A La Carte (12 page)

11

“Where's my boning knife?”

Pia is shouting, and tension is high in the kitchen at La Salle. There's a food critic in the restaurant from
Taste the North Bay,
and all the chefs are in a huge panic. I'm actually being treated like a real chef's assistant, which means Stefan just screamed at me for overbeating a bowl of egg whites he was going to use for a sour cherry soufflé. I didn't even know you could overbeat egg whites, but he's just ranted and raved and banged his big fist on the counter about did I just think I was making meringue and now he's going to make me do it all over again—by
hand.
It's all I can do not to burst out crying.

I am so tired of crying.

I feel fragile, like broken glass that's been badly mended with glue that isn't yet dry. I want to sit very, very still for a while until the feeling that I might shatter goes away. The rumor mill at school has been very busy with news of who's in trouble, who's sent to military school, and that type of thing. People are talking about Sim. No one has come up to me and asked, but I've gotten some looks lately like people are wondering if I know something. Even if I did, I wouldn't tell them.

It's been three days.

Eventually, I had to wash my face. I felt like some middle school kid, thinking she'd never wash her hand again because some boy she likes touched it. I am not that lame. Quite. I won't wash my sweatshirt yet; I know that much. It still smells like him.

“Seifert! I need those whites yesterday!” Stefan is bellowing, and I pull myself back into the moment. There's barely room in my little corner of the world to stand, but I hunker into my work space and start over. First, I clean the bowl, since egg whites won't whip in a dirty bowl. With a mixture of a quarter cup of vinegar and a tablespoon of salt, I rinse it and dry it thoroughly with paper towels before cracking four eggs in a separate bowl and making sure there are no yolks in my white. The eggs are room temperature, and I use the balloon whisk Stefan gave me to beat them, incorporating air into the liquid. It takes me a little while to get it right. At first I'm moving my wrist too much. After a little while, I find a rhythm that is comfortable for me. The bowl is tipped to the side, and I move the whisk in tight circles.

“Where are the whites, Elaine!”

“I'm coming!” I want to throw something.

After the egg whites begin to foam, I carefully add a half teaspoon of cream of tartar to help stabilize things. I want to dump it in, but I'm scared now. I don't want to have to do this again. I keep moving the whisk, counting under my breath. I'm trying to make a hundred beats per minute, but I can't go that fast.

It seems like hours later when the whites stiffen into soft peaks. My arm is killing me, and I hate Stefan. I hate cherries. I hate soufflé. I hate everyone. I keep whipping. Should I stop? It doesn't look over-whipped to me, but what do I know? What do I know about anything?

Stefan stalks to my workstation and holds out his hand.

“What?” I stop moving and glare. I know my voice is surly and wobbly.

Stefan raises his eyebrows, then takes my whisk and dips it.

“Soft peaks,” he says gruffly. “That's what you need for soufflé. Next time do it like this the first time.” Stefan takes the bowl and thumps me on the shoulder. “Clean your workstation.”

I close my eyes and take a deep breath. I want to be a chef. I will not break down and bawl because Stefan didn't tell me how great I am. Saint Julia survived the Cordon Bleu. I open my eyes and grimly start cleaning up.

I can't believe how much I don't want to be here. This kitchen used to be everything to me, and now all I want to do is curl up in my bed and hide.

Monday night Mom came home, worry written all over her face. She'd had another phone call from Mrs. Keller, she said. The scene still plays in my head:

“Lainey…Honey, they still haven't heard from Simeon….”

I looked at my hands. I couldn't look at her face.

“I told Mrs. Keller I'd call if he came by our place, but, Lainey, she sounds so awful…. Do you have
any
idea where he is?”

Mom asked the question in a way that enabled me to avoid a direct lie. “No idea, Mom. None.”

I rinse out the copper bowl again, drying it carefully. “Ana Haines called and canceled her standing Monday night reservation—apparently Christopher got up to something…. And now apparently there's some kind of missing-persons report going out on Simeon. The Kellers haven't seen him since last Friday.” I remember how she'd frowned down at me. “It just doesn't seem like Simeon to not be around somewhere…. You haven't heard anything?”

I'd dodged the question. “Nobody's seen him?”

“Well, Mrs. Keller said that she'd just come home from being away and that Simeon wasn't in the house, and later on, she found that his things were gone….Laine, I'm worried.”

I blurted, “I am too. I haven't heard anything from him since Friday when—” I closed my mouth.

My mother was staring at me. “Wait. You just said you had no idea…”

I shook my head. “I don't. I just—”

Mom was angry. “Elaine, if you know
anything,
you should have said. Their child is missing. And no matter what you or I might think of things in that household, it's just not right not to let them know that we've at least seen him alive and in one piece more recently than they have.”

I tried to explain. I told my mom about the Kellers, and how cranky Mrs. Keller was, and how Simeon didn't get along with them, but in the end nothing I said stopped Mom from picking up the phone and dialing after giving me this huge lecture about social responsibility. I was furious with myself for being so stupid.

“Mrs. Keller? Vivianne Seifert again. I just wanted to let you know that Elaine saw Simeon this past Friday.”

“Well, of course you can speak to her. Elaine?” My mother handed me the phone and sat down expectantly.

I'd felt like I had a mouthful of sawdust. What was I supposed to say?

Unexpectedly, it was
Mr.
Keller who interrogated me like I was on trial. Why hadn't I told them anything before? Where was Simeon now? What time had I seen him? Had I been at the party with the other kids?

Party? I blessed Sim again for not inviting me. “No, sir. I wasn't at the party,” I told Mr. Keller, and Mom's eyebrows furrowed. I could see the wheels turning in her head, and the look she gave me wasn't promising. Mr. Keller asked to speak to Mom again. I handed her the phone and made a move to get up. Mom grabbed my arm and shook her head.

“Yes, Vivianne Seifert here. Yes, Mr. Keller.

“
I beg your pardon?
Mr. Keller, are you threatening my daughter?

“I see. Mr. Keller, you are obviously upset, and I will take your comments with that consideration in mind. Good night.” Mom hung up abruptly and then sat for a moment, glaring at the floor. I expected to see the hardwood go up in smoke. She was still holding on to my arm and just sitting.

“Mom?”

Mom hadn't looked up. “Elaine, you need to explain something to me. That man just insinuated that you are ‘obstructing justice' and ‘aiding and abetting a criminal' and said he'd sue us if he finds out that we are ‘hiding' his son! Will you please tell me what's going on?”

A criminal. They're calling Sim a criminal.

My mother is freaking out about this whole thing. She asked me a bunch of questions about that party at Sim's. I guess the Kellers didn't tell her the details either. Now that she knows that someone brought some marijuana and a keg, she's acting like I'm the one who's on drugs. And when she heard that people got arrested, she hit the roof.

“Drugs and alcohol and
arrests
!” she said, all upset. “Isabelle Elaine, you
know better
than this! I thought I could
trust you
!”

“Mom, it wasn't me! It was probably all Carrigan's friends; I've told you about him.” I remembered Sim's huge pupils and looked away.

“I have been afraid for some time that Simeon Keller is a negative influence on you. I trusted both of your judgment, and I see I was wrong. When he comes home, Elaine, I'm not sure what kind of relationship I'm prepared for you to have.”

“Mom!”
I said. “Are you
listening
to yourself? You're not making sense.”

“Making sense? Does it make sense that drugs and police and God-knows-what-all-else has been going on without my knowledge?”

That did it. I started crying and screaming that she couldn't take away my friends and that she sounded like a psycho and that I didn't deserve this. I surprised her when I started crying. I surprised myself. I was sobbing so hard she could hardly understand the words.

We finally both got a little more calmed down, but only after she made me go through it all over again.

“Okay. Now, tell me again. There was a party; there were drugs and alcohol; there were cops. Simeon didn't test positive for anything.”

“No.”

“And you have not been drinking or doing drugs.”

“Mother.”

“Humor me, Isabelle Elaine. I need to hear it.”

“No and
no
and NO. I
do
not and
have
not and
will
not. This was at Simeon's party, remember? I didn't even go.”

My mother glared at me, and I responded to her unspoken reminder to modify my tone. “I'm sorry. But, Mom, I'm the same person I always am. I haven't done drugs; I've never seen Sim doing drugs; this was all just something that happened at a party that got out of hand. I promise.” My promises were getting to be as frequent and meaningless as Sim's.

It was late, and Mom was tired. I felt guilty when I realized just how exhausted she must be. She'd been schmoozing and smiling all evening at the restaurant, and this wasn't something good to come home to, I knew. I tried to make it up to her, but it was still sitting between us three days later.

“Take a break, Lainey.” Stefan calls me back to the present. “Twenty minutes, okay?”

In my mother's office, I sit down at her desk. I check e-mail automatically, but there isn't any message from Simeon, and I pull up a sudoku game and begin fiddling with the numbers.

I've called Sim's cell every day since he left. I just leave him a short message that I hope he's okay, but I don't expect him to call. I'm still embarrassed that I begged him so hard to stay. He's probably thinking leaving was a good thing.

“Laine?” Mom is in the doorway.

“Hey. Stefan said I could take a break.” I stand up. “Need the computer?”

“No.” Mom drops into the chair across the desk. “Laine.” She sighs. “Have you heard from Simeon?”

It feels like Pia's boning knife is stuck in my throat. “No.”

“Lord.” Mom looks over at me and sighs, rubbing a weary hand over her forehead. “I was hoping he'd called someone.”

“Not me,” I say quietly. I can't have this conversation anymore. I head toward the door.

“Oh, Laine,” Mom says sympathetically. “I'm sorry.” She stands and touches my back, slides an arm around my shoulders. “I'm sorry, sweetheart. I forget how hard this must be on you too.”

“Thank you.” My voice sounds small. I lean into her half hug. She's still upset and really shaken by the idea of drugs and Sim, but now she's more worried about me than angry with me. I think,
If you knew the whole story, would you still be so sympathetic?

I refuse to let myself dwell on the truth: I'm not as good a daughter as she thinks.

I could come clean. If this were a movie, the writers could put in a part where I could tell the truth about where Sim's going, and Mom would be relieved that I had used my savings to help him. Sure, she'd rant awhile about people who run away and how unsafe the world is for people our age, but after she got it out of her system, she'd be supportive. She's on my side now, mine and Sim's. I could tell her where he is, where he's headed, at least, and someone else could share the responsibility of knowing he's out there in the world alone. Someone stronger than I am would care if he's okay. There are only a few words between Sim and safety.

I open my mouth.

“You know, I was just going to make some hot chocolate. You want some?”

A little sugar to make the bitterness ease. It's foolproof.