A La Carte (11 page)

I sigh. “Can you go home and get your camping stuff?”

Sim shrugs. “There's an army surplus store up there. I can rough it.”

“Pia has a chef friend who backpacks in the Pacific Northwest and picks mushrooms…. She stays at hostels.”

Sim shrugs indifferently. “It doesn't matter where I stay.”

“Well, at least we can look online.”

Upstairs I type in some search words. I breathe a sigh of relief when I find one of the places Pia talked about. The Sagehill Hostel has dorm rooms, private rooms, and a Laundromat, making it a perfect place to wait out the weather. Better still, they have a work-a-week deal where he would pay less in return for doing office jobs or cleaning.

“That sounds better than camping.” I turn to Sim wearily. “I just wish you weren't hitching.”

Sim throws up his hands. “What else am I going to do? My dad's already told me if I even borrow the car, he's going to have me up on charges of grand theft.”

I flinch. “Sorry…”

Simeon sighs. “Sorry. I'm sorry. I don't mean to yell. Just…don't…” He rubs a hand over his face.

I leave Simeon upstairs and pick up my jacket on the way out the front door. I need a break, and now seems as good a time as any to go to a cash machine. I wish Simeon weren't so angry and frustrated. I wish I didn't feel like arguing with everything he says. I know I'm asking too many questions. I know I'm getting on his nerves. I know, I know, I
know
. But I don't know how to stop. This is huge. This is major. The money, Sim leaving—everything. I don't know how to handle any of this.

It's cold and windy out, and I wish I didn't have to walk downtown on such a blustery night. I feel a cold, heavy dread in my stomach. I've never held that much cash in my life. What if someone sees me? What if I get robbed on the way home?

Stop being stupid, Lainey.

I put in my card and quickly type out my PIN code.

The machine hums and gives me a polite refusal. I can't withdraw that amount from my account without going inside the bank during business hours, and it's after five on a Friday. Sim needs this money right now, but there's nothing I can do. Or…

Biting my bottom lip, I glance at Mom's checking account. Plenty of money is there, more than enough to cover what Simeon needs. When I get home, I can just transfer the amount from my savings into her checking account online. I have my mother's password; I can do it.

I've shared Mom's account since I was about thirteen. I've never used it without telling her. I am going to pay her back, but it feels too much like lying to use her account and not be able to tell her that I did it or why. Lying to my mom is the one thing that I just don't do; it's Mom's one deal breaker. Throughout my whole life, the only times I've ever gotten into real trouble have been when I've lied. And it seems like everything I've ever lied to her about has had to do with Sim, from broken toys and stolen cookies to Halloween pranks and crank phone calls. But it was never anything this serious.

But thinking about our shared past gives me the courage I need. This is Sim. I've known him forever. I take a deep breath and push the buttons to make my withdrawal. The machine spits back my card, and the little window goes up on $500, Cash.

I shove the roll of cash into my pocket, then pull it out again and stick it under my shirt. I cross my arms and cross the street briskly, heading home. I resist the urge to run.

The minute I walk in the front door, I know I'm in trouble. I hadn't even glanced into the garage to see if her car was there, but when I open the front door, it's like a jolt to my stomach. I can smell her—a faint mix of shallots and garlic overlaid lightly with herbs.

“Mom?”

“Elaine Seifert! What were you doing out walking in the dark?”

“I just took a walk,” I say defensively. I cross to the oven and turn it off, shoving my unbaked apples into the fridge, hoping my mother doesn't notice. “I was coming right back.”

My mother studies me. “Lainey, sometimes…” She shakes her head.

“What?” I lean against the table and cross my arms. “Sometimes what?”

My mother shakes her head again. “I'm not going to get into it with you right now. I'm just here to change my shoes.” Mom turns and starts climbing the stairs. “Do you want to come back to the restaurant with me?”

“No, I'm fine.” I jog along behind her nervously. “I'm going to maybe watch a movie, maybe make some apples, and definitely go to bed.” Where is Sim? I notice that my bedroom door is half open.

“Hmm,” my mother says noncommittally, no longer listening as she walks down the hall. She opens her closet door and pulls out a pair of clogs with a cork insole. “Can you believe my strap broke?” My mother frowns and slides into the new shoes. “I should have gotten the rubber ones Pia got.”

“Pia's are ugly.”

Mom smiles. “I know.” Closing the closet, she leans into the mirror, scrutinizing her chef's jacket for spots, pecks me on the cheek, then brushes past me out the door and down the stairs. “Stay inside, okay? And don't stay up too late,” she calls over her shoulder.

“Mom, it's the weekend. What's too late on a weekend?”

My mother gives a theatrical sigh, and then she's gone.

I stand at the top of the stairs and breathe in relief. The moment I hear the lobby door close, I sprint for my room and throw open the door.

“She's—”

The room is empty.

I stop, stunned, my mouth open. I walk around the side of the bed.

“Sim?”

Silence.

Worried now, I race through the house. The guest room, the closet, downstairs in the pantry, the coat closet, none of these give me any clues. Maybe he left right after I did. Maybe he had something else to do.

Confused, I sit down on my bed and pull the money out from under my shirt. I count it, then put it into my sock drawer. I pick up the telephone.

“Sim”—I leave the message on his cell—“um…I'm home, and Mom's gone, so…you can come back, okay?”

It's eight-thirty before I realize that I'm sitting alone in my house, watching the clock like I've been stood up for a date or something. Sim's still not back, and now I'm torn between worry and anger. Could something have happened to him? Could he have left already? I think of how aggravated he was when I went to the bank. Was that our goodbye?

I'm up like a shot when the phone rings, but it's just Mom again, asking if I'll e-mail a file to her office computer. Online, I go into our bank site and transfer funds from my savings to her checking. It will be time-stamped, but…I cross my fingers. Maybe Mom won't notice.

At eleven-fifteen, I pull back my hair and put on my flannel nightshirt, resigned. He's left without the money, and he's not coming back. I get into bed and turn out the lights so I won't have to see myself reflected in the windows anymore, pacing back and forth. I swallow the rock in my throat and lie staring into the darkness. I refuse to cry.

I'm still awake when Mom comes, after midnight. She opens my bedroom door a crack like she always does, and I lie still and breathe evenly as she watches me by the glow of the night-light. I hear her door closing, and soon her light goes out, and the house is utterly silent. I stare at the ceiling wondering if this has all been a joke. Has Mom noticed the money?

“Laine.”

A hand is on my shoulder. I turn over and mumble something. It's too early.

“Laine. Don't freak, okay? Move over.”

10

The covers shift. Suddenly I'm cold, wide awake, and panicking.

“Sim?!” My heart trip-hammers, and my mouth goes dry.
He's getting into bed?!

“Shh! Don't freak, Laine.” He's barely whispering.

“What are you
doing?
What time is it?”

“It's two-ish. Sorry to barge in on you, but I'm just going to get warmed up, okay?”

Okay?
I reach for the lamp, and Sim touches my arm. His hand is cold.

“No lights, Lainey. Relax.”

I let my hand drop, feeling sweat prickle beneath my arms as Sim slides under the covers. I sit stiffly as he scootches down, imagining the screaming if my mother were to come in right now. His shirt smells like incense and smoke.

“It's freezing out there!” Sim's teeth are chattering.

I have a death grip on my pillow. “Where'd you go?”

“Just around. I got my clothes, and I was in the bathroom changing when your mom came in. Good thing you've got a big window. I chucked everything in the tub and climbed down the fire escape.” He chuckles.

I clutch the pillow closer to my chest. “I didn't know where you were.”

“Sorry.” I feel Sim shrug. “I didn't know how long she'd be, so I made some phone calls, found some people to hang out with, you know.”

I know. I can smell the smoke in his hair, and if I turned on the lights, his eyes would probably be red. I picture the look on my mother's face if she saw him and shiver.

“Are you cold? Jeez, Laine, I'm sorry. Here. Get under the covers.”

“I'm okay,” I say faintly, feeling dizzy.

Sim is laughing. “Laine, are you seriously scared of me here?”

I feel my face flaming. “No! I just…”

“Lie
down,
will you? I'm completely too wasted to jump you right now.” Sim snickers.

“Shut up.” I smack him on the top of the head and lie down, feeling conscious of how much space my body takes, where his ends and mine begins.

“Much better,” Sim says, and puts his head on my shoulder. “Do you tell bedtime stories?”

“Shut
up,
Sim.” But I'm smiling.

“I really appreciate this, Laine.” Air tickles my ear. “I swear I'm leaving tomorrow.”

I shrug stiffly, as if I don't care, but my senses are overwhelmed, feeling Simeon's hair on my neck, the heat of his shoulder pressing against my arm. He doesn't seem to need my reply to keep on talking.

“Need to get some sleep now. I've got a ride at sevenish or so…. He's gonna text me, and he'll meet me outback and take me as far as Ukiah. I should be able to hitch from there…lots of trucks on the 101.”

My heart twinges. “So…you'll work at this hostel and do all your network things, then go to Alaska…and then what?”

Sim leans away from me. “What do you mean, ‘then what?'”

“Are you going to go to college, or do your equivalency exam, or anything like that?”
Are you ever coming back?

Sim laughs. “Oh. Yeah. I took the equivalency exam last quarter, but my dad wouldn't let me leave school. Says a diploma looks better to colleges, so I stuck it out on the off chance I ever go. But, Lainey, this is
it.
This is what people
do.
They just…go out and live life, I guess.”

Yeah. Life. That great big thing I know nothing about.

Even though we're close together, I sense a huge gulf between us in the silence that follows.

“I don't know, Lainey,” Sim says finally. His voice is quiet in the darkness. “I don't know what happens next. But anything's got to be better than this.”

Just about from the first day we moved to San Rosado, I've known Simeon Keller. These last two weeks, he's been everywhere. Even when I was irritated with him, feeling stupid and excluded from his life, he was in my thoughts. It's hard to imagine school without him. On Monday, I'll walk into Mr. Wilcox's physics classroom and know not to expect him ever again. For the first time since sixth grade…The thought hits me hard, and my eyes start to sting.

Come on, Laine. This is Simeon,
I try to tell myself. He's annoying and self-centered and basically ignores me, but for a long time, even before I had a crush on him, he was my very best friend. My eyes overflow as I realize how much I'm going to miss him. On the other side of the bed, I know Sim's still awake. I can feel him leaving already. All of his big plans to take off are percolating in his brain, and even though he's right next to me, it's like he's already gone.

“Laine? Are you crying?”

I try to get out the word “no,” but all that happens is that my breath catches in my throat. I quickly wipe my thumb beneath my eyes.

“Hey.
Hey.
” Sim pushes up on his elbow and taps on my shoulder. “Don't cry, Laine.”

I take a deep breath and keep my back toward him. It hurts too much to talk. Why does he have to be so nice now? Why can't he be the jerk I've gotten used to?

Sim places a hesitant hand on my side and slides it under my arm. He pulls me back against him, brushing my hair away from his face with his other hand. His chin is on my shoulder.

“Did I do something?”

I shake my head, speechless.

“Is…did you have a bad dream?” Sim sounds honestly bewildered and out of his depth, which makes me laugh a little.

“I'm fine,” I croak. I grab a tissue from my bedside table and blow my nose. I can think more clearly without hearing his voice vibrate through his chest. “I'm just…tired.”

“Oh.” Sim seems uneasy. “You sure? Laine, if you want, I can go now. I…I know your mom would freak, and if this is bugging you or…”

“No.” I turn toward him, my eyes dripping again. “Don't go, Sim. Please.” By the dim glow of the night-light in my bathroom, I can see the uncertainty on his face. I try to cut back on the drama. “I mean, who knows when I'm going to see you again, right? So…I want you to stay. With me. Until you have to…to go.”

Sim reaches out and brushes his fingers across the wetness on my cheeks. “Okay.”

I close my eyes and bite the inside of my mouth, hard. Everything he does makes me feel like crying, and if I keep crying, I'm going to freak him out.

When I open my eyes, Sim has his head pillowed on his arms, watching me.

“What are you thinking about?” I ask. I wipe my nose one last time and slide back beneath the covers.

“Nothing.” Sim's gaze is disconcerting.

“I got the money, if that's what you're worried about.”

“It wasn't, but thanks.” Sim leans forward suddenly and brushes my cheek with his lips. “I owe you one.”

I put my hand on my cheek, covering the spot. “You always say that. But you're leaving, you know. I'm never going to collect.”

Sim bites his bottom lip. “You will,” he says quietly. “I'll make it up to you, Laine. I promise.”

I smile. He always says that too, but for once it doesn't annoy me. Instead, it makes me sad again. I close my eyes against the stinging. “Good night, Sim.”

“Night, Laine.”

I roll over on my stomach and close my eyes. I feel Sim's fingers fumble for mine. His hands are still cold. I thread my fingers through his and hold on.

It doesn't seem like there's any way I'll ever go to sleep, but the next thing I hear is the bathroom door closing quietly, and the green numbers on the clock say it's six-fifteen. I stumble quietly out of bed, rubbing my eyes.

In the kitchen, I put the kettle on the stove, being careful to open the spigot so it won't whistle when it boils. This is it. In just a little while, Sim will be gone for good.

The kettle boils, and I make tea. I don't know what else to do. My hands feel empty, so I open the bread box and take out a bag of wheat rolls left over from the restaurant. I put four of them in the toaster oven on low. Then I get out a pot of mustard and look carefully at the eggs. I take four from the end of the crate and shake them one by one, carefully. Yep. They're boiled.

In
The Way to Cook,
Saint Julia guarantees the
perfect
hard-boiled egg with just a few simple steps that I have learned so well I can do them in my sleep. I started boiling eggs and leaving them in the fridge for a few days when MaDea told me that you couldn't make deviled eggs with really fresh eggs. It's true. They stick to the shell and look nasty when you try and peel them. It's ironic that week-old eggs work better. Since Mom knows where to shop, our eggs are
fresh,
fresh. The best thing I can do is to boil them and then let them age awhile in the safety of our refrigerator. It doesn't always work, but that's okay—the deviled eggs are tasty, even if they're not as pretty as MaDea's.

My chest doesn't feel so tight now that my hands are occupied with safe, familiar tasks. The eggs peel cleanly for once, and I take out a small bowl into which I lob all the yolks and a teaspoon of mustard. The whites I leave on the cutting board to chop later on.

I pull out green olives, sun-dried tomato tapenade, some scallions, and mayonnaise from the fridge. For now I skip the traditional celery and pickle route and go with some Hungarian paprika from the cabinet. There's a bit of fresh parsley left in the glass on the top shelf of the fridge, and I bring that along too.

I can smell the bread toasting. I quickly slice a scallion, then chop it finely with the parsley. I hope it isn't too strong. I take a couple tablespoons of mayo and two tablespoons of tapenade and mash all of that into the yolks. I add a dash of paprika and wonder if I should put in pickles after all. I make a face. No. The whites chop quickly, and I dust the salad with a bit of white pepper and salt and then taste. It wakes up my sluggish taste buds.

It's almost seven. I've taken the rolls out of the toaster oven, sliced them open halfway, and stuffed the creamy egg salad inside them. I quickly wrap each of them in foil to keep them warm, then fill a zip-top bag with some of Mom's stash of pecan bark, a couple of granola bars, and a few oranges. I can't think of anything else to pack that will keep well while Simeon is walking. I know he'll buy something when he needs to, but I want to give him as much as he can carry. No, food isn't love, and I know it. But it's the best I can do right now.

I glance at the clock, then up the stairs. I'm out of time.

Sim flinches when I come into the room. I've opened the door so quietly I've surprised him. He gives me a nervous smile and flicks his fingers through his damp hair. “Hey,” he whispers.

My throat is tight. “Hey.” I cough a little. “Did he text you yet?”

“Yep.”

“Oh.” I try to keep the smile on my face and hold out the bag. “Made you breakfast.”

“Thanks.” Sim takes the bag. “You didn't have to.”

I shrug, cross my arms. “Oh.” I move to the dresser and open my sock drawer. “Here.”

Sim doesn't even look at the money, just shoves it in his pocket as if he's embarrassed. “Thanks. Listen, about your grandma's stuff.” Sim stuffs the lunch bag into his coat pocket and turns toward me. “My folks will get it back to you guys; it's still in the boxes, even.”

“That's no problem.”

Sim glances toward the bathroom, then looks out the window.

“Is that him?”

“Not yet.”

I breathe a sigh of relief.

Sim crosses the room to stand in front of me. “I'd better climb out anyway. If he doesn't see me, he might decide to just go on. Look. I'll give you a call once I'm on the road, drop you an e-mail or something. As soon as I'm settled, I'll let you know.”

I nod jerkily and swallow hard. This shouldn't be as big a deal as it feels. I'm almost eighteen, and I'm going to save up and travel after school is out. I'll find out where he is and come visit. Why does it feel like I will never see him again?

Sim steps forward awkwardly and puts his arms around me. “Well, here goes,” he says with forced brightness. “Wish me luck, huh?”

I hold him tightly and breathe deep, relieved that I'm not going to cry. “Good luck.”

Sim steps back. “Thanks, Laine,” he says, his face serious. “I'm going to miss you.”

Impulsively, I stand on tiptoe and kiss him. He's not expecting it, and I see his eyes widen a fraction of a second before I touch him, butterfly light, on his lips with my own.

He blinks and flinches like he's been burned.

I swallow and step back involuntarily. “S-sorry,” I stammer. “I—”

Simeon bends forward and cups my face in one hand and puts his other hand on the back of my neck, under my hair. His hands are cold, but his lips are warm, and the feeling that I'm going to break down and cry gets derailed in the sensation of being cold and hot all over at once. Sim slides his hand down my back.

It's no more than a long moment, but both of us step backward a little stunned. For a few seconds, Simeon is still so close I can see his pupils, huge and dark.

“Sim. I…” I don't know what I was going to say.

“Laine.” Sim shakes his head and trails a finger across my mouth. “I should—”

I find my voice. “Sim. You don't have to go. You could stay with us, with…with me. I know things with your parents aren't good, but…it's just…” My throat is closing again. I bite my tongue before the words
What am I going to do now?
get spoken. “I'll miss you,” I whisper finally.

Sim turns toward the window. “Laine…I can't. I really
can't.
”

I'm struggling to swallow, and the tears I've been holding back are close. “Sim…stay. We could figure something out.” I reach out and grab his hand.

“I can't stay here. I don't want to.” The expression on my face—the pain—makes him look away. “I'm going,” he says, and squeezes my hand. Then he lets go. He walks into the bathroom, pulls open the window, and climbs out into the dimness of the morning. The curtains flutter like waving hands behind him.