A La Carte (18 page)

It's a busy song, full of quick changes and tandem movements, and I can't afford to get lost. Finally, we reach our big finish, but when I glance that way again, nobody's there. It's crazy. He wouldn't come back now, I know, and certainly not back to a school show. But still, there's a deep disappointment that drags at me throughout our performance. Even the encore, “A Quiet Place”—my all-time favorite song—does nothing for my mood. I skip the after-show reception and opt to leave with Mom.

“You looked like you were having fun up there tonight,” my mother says. She turns down the street from the school and merges into the busy traffic. “If the food business doesn't work out for you, maybe you can hire yourself out in Las Vegas.”

“Oh,
nice.
” I mock-scowl. “Like I haven't had enough with the sequins and I need
feathers.
” I touch my fingertips to the rose Ms. Dunston got all of her seniors. I feel a little melancholy. Already the edges of the petals are curling.

“Sure you don't want to wear this in the kitchen? All the line chefs will want to see it.”

I laugh and look down at my finery. “Yeah. I can hear them now. No, I'll just change and be over in about an hour.”

“Why don't you drop me at La Salle and drive back? It's still a little drizzly for walking.”

“Mom, I
need
to walk after standing still in these stupid shoes all night. Don't worry about it, okay? A little rain won't melt me.”

My mother makes a noncommittal noise and smiles. Since we've been back, I've sensed that she's been trying to keep her distance, trying not to order and organize me quite so much. It's still a struggle for her, but she's trying. In return, I'm trying not to mind so much when she does look at me and sees what I could be instead of what I am. Maybe it's part of being a mother, maybe it's a management skill she's picked up from La Salle, but I am learning to live with it and with her.

At home, I slip out of the hated teal dress one last time and wonder gleefully which unlucky underclassman will inherit it from me. Pulling the pins out of my hair, I wind it into a simple bun on the nape of my neck, relieved to be looking more like myself. The front door closes, and I grab my sweatshirt and jog down the stairs, smothering my irritation.

“Mom, I said you didn't have to wait….” My voice trails off as I realize the room is empty. “Mom?”

I come down the last few stairs, frowning. As I reach the door, I glance at the coffee table. I see my name on an envelope in a familiar scrawl, and it hits me. It was not my imagination.

I snatch open the door.

“Simeon!”

17

He hasn't changed much—maybe a bit thinner, his dyed-black hair a bit longer and darker, but mostly he's just the same. He bounds up the stairs, wraps his arms around me, and squeezes until I squeak.

“How ya been, Laine?”

“Simeon—were you just going to leave?” I sputter, pushing back from his chest. “You jerk! Where have you been? What happened? Why didn't you text me?”

Sim holds up a hand. “Whoa, whoa. It's great to be back,
Mom,
” he teases, squeezing me again and grinning. “You don't know how much I've missed having someone ask me when I'm coming home and stuff.”

“All right, fine,” I say, hugging him again. “Simeon, it's so good to see you.”

“It's good to see you too.” He grins. “You were great at the spring show.”

“Thanks! I thought I saw you, and then you were gone…. Sim, your parents—did you know they hired an investigator? Have you seen them?”

Sim shrugs good-naturedly, tucking a piece of hair behind my ear. “Yeah, I heard. I've already been by to see them and that's settled. I'm eighteen. There was a lot of drama, but we're done.”

“Oh…” I pause, at a loss. “Well. So, what's been going on? Where have you been?”

Sim grins. “Around. I took a little detour, but eventually I got where I was going.”

I feel a little annoyed. “And where was that? I got worried when you didn't at least text me to say you got to Washington okay, and then I tried the youth hostel and—”

Sim shrugs again. “Oh—yeah. I hooked up with a couple of guys from the University of Washington first thing and crashed out in their dorm for a couple of days. And then I found a roommate, picked up a gig at a coffee shop, and things started jumpin'.” Sim's smile is smug, and that smugness sizzles on my nerves like water on a hot pan.

“Well, you could have told me where you were. I thought something…happened.”

“Something did happen, Laine! I found a couple of guys who have this amazing apartment right near University Village, and they sublet it to a guy who isn't working out…so if I play my cards right, I'm in. I've got a job, and things are looking good for once. Everything is coming together.”

“Well. Great,” I say, my voice falsely cheerful. “Glad it all worked out for you. I wish I'd known you were coming. Mom would have loved to see you. In fact, I was just—”

Sim wrinkles his nose. “Oh no, I'm only here to pick up a couple of things from some friends,” he says carefully. “I don't have time to see people. But I'm glad you caught me. I would have hated to miss you!” He squeezes me again, but this time I am not overwhelmed just by having him here. I step back in the circle of his arms and look at him seriously.

“Sim? Have you seen…Topher Haines?”

Simeon stills. “Um, no. Should I?”

I look up into his strange yellow-amber eyes. “Topher told me something,” I begin slowly. “About your party.”

Simeon shakes his head. “Yeah, that kind of sucked, huh? We were all so busted, and then Topher gets caught holding the bag. That was pathetic, wasn't it? He wasn't even loaded.”

“You didn't give it to him, Sim?”

Simeon shrugs. “Ah, I don't remember. That wasn't a great night, Laine. So, how is ‘Chris Topher'? Everything worked out in the end, huh?”

“He really got screwed, Sim. It wasn't right.”

“Yeah.” Simeon shrugs easily. “That happens. Could've happened to me too.”

Is that it? I wait for him to say something, anything, to dispute what Topher said. Instead, he glances down at me and discards the topic like an empty paper cup.

“So, five weeks till graduation, huh? You coming out to Seattle this summer, Laine?”

“No.” The word pops out unexpectedly, surprising me with its force. “No,” I say again, more sure now. “I'm going to D.C., to the Smithsonian. I'm doing an internship somewhere. And then there's culinary school, probably in the spring, when I've worked a little. I'm going to be busy this summer. I won't have time.”

“Really?” Sim's forehead wrinkles in surprise. “That's hard-core.”

I smile faintly, feeling the knowledge tremble, newborn inside me. “Not really. It's just…I know what I want to do.”

Sim nods slowly, looking at me steadily. “You do.” It's a statement. “That's cool.”

We kind of stand and look at each other, and then Simeon brushes his fingers over my cheek. “I've thought about you a lot, Laine,” he says softly.

“Not enough to call, though, huh?” I smile back, almost sad that I know it's so true.

Sim laughs shortly. “Man, Laine, you're brutal. Okay, so I screwed up.” His finger traces my lower lip. “I'll make it up to you, okay? Come see me this summer?”

Now
he asks, when all I have ever wanted was for him to ask me to see him. All I have ever wanted was for him to want me with him, to need me to be around, to take notice of what I do. But…now it's not what I want anymore. I'm not a girl who's meant to be a side dish. I won't stand around and wait for some boy while he chooses me. I can choose me too.

“I've got things to do, so I doubt it,” I say easily. No promises, no expectations. “Take care of yourself. Don't do anything too stupid.”

“You too, Laine.” Sim's expression is hard to read as he bends and kisses me, tentatively, gently, as if asking a question. I kiss him softly, exploring his mouth, feeling chills as his hands trace patterns up my back. When we take a breath, I step back, feeling…thoughtful.

Rachel Sconza was right. Simeon Keller is a darned good kisser. But that's not good enough, not for me. I don't need whatever it is he's finally offering me. Not anymore. It's too little, and it's too late. I don't know exactly when it happened, but whatever I found attractive in the gorgeous boy with his arms around me isn't there anymore. It's like I don't know who he is.

Sim brushes his lips over my forehead, then drops his arms, his eyes intent on mine. “Take care. I'll be in touch.” His hand slips down my arm, holds my fingers, finally lets go.

I stand in the doorway until he's gone, feeling like I'm watching a stranger walk away.

 

If the perfect state could be achieved by shopping, I would have reached a state of Zen-like Nirvana by spending a couple of afternoons with Dea. As it is, I come away with two pairs of flip-flops and some studded leather boots that were on clearance, which is a pretty good start. I'm still feeling stress from finals and am a little unsettled from Sim's visit, but shopping with my grandmother makes the world brighter.

I told Mom that Sim had dropped by and surprised us both by bursting into tears as I told her about his party and what Topher had told me at Yosemite. Once she got that Simeon hadn't done anything to me, she set herself to organizing my life so I could be happy again—and organizing Topher's life too, calling Ana and commiserating with her on the telephone. Poor Topher. I'm sure he thought he had enough trouble.

MaDea has been coming by a couple of weekends a month just to “spend some time,” as she says. She cooks with me, giving me her secret recipe for perfect lemon cake, biscuits, peas, and rice. She also takes me shoe-shopping, which is her cure for all the ills in the world. “If you won't eat any potato chips, at least try on those turquoise sandals,” she urges me. “Those rhinestones ought to cheer you up.”

Mom's started coming home later and later as she eases up enough to give herself a break from trying to be everywhere I am. One Friday when she's been in and out of the house all afternoon, she says she's going to drop by the restaurant and then come and check back with me.

“You've been so quiet lately. When I get back, we'll have some coffee,” Mom says, which translates:
Summer is coming; let's talk some more about how I can organize you.

The thought of a capital
T
talk makes me antsy. I'm not in the mood for another conversation with Mom on “how things are going.” We haven't really had time lately to say anything deep or serious, and I've just been concentrating on getting up in the morning and wading through the incoming tide of papers, tests, and final projects. I'm busy. What does she mean, I've been quiet? What does she want from me? Piqued, I pull on my Redgrove cap, grab my sweatshirt, and hit the door.

For a planned escape, the library seems a pretty tame destination, but I can't figure out anywhere else to go. The weather has turned odd again, with a heavy, muggy feel in the air even though it's stopped raining. I'm window-shopping, carrying my books, when I hear the squeal of brakes.

“LAINEY!”

Oh no.

I jump, twist away from the window in panic. Mom's screaming at me from the street, leaning across the passenger seat and waving out the window. I feel a flash of real fear. Mom's not a screamer, not in public, so something must be terribly wrong. She pulls over as I run to the car, tasting metal in my mouth.

“What's wrong?” I gasp, flinging open the door. I sit down. “Is it Dea?”

Mom makes no move to pull away from the curb. Her eyes are huge. “No! Dea's fine. No—Lainey, I tried to call you, but you left your cell in the house. He called! Michael Semple called!”

I'm bewildered, trying to catch my breath. “Michael Semple?”

Mom grabs my arm and shakes it. “Michael…SEMPLE,
Michael Semple,
Ana and Kevin's friend. The one who wanted you to cook something for him!”

“Yeah…?” My heart squeezes apprehensively. Mom looks so excited that I'm worried.

“He wants to come to the restaurant and
film
you. He works with the chef from
Bay Café
—it's one of those public-access series that PBS picks up occasionally. He left a message for you to call him.”

Film me?
My mouth is hanging open.

“Put on your seat belt!” Mom says urgently. “We'll call him from the restaurant!”

I am rubbing my arms, and Mom is still talking. “I thought he worked for the paper! I knew I'd heard his name somewhere before, but I thought for sure I'd met him doing tastings somewhere for the
Clarion.
I had no idea he had any connection with the local scene here.” Mom glances at me. “I would have said something.”

Film?
Me?

There is instant chaos as we walk in. Mom is trying to talk to Pia, while Pia, wearing her chef whites and waving a ladle, is trying to talk to Mom. The servers and the undercooks are all whirling around in their complicated ballet, getting ready for dinner service while eavesdropping.

“Michael Semple!” is interrupted by “James Beard Foundation” and
“Michelin.”
Mom and Pia keep babbling as I run down the stairs to the office. I dial our phone number and check the messages. Sure enough, he'd tried to catch me at home.

“Hello, this is Michael Semple; we met at Yosemite about six weeks back? I was hoping to catch Lainey…. I've just gotten back here to the city, and we're doing a series on local home cooks called
The Soul of Food.
I wondered if I could talk you into doing a little cooking for me, maybe talking a little about what you cook and why you enjoy it, and if things work out, we might do a little filming…. Lainey, if you would give me a call here at the office…”

I spin around in Mom's office chair until I am clammy and dizzy. I clutch my elbows, trying to hold myself together.

Six weeks ago! This all started way back then….

“Lainey?” Mom and Pia burst into the office, and Mom looks at me with bright eyes. “Have you called him back?”

Panic rattles my nerves like frozen peas in a stainless steel pot. “It's after three on a Friday…shouldn't I call him Monday?”

“No!” Mom and Pia respond in unison.

Pia is emphatic. “Call him now! Call him now!”

“Are you sure?”

“Do it,” Mom instructs me, practically bouncing on her toes. “It's always better to return calls right away.”

I bite my lip and dial the number. Please, God, make it the machine…please…please….

The phone rings and clicks over. I sag with relief. “Mr. Semple? This is Lainey Seifert, returning your call….” I leave him a short voice mail, giving him the number for the restaurant, then hang up, hands shaking. Mom and Pia break into applause.

“That's my girl!” Mom cheers. “Oh, Lainey, I'm so excited for you! This could be big!”

“You have to cook here,” Pia says decisively. “We'll put the restaurant on the map.”

Mom smacks her hand to her forehead. “Lainey! We have to figure out what to cook!”

I blink. “Uh…I don't know! Should I make a dessert? Should I make one of Dea's recipes?”

“Give me the phone.” Mom perches on the corner of her desk and dials rapidly. “Momma, it's me. Guess what Lainey's gotten into? Television!”

Television? “Mom, he didn't say—” I begin. Pia interrupts, shoving a La Salle Rouge dinner menu into my hands.

“Take a look. Find something to cook for him.”

“Wait, Pia,” I object. “I don't want to do something fancy. I can't do something from the dinner menu! Can't I just make something easy?”

“He just wants to see you cook,” Mom says, pushing the phone into my hand and taking the menu away. “Don't worry about that now. Talk to your grandmother.”

“Lainey, I just can't wait to tell that Amelia Johnston. Her granddaughter won a tennis championship.
My
grandbaby's going to be on TV!”

“He didn't say yes for sure,” I warn her. “He said ‘if things work out.' It's just public access, so—”

“That's nonsense,” my grandmother cuts in. “This is going to work out. Are you wearing those new sandals for the show?”

Trust Dea to go right to the heart of the matter. “I don't know,” I gasp. “Right now I'm trying to figure out what to cook!”