The Jock and the Fat Chick (8 page)

THE SNOW-COVERED SOCCER FIELD MEANS Coach has us indoors, playing volleyball for gym. Again, he puts Viktor and me on the same team, and when some nerd kid complains, Coach shuts him up by sending me to the opposing side with Dino. I guess Coach doesn’t want to have to deal with phone calls from uppity parents.

Then, in a shocking move, Coach sits us out before the game even starts. I call bull. Why should we not get a chance to play just because we’re athletic? Math teachers don’t send their mathletes into the hallway during class. I look to Armpit and Dino for backup, but they lie low, not making eye contact. Wusses.

Coach blows his whistle, and the game begins. Viktor slides his way down the bench next to me. “Hey, man, where you been lately?”

I shift uncomfortably. It’s hard not to smirk as I
remember kissing Claire. “Been busy,” I say.

He eyes me up and down before narrowing on my face. “You seeing someone?”

Adrenaline soaks my chest, and I make a conscious effort not to move a muscle, in case I give anything away.

“No.”

“Yeah, right. You’ve got that girlie glow.”

“I wish. How’s Alyssa?”

“She’s good, good. She’s cool. I like her.”

I perform a double take. “Wow. Beauty tames the beast.”

He smiles. “Hey, so my mom got me a gig volunteering with the Boys and Girls Club of America doing indoor kiddie sports and stuff. I figured it’d be fun and good for my college résumé.”

“Cool.” I’m about to ask if I can help when I stop. I should wait until after dom tech is finished.

“I’d ask if you want to join me,” he says, “but Alyssa really wants to.”

“Yeah, sure. No problem. Next time.”

Finally, Coach blasts his whistle and sends us into the game.

“Get ready for an ass whoopin’, Conners.”

I glance around, like I’m looking for someone. “Why, is your kid sister playing?”

After class, Coach once again announces that I need to see him. The guys give me quizzical looks, and I shrug. I
have no idea.

His office looks the same as last time, but instead of uniforms and volleyball nets, there are deflated basketballs. I take a seat.

“I had a little chat with Mrs. Anderson this morning in the parking lot. She says you’re showing a lot of progress.”

I shoulder-check to see if anyone in the hallway can hear, because I forgot to shut the door. I mean, I know now dom tech isn’t an easy course, but the guys wouldn’t get it.

Coach wipes the corner of his lips with his thumb but then fires the dreaded finger at me, shaking it to keep me on my toes. “But you need to keep it up. I’ve sunk a lot of time into you because I want you to get a scholarship.”

“Yes, sir,” I say, sounding confident because I know there’s zero chance of failing.

He nods. “Good. Now get outta here.”

I head for my locker when Viktor texts me.

What’d Coach want?

Make sure my grades were good enough for Michigan State.

Oh. Why u flunking?

No.

OK. Shreds?

Just then Claire texts me. . . .

Want to come to my house after school?

Thumpity-smashy.
I grin as I text Viktor back.

5k during 4th period spare on track?

It’s cold out!

Wuss! I bet your sister would do it.

Fine, you’re on.

I text Claire back:
Sure. Sounds great. See you after school.

My timing works. I meet up with Viktor the second the bell rings for fourth period for a run, and it leaves me just enough time to head home, shower, and be at Claire’s after.

This time when Claire answers the door and the sensor alarm chirps, she greets me with a formal, “Hi, Kevin, come in.” I decipher her greeting as code for “proceed with caution, parental unit nearby.” I step inside and hear her dad call out a friendly hello from a back room. I say hi back. So much for getting a hot kiss from a cute girl. From that moment on, Claire is all business. She won’t even give me a wink, even though her dad’s in another room. How she acts one way in front of him and another way when she’s with me feels familiar. It reminds me of the juggling act I sometimes perform around Viktor. When René does come in, he reaches for the knives I’d left there the other day and lays them in a row, carefully inspecting them. He motions for me to wait and then leaves the kitchen.

I laser-focus my attention on Claire until she looks up from her cutting board. I have to fight this urge to wrap my arms around her.

She smirks. “What?”

I shrug and mumble a playful “I dunno,” and René returns, presenting a soft, small case to me.

“These are for you,” he says.

He sets whatever it is on the island.

“What is it?”

“A sample set of starter knives I received from a salesman a while ago. A good base, and you can add more as you go along.”

Claire’s eyebrows rise, which says he’s given me something good. “Really?” I ask, just to be sure.

“Yes,” he says, chuckling. “They’re yours.”

I unzip and pull back the flap to reveal five impressive-looking blades. René picks each one up and describes their purpose. I’m speechless. These knives look expensive.

“You take good care of them, and they’ll last you a lifetime.”

“Wow, thanks,” I say again.

“My pleasure. Now I am going to leave you two, so you can get on to the business of cooking my supper.”

He leaves again, and Claire and I get to work. She’s already practiced her starter—tossed baby greens with poached pear slices, pine nuts, and olive oil. She’s also prepped the sides, which consists of roasted fingerling potatoes and asparagus. Before I start on the beef, Claire gives me a pop quiz first.

“What part of the cow does the tenderloin come from?”

I take my best shot. “I’m thinking the loin, so the groin-ish area?”

“Good try, not quite.” She pulls a cookbook from a shelf and flips to a page with a drawing of a cow and the names of all the different cuts of meat from it. I had no idea there were so many.

“You’ll need to know everything about the cut of meat we’re using, because Mrs. A will tailor each group’s written exam to their dish. For us, it’ll be the cow, for sure.”

I nod. “So, what’s a wellington?”

“I dunno,” Claire teases. “You mean, who’s a Wellington?”

I take her hint and make a mental note to research the name Wellington.

For the first time since meeting Claire, she follows a recipe for Mr. Wellington rather than winging it. After making the pastry, we move on to the mushroom pâté. I’ll be spreading this onto the beef, along with some spicy mustard, before it’s wrapped in pastry.

“Okay, good,” she says, and glances at the clock on the stove. “I’m keeping track of how long this’ll take because we only have an hour. We’re way over the sixty-minute mark, but it’s our first time making this, so I’m not surprised.”

She drizzles oil in a frying pan and explains how to sear the meat before cooking it. When she says the oil’s hot
enough, I place the loin into the pan. Oil snaps and spits at me, stinging my forearm like tiny bug bites, but I don’t care. The rising smells make me drool.

For a few minutes we’re so into what we’re doing, Claire starts humming, and my mind flashes a few years in the future. A warm, happy sensation washes over me as I imagine this is our place and that she’s my girl. She’ll be creating her own recipes for her restaurant (or bakery), and I’ll be a physiotherapist, helping people recover and grow stronger. This’ll be a typical night for us—cooking, listening to good music, and enjoying each other’s company. The thought of it gives me a buzz, like I’ve had a few beers.

By the time we’re done, the kitchen smells incredible, something René clearly picks up on when he strolls in.

“Smells
magnifique
.”

The sensor alarm chirps.

“
Allô
, darling,” René calls to his wife. “Come in. Dinner is almost ready.”

Maria enters the kitchen and gives René a kiss. “Hello, Kevin,” she says. “Lovely to see you.” She kisses me on both cheeks before kissing Claire, who’s busy plating sides.

“Smells wonderful.”

Claire mumbles, “Thanks,” then grows all serious-like. We stare at the loin, now transformed into beef Wellington. “Ready for the real test?” she asks.

I nod.

With the tongs, she picks up the beef from the pan. When she’s halfway to the cutting board, the pastry underneath it drops and half of it lands on the counter.

“No-no-no-nooo,” Claire whines. “Why-why-whyyy?”

Maria opens her mouth to tell us when René lays a hand on her forearm to stop her. They want us to figure it out ourselves.

“Check the notes,” Claire suggests, and we review the recipe, dissecting the instructions line by line. Minutes later we shake our heads, stumped.

“I’ll give you a hint,” Maria says. “Look at your pastry.”

We look at it. The sides and top are golden brown to perfection. The part that fell away is pale and gray from the mushroom pâté.

Even though it’s completely obvious, I say, “That part’s wet and mushy.”

Maria raises an eyebrow like I’m onto something, and Claire snaps her fingers. “I know. We didn’t let the meat cool after searing. We dressed it hot and wrapped it in cold pastry, which changed the molecular structure of the flour and egg, causing it to get soggy.”

Maria smiles. “Good.”

René slaps his hands together and rubs them back and forth. “Now cut into the meat. Let us see how she’s cooked.”

I get the honors of cutting it in half and spreading the two pieces apart. The brown outer edges of meat give me
high hopes until I notice how it grows pinker toward the center. It’s undercooked, practically raw.

“Excellent,” he says.

Completely taken aback, I double-check his expression. He doesn’t appear to be joking.

“For your first time, this is most excellent,” he adds.

Huh. I guess this is what Wellington’s supposed to look like.

We take the food to the dining room, where René uncorks a special celebration bottle of red. After we plate up, René raises his glass. “To your first beef Wellington,” he toasts, and we drink to that.

I take my first bite of beef. “Wow. It melts in my mouth,” I say, and everyone nods, agreeing.

When we’re finished Claire and I retreat into the kitchen to make the crème brûlée. We pour the custard mixture into four minidishes she calls “ramekins,” and I sprinkle an even layer of sugar over the top.

Claire rustles through the bottom cupboards, and when she finds what she wants, she hides it behind her back.

“Since there’s no way we could do this in class,” she says, “because we have to broil them, I thought maybe you’d like to burn the tops, the way chefs do.”

She reveals what’s behind her back. It’s a miniblowtorch.

I smile. Fire. “Cool.”

She shows me how to spark it up and demonstrates on
a practice dessert before handing it to me for a try. I work fast like she did, waving the flame over the surface of each dish, burning the sugar, letting it bubble and form a golden-brown finish, but being careful not to char it.

We present dessert with Earl Grey tea—double milk for her dad, nothing for her mom—and this time I try mine with double milk, too. I copy how Claire and her folks use the back of their spoons to tap the caramelized surface. The way the sugar cracks into chunks reminds me of when I was a kid and the first frost appeared. I’d seek out puddles with thin icy films, lower my boot slowly, and relish in the delicate crack beneath my foot.

I dip my spoon under the broken sugary crust and into the creamy filling. I take a bite. It’s . . . Wow.

I warn Claire that hockey will soon dominate my life, so we’ll need to devote the whole week to making sure we get the Wellington just right.

Each time we make it, we shave off more and more time, all the while getting closer to the sixty-minute mark. I have to say, I know a lot about teamwork from playing sports, but I’ve never felt like I was inside someone’s head the way I am with Claire, especially when we cook. We always seem to be on the same page. We move around the kitchen without getting in the other’s way, and sometimes we even anticipate each other’s needs, like when she passes me the tongs or I get
her the mixing bowls. We make a kick-ass team.

Twice, Claire and her folks send me home with the entire meal, which is cool because who doesn’t love beef? I make lunches for Mom and wrap it in tinfoil, along with a note that says “Enjoy.” When she asks where all the food came from, I tell her I’m taking the cooking class for extra credit. She liked hearing that, as long as it wasn’t interfering with hockey. If only she knew.

On Saturday at 6:30 a.m., Viktor picks me up for first practice. The arena’s a twenty-minute walk (five minutes by bus), but hauling all my gear is a pain.

I get in, and he mumbles, “Hey, man.”

I grunt a hello back because 6:30 a.m. and me aren’t good friends.

“Why so tired? You been banging all night?” he asks, and follows it up with a smirk. “I know I have.”

“Get out. You and Alyssa?”

He nods, cool-like. “Yup.”

“You are a god.”

He laughs and pulls into a coffee shop, heading for the drive-through.

“Welcome to Coffee Hut,” a voice says from the mesh speaker. “May I take your order?”

“Yeah,” Viktor replies, “two coffees, black—”

I raise my hand to stop him and then scan the menu. I’m game for something new. It’s good to stretch the palate
’n’ all.

“I want double skim, with a shot of mocha in mine.”

Viktor looks at me like I’m joking.

“What?” I add.

“You expect me to say that out loud?”

I laugh while he rolls his eyes. “Make one coffee black and the other double skim, with a mocha shot, for Mr. Fancy Pants.” He shakes his head. “Dude, never make me say that again.”

I smile, and the voice tells us the total and we pull ahead.

I get my coffee, remove the lid, and raise the cup to my nose. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to smell other than coffee, milk, and chocolate, but as I inhale, this random memory hits me. When I was a kid, Mom won two tickets to see the Detroit Red Wings at the Joe Louis Arena. We’re in the stands cheering as she wraps her hands around her coffee and I sip my hot chocolate. Our team won, of course.