The Jock and the Fat Chick (4 page)

I then open both crisper drawers. Empty. “Is this all we’ve got to eat?”

“Check the cupboard.”

I check the cupboard. There’s a can of carrots in brine—what the heck is brine?—more tuna, some pasta that’s been there forever, and something called “Ribs in a Can Meat Product.” Barf.

Mom breaks into a phlegmy coughing fit. I bite my lip. In the summer we had a big fight again about her smoking. She ended it by saying that if she had to work nights to support us, she’d damn well smoke if she wanted. I shut up about it, and ever since, I’ve done my own laundry and dishes, and I’ve never missed putting out the garbage, either.

I sigh. I’m not into tuna, canned ribs, or carrot-y brine.

Mom walks over for a peek. “Oh,” she says, noticing how sparse it is. “Why don’t I give you some money, and you can buy something.” She digs through her purse on the kitchen table and pulls out three twenties. “Just make sure you get me a case of diet cola and some more of those frozen dinners I like.”

“Okay.”

Mom glances at the sunflower clock on the wall. “I
should get a move on. Shut the TV off, will you?”

I nod, and she grabs her leather jacket from the hook. “Love you, baby.”

“Love you, too, Mom.”

THERE’S NO COOKING IN THE NEXT DOM TECH class. It’s just a lecture on the science behind why certain foods bind, and how. From where I sit by the door, I have to shift my chair over a foot to catch a glimpse of Claire in the front row. I’d hoped Mrs. A would give us some partner work, but no-go. Instead, we get a ten-page booklet, double-sided and in small font, and she tells us this’ll be on the cooking unit’s exam and it’s worth 40 percent of our mark. The rest will be calculated from our final meal, attendance, attitude, and weekly food assignments.

I thumb through the handouts. Mrs. A not only wants us to know metric measurements in dry and liquid, but also what they are in imperial, Celsius, Fahrenheit, and something called Gas Mark, too. We have to know stuff like 1 pint is equal to 2 cups, which is 473 milliliters. Man, like I’ll ever cook in Canada, England, or some other foreign
country.

I bet Claire already knows everything in this. She hasn’t turned around to look at me once all class. Maybe she doesn’t like me . . . but what about last time and how she touched my arm and laughed? I hate not knowing. I bet Viktor never feels like this. He just goes up to a girl and asks her out. If she says yes, well, he knows, and if she says no (which I’ve never seen them do), again, he knows.

Maybe I could ask her what I should buy at the grocery store with my sixty bucks? Nah, it’ll sound stupid, desperate. The bell rings, and I grab my stuff and take a last glance up front. Claire’s out of her chair now and shoving books into her bag. Her long wavy hair sweeps across her cheek, covering her face. She head-flicks to send it over her shoulder before catching my eye. My heart goes
thump-smash
. Out of habit I do one of my “Hey, ’sup?” nods I do with the guys. Real smooth, Casanova, real smooth. Why not put her in a headlock while you’re at it? I’d like to stay and talk, but I can’t. I have to bolt and meet with Viktor for a run. Plus, the other day, I overheard a couple of cheerleaders in the cafeteria talking about what they made in art class. Even though I don’t know when they take art, I’m not taking any chances at getting spotted.

After school I ride my bike to Food Haven, the biggest grocery store in town. Massive automatic double doors slide
open, and I squint from the bright lighting. All ten checkout registers bleep like some kind of retro game app. I grab a basket and scan the place. I’m glad no one from school is witnessing this. I might just be the first high school kid who buys his family’s groceries. Depressing when I think about it.

My plan is to grab what I need first and Mom’s stuff second, so her frozen dinners won’t thaw. I head for the greens, passing multiple aisles of stacked produce pyramids: lemons, limes, oranges, grapefruit, plums, pears, and apples. In the vegetable section I search for broccoli because the bodybuilding forums say it’s low on carbs and the best thing to maintain a six-pack. It takes a few seconds to actually find the broccoli because I don’t recognize half of what’s here— What the heck are fiddleheads? I reach the pyramid of broccoli, but there’s a bunch of other broccoli choices, too. Do I want regular-looking broccoli, the long skinny spear-type things next to it, regular with the stems chopped off, or the deep purple kind? I grab the most normal-looking one.

I wonder what else I might like to eat, and it hits me that this isn’t just a store—it’s a warehouse of food. I can’t see the opposite wall. There are so many choices, and this’ll sound crazy, but my mind goes blank. I don’t know what I want. So much for thinking this’ll be a simple milk run.

Apples. Yes. Apples. They’re good for me. I head to the apples section. Again, what’s up with the ten different
varieties? I come across a package of something called “grapples.” The label says they’re a cross between grapes and apples. That’s just wrong. Science nerds shouldn’t mess with food like that.

I follow the flow of people and pass the cheese and bakery counters, but stop at the meat station. Once more, a ton of choices. Sliced meat? Prepared meat? Smoked meat? I recognize the ground stuff they use for burgers. Okay, this is good—progress. I’m about to reach for some, but stop. Do I want ground beef? Ground chicken? Ground turkey? Ground lamb? Or ground pork?

“Hi, Kevin.”

I’m so immersed in meat, the sound of my name makes me flinch. When I turn around, my gut flips, but in a good way. It’s Claire, and she’s all smiles and balancing a grocery basket on her hip like it’s a toddler.

“Hey,” I say, and glance around for her folks. There’s no way she’s here on her own. What kid other than me buys the family’s groceries? I’m about to ask her what’s up when she scans the contents of my basket.

“Whatcha making?”

I grab the closest package of ground meat and toss it next to my broccoli and apples. “Umm . . . beef and broccoli.”

“Beef and broccoli . . . ,” she repeats, only she says it slow-like, like I’ve just said tacos and marshmallow fluff.

“Are you going to eat all that broccoli in the next two
days?”

I wonder why the question.

“Because what you’ve got there is overripe.”

Huh? How can she tell?

“Come, I’ll show you.” Claire takes hold of my basket’s rim and pulls, leading me back to the produce aisles.

I let her guide me along. I can’t help but watch how she walks. Her hips sway like she’s ringing a bell as she moves lightly on her feet. I dig the way she owns her skin. It’s hypnotic.

We reach the broccoli section. She rises onto tiptoes and leans forward to grab a bunch way at the back. “Here,” she says. I compare her broccoli with mine. Not only are the buds on mine opened, but they’re also a bit yellowish. I take my choice and toss it over my shoulder. I know it lands onto the pyramid because she looks impressed and laughs. I keep what she picked.

We walk side by side as she leads me up and down the aisles, filling her basket here and there with items. Two little kids run past in a game of chase, their sneakers squeaking against the floor. To avoid a collision, Claire swings her hips and bumps into me.

“Sorry,” she says, placing her hand on my forearm to steady herself.

I caveman-grunt to show it’s no big deal, then tell myself to use my words. “So, hey, I saw you in a restaurant yesterday.”

Claire tilts her head to the side, and a lock of hair slips from her shoulder to rest on her chest. “Kevin Conners, were you
spying
on me?”

Heat rushes to my cheeks. “No. I—I was just walking by.”

“Yeah, right. You were
stalking
me.”

“What? No way! I swear. I—”

She gives my arm a gentle squeeze. “I’m kidding, kidding.”

Her confidence blows me over.

“My dad owns La Petite Merveille.”

I must look dumb because she adds, “The restaurant?”

“Oh,” I say, and bob my head.

We stop in front of a bulk food stand, where Claire fills a bag with tiny, dried, black-looking peas.

“So, do you cook there?”

“A chef? No, I’m not good enough to do that.”

“You could have fooled me.”

“Aw, that’s sweet, but you have to train at Le Cordon Bleu in France, or the equivalent, to work there. Even then, my dad makes all his staff start on the prep station, no matter how much experience they’ve had. It’s so he can train them the proper way—his way.”

I raise an eyebrow. Her dad sounds like a hard-ass.

“Yeah, sounds harsh, but a lot of chefs who leave his restaurant open high-end places of their own. My dad’s kind of a big shot, and saying you worked for him gives you street
cred.”

I picture the guy I saw with Claire: tall, barrel-chested, and a mass of black hair. I also picture him wielding a meat cleaver at anyone who glances at his daughter.

“I mostly just wait on customers, and when there’s a slow period, he lets me on prep, so I can practice my knife skills.” Claire drops a few more bulk items into her basket, and her upper arm tenses from the extra weight.

“I can carry that if you want.”

“Sure, thanks.” She hands it to me.

“So, why do you take dom tech if you can pretty much teach it?” I ask.

“Why do you take gym?”

I’m about to say because I like it, but then realize I’ve asked a dumb question.

“I want to apply to culinary school, so it’s good to have a reference other than my dad. Do you have any eggs and bread crumbs for your meat loaf? That
is
what you’re making, right? Meat loaf? Or . . . are you seriously just going to eat ground beef and a side of broccoli?”

Before I can answer, she gives me a wistful sigh and grabs the rim to lead me along again. I follow without arguing, because it means she walks in front of me. Me happy.

She points to the eggs, and I set both baskets on the ground to grab a random carton.

“Whoa, wait,” she says, and opens the container. Just my
luck I grabbed the one with a cracked egg in it. Dark-yellow yolk stains the shell. She replaces the carton with another that’s got perfect eggs.

“So, what do you want to do for our final cooking assignment?” she asks.

“I thought we were making that ravioli thing.”

She drops a container of bread crumbs into my basket, which must be for the meat loaf? “No, that’s next week’s assignment. I’m talking about our final exam. Mrs. A still wants us to work in pairs, but we can’t help each other. It also has to be a full three-course meal: appetizer, entrée, and dessert.”

My defenses go up when I hear the word “dessert.” I don’t want to be in charge of that.

I give her a “beats me” shrug.

“Well, what are you good at cooking?”

“Protein shakes.”

Her head tilts to the side again, like I’m putting her on. “Come on. You have to be good at something.”

“Eating?”

She laughs and brushes my upper arm with her hand. I almost reach out to touch her back, but damn if I’m carrying two baskets. I’d use my leg, but there’s nothing like giving a girl a swift kick in the rear to say, “Hey, me likey you.”

“Come on, seriously.” She grabs a small carton of table cream (what’s the difference between that and just cream?)
and places it into her basket.

I think back to my childhood. Everything Mom made for me—cookies, soups, turkey dinners—was packaged and preprepared. It just had to be heated or have water added to it. I come up with the easiest food I think I can make. “Salad?”

Claire mulls it over for a millisecond. “It’s not going to be good enough for an A. Mrs. A wants to be wowed. Lettuce and tomatoes won’t cut it.”

“Then I dunno.”

For the first time since meeting Claire, she looks disappointed. I don’t like that.

“How are you with cooking meat?” she asks.

“Me like meat,” I say, trying to coax a smile from her again.

“I didn’t ask if you
liked
it.”

“Meat,” I repeat, impersonating Tarzan. “Me want meat now.”

She laughs. “So, I’m guessing you’re a meat guy. Okay, what kind of cut? Chuck, flank, eye of round, or sirloin?”

“Sirloin?” I ask, but I’m more babbling like an idiot than asking a question.

“Great!” she replies. “Top sirloin, tender loin, bottom loin, or short loin?”

I have no clue. “Meeeat,” I say.

Claire places her hands on her hips and tries to give
me a parental “now stop that” look, but fails because she cracks up. “Could you handle the meat and dessert if I do the starter and the sides?”

I nod. I guess doing the dessert is okay if I also get to do the meeeat.

Claire gets this lost-in-thought, faraway gaze in her eyes. A second later she focuses on me, and my ears tingle. “I’ve got it,” she says. “Beef Wellington. It’s tough to get right if you’ve never done it before. Are you free this Saturday, around one? We could make a meal plan and also go over Mrs. A’s handouts, too, if you want.”

I stand there with my gob open. Technically, it’s not a date, but I’ll take it. “Yeah, sure,” I say.

We carry on, picking up things for her, for my meat loaf, and for the veggie meal class. I skip over Mom’s stuff, because I don’t want foodie Claire seeing me grab frozen TV dinners. It’d be embarrassing.

When we walk along the final aisle, I’m bummed the grocery store isn’t bigger.

At the register, Claire asks for my phone, so she can send a text to her cell and that way we’ve got each other’s digits. I pull out the cash Mom gave me to help pay for the unexpected groceries for class.

“Don’t worry about it, I got it,” she says, handing my phone back to me. “My dad gives me money for this. Besides, you didn’t know we had the assignment.”

I hesitate. “No, I can’t do that.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, I got it.” She hands the money to the cashier before I can say or do anything else.

“Okay. Thanks.”

Her phone goes off in her bag, and I recognize the text notification alert. It’s the sample of a monkey call taken from the song “Monkey in a Fur Coat.”

I laugh, “You listen to the Ikeeya Monkeys?”

She pulls a few canvas grocery bags and starts packing them. I help. “Yeah, why?”

I shrug. “I don’t know. I never would have guessed.”

“Why do you say that?”

I grab the bags, and we head for the exit doors. “Let’s see,” I say, and in my best Cockney accent, I sing, “‘You’re a girl with rabies and you need your shots. . . .’”

Claire throws her head back and laughs. Then she adds, “‘You were lost in a forest and got bit by a fox!’”

I have to stop walking for a second because her accent is so funny, I might fall over. If I had a free hand, I’d wipe away imaginary tears. “Those guys totally remind me of Corky and the Juice Pigs.”

“Oh my god, classic!”

“Who else do you like?”

“Um . . . Ikeeya Monkeys, Prosperous Poor, Zombie Lovers, Royalty, and Observer Effect.”

I nod. The girl’s got taste. “I’ve never heard of Observer
Effect.”

Claire pulls a set of keys from her pocket. “Really? They’re good. They’re an indie band from Seattle.”

From somewhere in the lot, a car horn beeps twice.

“Want a ride?”

As much as my insides scream,
Hell yeah
, so we can keep our conversation going, three things stop me: one, I still need to get Mom’s stuff; two, I rode my bike; and three, I’m not sure I want Claire to see where I live.