mean, if you don’t. And I’m not saying you don’t, I have no idea, but if you were worried or anything—”

“I’ve kayaked before,” I told him.

“So you want to go, then?” he pressed.

I started to say “Sure,” but then I chickened out halfway through and switched it to “Maybe,” so it came out “Schmaybe.”

Schmaybe. That would be my superhero name. Captain Schmaybe.

Sometimes I really hate myself.

“What was that?” Gus asked. “Was that Norwegian?”

“No.” I focused on the little teeny freckles on his nose. “I mean, yes,” I said. “I would like that.”

“Being Norwegian?” Gus said.

“Kayaking.” Then I smiled the most awkward smile of my life, just to stop myself from saying something else. Kayaking was not exactly a romantic situation. I’d be fine. I’d be able to spend more time with Gus, getting to know him, without it being an actual date where I’d have to find out if he liked me. Or not.

The only problem was that suddenly I started feeling not so good. My stomach felt as if it was hosting a wrestling tournament. Chocolate mousse on one side, walleye caviar on the other. I never ate so much rich—and strange—food at one time. I’d been trying to impress Gus by sampling everything, so he’d think I was a foodie. Instead I was feeling more like a deadie, or at the very least extremely nauseous.

“Excuse me,” I said to Gus. “Uh, Mom.” I edged closer to her. “We have to get going.”

“We do?” she asked, but she didn’t look disappointed. She’d already crossed Chef Michael off her list, I could tell. “All right then, we do.” She exchanged some pleasantries with the chef and with Gus while I headed for the car. I needed to get home, and fast.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

I ordered a cold press coffee at
Earl Grey’s and as I waited for it, spotted a near-empty tray of snickerdoodle cookies in the baked goods case.

I had to get one, right?

I thought of the first time Jackson and I had stood so close to each other here, and how we’d talked as if it was no big deal. It felt like a long time ago. I still couldn’t understand how it was possible to physically miss someone so much. When we weren’t together, it was hard not to count the minutes until we were going to be.

It was a feeling I wished I could share with Lucy, but she hadn’t talked to me much lately. I’d tried a few times to have a conversation, but she brushed me off, saying she was late for something or other.

I sat down at the small round table where Ava and Lucy had staked out a spot. I didn’t know what Ava was up to, but she’d demanded we both be here for a mandatory house meeting. She’d promised that it was about something fun.

Lately, whenever Lucy and I were in the same room, it wasn’t fun.

“The reason I’ve called you all here,” Ava began, as if she were giving a formal speech, “is because it’s time to have that party we keep talking about. Now, we know that the Fourth of July is tomorrow and we missed that boat, but that doesn’t mean we can’t plan something for next weekend. It’s high time we got going on this, because we don’t want to have just
one
blowout party, right? This is going to be the first of many. Or at least, a couple. So what are your ideas?”

I noticed Lucy was only drinking a cup of water. “How are you feeling, by the way?” I asked. She’d had a case of food poisoning and stayed with her grandparents the past twenty-four hours so they and her mom could take care of her and make sure she was recovering okay.

“A little shaky,” Lucy said. “But getting back to normal.”

“Good, I’m glad,” I said. “It’s so awful what happened.”

“Okay, okay, it is awful, and we’re sorry,” Ava interrupted, “but let’s talk about something more
fun
. Who would like to present an idea for our first party? Okay, fine, I’ll start. What do you guys think of a Hawaiian luau theme?”

Lucy and I both looked at Ava with raised eyebrows. “No,” we said in unison.

Well, at least we could still agree on something.

“Too tacky,” I said, breaking off a part of cookie and offering it to Lucy and Ava.

Lucy shook her head. “It’s too cutesy,” she said.

Ava gestured to me. “Fine. Your turn, then.”

I thought about it as a bite of snickerdoodle cookie dissolved on my tongue. “How about if we have just an old-fashioned, no-frills barbecue and cookout?” I suggested.

“Cooking for everyone? That’s way too much work,” said Lucy. “We don’t have a grill, anyway.”

“We could probably borrow one,” I said. “Maybe from your grandparents?”

“I don’t know. Who wants to cook all night?” said Lucy.

“Fine. No barbecue,” I said. “Let’s hear your idea.”

Lucy looked up at the ceiling for a minute. “This is hard. How about a This Is Not a Fourth of July party? Or wait, how about we call it the Independence Party? Maybe it wouldn’t be the Fourth of July, but we are living on our own . . . and that is kind of why we’re celebrating.”

“True. But I’m worried no one will get it. They’ll think it’s a political event,” I said.

“Seriously? Who is going to think that, really?” Lucy said with a laugh.

“Never mind what
they’d
think. It’s not a good theme if you have to explain it,” Ava said. “All right, my turn. The theme could be . . . hey, we could call it a housewarming party! Because lately? The house has lacked warmth. I’m just saying.”

I shifted in my chair. I knew what she was getting at: this seemingly endless feud between me and Lucy. I felt bad, but I didn’t know what to do about it. Lucy was being so stubborn and unwilling to accept the fact I was seeing Jackson. She was freezing me out of her life. I was waiting for it to pass, like an awkward stage, but it didn’t seem to be going anywhere. It was like her feet were buried in the sand—deep, deep down. She wasn’t budging. She thought I was wrong and that was that.

Although I hadn’t been completely honest with her when I told her I knew Jackson, I’d told her right away when we turned from acquaintances into something more. I’d apologized for it being awkward, and for the fact I’d ended up with him. If she’d let me talk to her longer than fifteen seconds, maybe I could explain things better.

“We don’t have to have a theme or make it anything super special,” I said. “Can’t we just have appetizers and drinks and play some music, maybe get some yard games? Beanbag toss, croquet, horseshoes . . ”