My Bittersweet Summer (8 page)

My temper simmered. “At what point do
I
stop owing them, Mom? Maybe give Zach one more chance to kill me? Would that do it?”

She reached out to me, but I slipped away from her, untying my apron and tossing it on a counter. “You know what? Maybe you’re right. I’ll find something else to do today.”

I spun on my heel, stalking out of the kitchen even when she called out to me.

“Margie?” my dad said after me as I crossed the main floor to the front door. “What’s going on?”

I didn’t answer him, pushing open the exit door and leaving without further explanation.

The heat wasn’t unbearable yet, but walking in the afternoon sun dressed in black slacks and a long-sleeved white shirt wasn’t exactly comfortable. As I went, I undid my buttons and slid my arms out, the ocean breeze feeling great through my white tank top and over my bare arms. An unlucky pebble got in my way, and I kicked it down the pavement. It was a mile walk to Edelweiss Cake Shop, and I took the time to relive events I’d successfully pushed away for six years.

It had been a particularly rough day at school. I was greeted by not one, but four dead mice in my locker that had sat there all weekend, leaking bodily fluids on my math book. Matt repeatedly snapped my bra strap all through history, which was mortifying that he even knew I wore one. At lunch, one of them tripped me, probably Chad, sending me sprawling face first into my lunch. But that wasn’t even the end of my day.

Most afternoons, I’d hide out in the bathroom after school, waiting for the majority of kids to be picked up or walk home. I was excited, though, as the second part of some TV show was airing at four, and if I hurried I could make it home in time to watch it.

That was a terrible mistake on my part, but how was I supposed to know Zach and his friends were all headed to the Robinson house that same afternoon?

They were about a block ahead of me when I realized my error and got spotted.

“Hey, Mousy!” Chad called back. “Why don’t you come play with us?”

If I’d learned anything, it was to not engage during those situations. They kept walking, so I did too, although a little slower than before. I was almost to my turn off.

“We’ve got great games for you, Margie Mouse.” Matt said. “I could teach you things you didn’t know you could do in a kitchen!”

I stopped at the corner leading up to my driveway. Kitchens were sacred to me. A happy kitchen meant a happy home. How could they make something I loved so gross to think about? Anger swelled inside me and I glared.

“I wouldn’t get within half a mile of your nasty kitchen, Rosenberg!”

I blinked. Crap. I was going to get it for that one.

The boys stopped. Matt turned slowly. “What did you say to me, Mouse?”

Immediately losing my courage, I spun and sprinted up the driveway. I heard them coming when I was halfway up the hill. My lungs burned and my calves ached from exertion, but I’d be damned if I’d stop until I was inside my house, behind a locked door.

I ran, fleeing from the voices calling behind me, threatening me with every step I took. Each second felt like an eternity, and my house looked farther away the closer I got. But if they caught me…

Five more steps and I’d be to the door. I fumbled in my pocket for my key, still running, but I had to get inside before they caught up. Three steps…

My foot hooked under something and time seemed to stop. I watched the ground getting closer, unable to think, unable to move. The corner of the cement step loomed before me and I shut my eyes, trying to turn away from the pain I knew was imminent.

But I didn’t feel anything after that. My world went black, and the next thing I knew I was waking up in the hospital with stitches and the worst headache I’d ever had up to that point. There were conversations going on around me, but the most I got was a little hostility and a lot of apologizing between adults. It took a week before I willingly said more than yes or no to anyone. I’d talked back and it put me in the hospital. No one talked back to Matthew Rosenberg. I was being punished for opening my mouth.

At least, that’s what I convinced myself happened. My parents took me out of school and we moved away a few weeks later, when I was mostly healed. I started my sessions with Dr. Hooper not long after.

I kicked another rock and it clunked into a big blue mailbox. Looking up, I saw I’d gone a block too far and headed back up the street. Maybe bugging Destiny at work would take my mind off of the rest of it. I could burn off the cupcake on the walk home.

Foundation. Powder. Eyeliner. Blush. Mascara.

The order I put on makeup was the same every time, but I kept picking up the wrong thing. My head was elsewhere, busy worrying about all of the things that could go wrong on opening night.

It wasn’t that I was worried about me, but I was worried for my parents. They’d put their reputations on the line to resurrect a dying restaurant, and the smallest misstep could result in a horrible review if the wrong person saw it, which would be an absolute disaster for Le Beau Tournée. Opening night wasn’t going to be business as usual, per se, but more of an invitation-only gathering: the first test for being accepted amongst the wealthy clientele of Carrinaw Island.

I paid close attention to make sure every long brown hair on my head was pinned in place, and coated it in hairspray for good measure. Exiting the bathroom with a chem trail following me, I put on my shoes, grabbed my wallet and phone, and headed for the front door.

“Ready?” my mom said, dressed in a sharp black skirt suit. She always looked put-together, but even her hair was styled with extra care.

I smiled and kissed her cheek. “Sure am. You look great, Mom.”

She took a deep, satisfied breath and smiled back. “Thanks. We’d better get going, though, or your father will give us grief about being high-maintenance.”

We talked some on the way to Le Beau Tournée, mostly about her fears for the evening, which I reassured with the normal responses of “it’ll be fine” and “that’s not going to happen.” Most of her concerns were over whether they’d ordered enough of certain food items, but I assured her the restaurant had enough to feed an army and still have leftovers.

“Chef Antoine says we’ll be fine, so I’m sure it will be,” I said. “He’s been prepping for the last two days. I mean, I thought I spent a lot of time there, but I don’t think he’s left the kitchen since he got here.”

“He has been very dedicated, hasn’t he?” my mother said. “We had to nearly shove him out the door last night so we could lock up.”

Chef Antoine D’Abignon had shown up three days before, instantly throwing himself into familiarizing himself with the kitchen and staff. To my chagrin, he barely afforded me a passing glance when I was introduced, as though I wasn’t as important as the rest since I was a “wherever she’s needed, but mostly in the kitchen” worker without a specific title. The only time I ever felt bad about knowing all aspects of the restaurant business was when he nodded at me and turned away to talk to someone else. How was I going to get a rec letter from someone who hadn’t spared me more than two seconds of acknowledgement? I resolved to work extra hard in everything I did at Le Beau Tournée. I’d earn his respect if it killed me. Admittedly, I had Michelin stars in my eyes.

Things were already in motion when we arrived at the restaurant. The wait staff was hurriedly straightening place settings, the three bartenders were double-checking their stock and opening bottles to insert pouring spouts, and my dad was flitting from place to place, looking over each shoulder to make corrections when he saw they were needed. Not about to disturb him, I left him to my mother and beelined for the kitchen.

“Too thin,” Chef Antoine said to an assistant stirring something in a pan. “Your heat is too low and the seasoning overdone.”

The sous chef, an enthusiastic black man in his mid-forties by the name of Kareem, deflated a little. Without being told, he removed the pan from the burner and dumped what looked to be the makings of truffle cream sauce for the wild mushroom chicken directly down the drain. I wondered how many times he’d done that. Kareem was usually pretty easy-going, but the lines of his pinched forehead told a different story at that moment.

“Begin again,” Chef Antoine said.

Sighing, I headed for the back to start my shift of vegetable prep. I had spinach to wash and potatoes to peel before I could think about anything else. I’d mastered the truffle cream sauce four days before, but hadn’t gotten to Kareem yet to show him the tricks to getting it right. We had six assistant chefs to train, and my dad and I could only work so fast. I’d see if Kareem could come in on Monday for some practice.

I jerked to a halt when I rounded the corner, coming face to face with Zach Robinson. Potato in one hand, peeler in the other, he was hard at work.

“What are you…” I started, then stopped myself, realizing he didn’t know the first thing about kitchen prep. “How many of those have you done?”

He looked down at the sink. “Uh, four. Why? What am I doing wrong? They said they needed these for the whipped potatoes, so I thought—”

“They do, but there’s an easier way,” I said, nudging him aside. From under the sink, I pulled out a giant stockpot, filling it halfway with hot water. That done, I turned to the small stove behind us, setting it on a back burner and cranking the heat up to high as I put the lid on. “You boil them first. Then the peels will come right off.” I picked up a peeler and a dry potato, proceeding to remove any little buds before setting it in the sink to wash. He followed my lead, washing each potato with soapy water before rinsing it and placing it in a metal bowl with the ones he’d already skinned.

The first batch in the stockpot, I prepped another, this time for the spiral cut chips one of the assistant chefs would fry and serve as a garnish for some of the dishes. Zachary watched me load up two into the mounted gadget that sliced them before speaking up.

“Can I give it a shot?” he asked.

“Think you can handle it?” I replied with a smirk.

He returned my expression, cracking his knuckles with determination. “Looks easy enough. It’ll give me something to do while I wait for a load of dishes.”

I glanced over his shoulder at the washing station. “Uh, I wouldn’t wait too long if I were you. There’s at least half a load there already.”

“There is?” he said, turning, then grumbling under his breath. “You guys make a mess fast.”

“Why do you think restaurants need dedicated dishwashers? No one has time to stop and do it.” I crossed my arms and wondered how a person could be so ignorant. Did he think all of the stuff we used in the back washed itself?

He picked up an unpeeled potato and sighed, sticking it on the horizontal prongs of the spiral slicer. Starting off turning the handle counter-clockwise, he quickly realized his mistake and turned it the opposite direction, feeding it along the razor-sharp edge of the blade at the other end. He kept his hand under the potato to catch it in case it fell, exactly the way he’d watched me do it, then presented the finished spiral to me with a flourish.

“Is Madame Chef satisfied?” He lifted an eyebrow at me.

I took the vegetable without ceremony and dropped it in the bowl. “Three down, seventeen to go,” I said. “You’d better get to the dishes.”

“Banished to the scullery,” he said, melodramatically wistful. “Madame Chef is a harsh taskmaster.”

I shook my head and got back to work. Three months of him was definitely going to test my patience.

*
 
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“I need more parsley!” a voice called from the front of the kitchen.

“On it!” I hollered back, hurrying back to the cooler to grab three more bunches to prep for the line.

“Man, things never stop back here, do they?” Zach said, leaning up against the prep sink when I returned.

I shooed him away with a wave of parsley. “Too much for you? Ready to go back to your charmed life of doing nothing already?” The water splashed over the green herbs, and I gave them a quick wash before setting them on the butcher block to chop.

“Still think I can’t hang with the rest of you, huh?” He crossed his arms, watching me.

“One night of hard work only proves you can work one night,” I said, trying to focus on my job, rather than bantering with him. “And, at the moment, you aren’t doing much of anything.” The blade of my knife cut through the parsley with a
shhh-click
,
shhh-click
.

“It’s time for my break. We get twenty minutes, right?”

“Did you ask permission?”

“No, but the schedule says—”

I turned and pointed the tip of the knife at him. “The schedule can’t predict how busy everyone is at any given moment. You need to make sure no one needs anything before you go.”

He wandered away and I returned to my chopping, filling a bowl with green sprigs before running it up to the line. While there, I scanned the levels of everything else, trying to anticipate their next request, but everything looked good to go. Returning to my prep station, I was about to start slicing lettuce for wedge salads, but stopped short when I saw Zach leaning up against the sink again.

“Now what?” I asked, hands on my hips.

“Only one person needed something,” he said.

“So go do it. Why are you still standing there?”

“I am doing it. Your mom said you were supposed to take your break an hour ago and asked me to make sure you did.”

I scowled. He knew I’d been in the middle of fifty things then and hadn’t gone on break. “I have work to do.”

“Nothing that can’t wait twenty minutes,” he said. I opened my mouth to speak, but he didn’t let me. “Unless you want to argue the point with your mom, but she’s a little busy right now.”

The muscles in my jaw worked as I gritted my teeth. “I don’t need a break.”

“Everyone needs a break, and I’m not going to quit bugging you until you take one.” His mouth turned up in a grin. “Wouldn’t want to get fired on my first night for not doing what my boss said.”