Tastes Like Winter (4 page)

I am ready and expertly dodge the question. “Oh, no reason. She’s my
boss’s daughter, and I guess my mom went to school with my boss. She brought
Sam up at dinner last night in an attempt to bond.”

The Mom card is well played, and without a second word, she drops the
subject. I don’t want to tell Genna about Jake yet. Once I tell Genna, she will
freak out and want details, and aside from a minute-long supremely awkward
conversation, there is nothing to report. Best to keep my curiosities to myself
until I have a chance to completely figure my own feelings out or forget all
about him, whichever comes first.

Sure enough, later that day, I find myself having another Addler
family encounter. I don’t know if my subconscious sought it out or if it was
all coincidental, but after lunch while Genna and I are heading to our lockers,
I round the corner and walk right smack into Sam Addler.

Of course, I don’t know it at the time, but no sooner do I beg apology
and walk away than does Genna grab my arm and whisper, “That’s the Sam you were
asking about.” I turn my head and strain to see where she is heading off in the
distance, but I’m met with nothing more than a swoosh of straight blond hair.

At lunch, I see Sam again. This time my eyes have knowingly sought her
out. I’m not sure why, but my strange interest in Jake has translated into a
new (and admittedly creepy) interest in his cousin. I spend all period watching
her across the cafeteria. Similarly athletic and popular kids surround her.
Their group is boisterous, and they tease each other as they munch on fries and
sip their sodas. Genna was right; Sam is someone I should have noticed earlier,
if I paid attention to the people around me.

Mary is sitting at the round table beside me with her head in her AP
Biology book, taking bites of her salad whenever she turns the page. We have a
quiz this afternoon that I should be prepping for, but I can’t stop staring in
front of me. Mary’s distraction allows me to observe Sam uninterrupted. As I
watch her, I try to pull out some of Jake’s characteristics as I remember them
from our brief meeting.

Sam has long blond hair that is pencil straight, whereas Jake has
darker, thicker tufts that are short and stick up slightly in the front. I shut
my eyes to help remember and paint his face back into my mind. I open them
again and squint to see Sam’s eyes. Even from several tables away, I can see
they shine blue like Jake’s. They also both have smooth, tanned skin that looks
as though it picks up the sun effortlessly. I close my eyes again and include
those details in my mental portrait. I add a few strokes for the angles of his
chin and the lines of his cheeks and nose.

When I blink again and refocus on the cafeteria in front of me, Mary
is in my face, looking annoyed.

“What is wrong with you? The bell rang. We have to go!”

I swallow the thickness in my throat and try to shake off the daydream
and collect myself.

“Ye-yeah, s-sorry. Let’s go,” I stutter and grab my bag from the empty
seat next to me. “Ready?”

I smile up at Mary as if I wasn’t completely zoned out seconds before.
She narrows her eyes at me before turning and walking ahead, as if expecting me
to follow. I fall in line behind her quietly, staring at my shoes and trying to
cool the heat that has risen to my cheeks.

***

I flip another page and keep reading. My shift ended a little less
than an hour ago, but unwilling to go home, I have been hiding in the back,
reading. My head is pushed against the cold metal of the locker behind me, and
I shut my eyes and rub them fiercely to wipe away the fatigue. I’m halfway
through the divine comedy that is Dante’s Inferno, and while interesting, it is
heavy reading that exhausts my brainpower.

The door swings open, and Jake, whom I have not been able to stop
thinking about since our first encounter, strolls in. I look up.

“Hi. Emma, right?”

“Yeah.” My voice is weak.

“What are you doing back here?” His eyes dart around the room in confusion.

“Oh, I—I” I stammer. “I was reading.”

He tilts his head curiously and gives me a smirk. “In the storage
room?”

“I like it back here. It’s… peaceful.” I sound like a nitwit. So far,
Jake has the uncanny ability to turn me into a blubbering idiot. I blame my
hormones and his good looks.

He gives me a weird glance before grabbing a thick folder from the top
of the filing cabinet.

“Also, I don’t want to go home,” I am compelled to add, not sure if I
am trying to redeem myself or if the depth of his gaze is pulling it out of me.
I chide myself for
oversharing
.

He locks onto my eyes and asks directly, “Why not?”

I don’t think he’s being nosey and prying, but something about the way
he asked makes me want to respond honestly. “Home is a bit tense these days. My
parents, they’re on the verge of a divorce. It’s so cliché, but it turns out my
dad was fooling around with his co-worker.”

“Secretary?”

“I don’t think secretary is politically correct anymore. I hear they
like to be called executive assistants these days.” I was reverting to sarcasm
as a defense. “But, yeah, same thing.”

He is unfazed by my correction. “Sorry to hear that. I can relate. The
curse of the twenty-first century teen—divorce is written in our DNA.”

I throw him a feeble half smile, and he changes the subject. “What are
you reading?”

I hold up my copy of Dante, and he chuckles in response. He drops his
bag from his shoulder, unzips it, and pulls out a copy of the same book.

“It appears that you and I have a lot in common, Emma Forrester.” He
shoves the book along with the folder into place at the bottom of his pack and
pushes through the door. It flaps loudly on its hinges in his wake, the sound
echoing in my head. I continue following his path with my eyes, desperate for X-ray
vision so I could see through the door now blocking my view.

“That was weird,” I think aloud, trying to shrug it off, but inside I
am reeling. It appears we have a lot in common, Emma Forrester, I mock
internally. How did he know my last name?

I reprimand my subconscious. I know his last name. It’s not so strange
for him to know mine. Maybe it was the way he said it, as if I’ve piqued his
interest and he can’t help but be intrigued. Or maybe I am projecting because
of how intrigued I am with him.

So far, the rumors from school don’t match the Jake I’ve seen. I’m
happy for that, but truthfully, it’s still too early to tell. Despite my
strange connection, I don’t know Jake at all. I do know that, while he is known
for getting high, he has acted perfectly lucid the two times I met him. But maybe
that means nothing.

I’ve never understood drug use and have always been firmly against it.
Why would anyone want to dull their senses and
zombify
themselves? Not to mention how dangerous it is. Call me uptight, but I have
seen way too many public service announcements and sat through too many health
lectures to ever want to go near the stuff.

Drug addicts don’t read Dante, do they?

After fifteen minutes of trying to re-focus on the prose in front of
me, I give up on my book with a heavy sigh. I can’t shake the image of Jake from
my mind. He’s handsome in a sexy, uncaring, just-rolled-out-of-bed way. His
dark hair and hard lines are softened by the ocean in his eyes. They see into
me, causing my stomach to twist in an unfamiliar way. It excites me and makes
me feel alive.

Accepting that my literary journey through hell won’t go any further,
now that I have been presented with this newfound distraction, I close my book
and resolve to finally and begrudgingly go home.

***

Several days later, Jake catches me
hiding out in the back of the store again. I’m not ready to admit to myself
that I have been making a habit of hanging out here after work hoping for
another run-in, but it’s a possibility. He’s expecting me this time and
immediately reaches out to hand me a paperback. The cover is well worn, and a
huge crease cuts across the front. I read the title:
L'Étranger
.
It is the original French version of the famous novel by Albert Camus. I look
up at him, surprised.

“I read it when my parents were getting their divorce, and it helped.”

I stare back down at the book. Jake
brought me a gift? Even if it’s used, it still counts as a gift! My heart does
a flip in my chest, and I am so excited and curious, I can barely think. But I
am also baffled by his selection.

Reading the confusion in my eyes, he continues, “You know, last week
you mentioned that stuff about your parents. I thought it might help.”

I stare at the cover trying to make sense of what he means. I am familiar
with the book but have yet to read it myself.

He looks like a scolded little boy who
has overstepped his boundaries.

“Anyway…” He tries to backtrack.

I cut him short. “A novel about existentialism and the meaninglessness
of life helped you through your parents’ divorce?” I challenge him, still surprised
by his selection.

“What? I find something comforting about his portrayal of the
absurdities of life. It makes everything seem so… inconsequential.” He waves a
hand as if to signify how little everything around us matters.

I scrunch my nose, at last understanding his distorted logic and
appreciating the backwards attempt at self-help. Funnily enough, I see where he
is coming from and completely agree. So far, he is the first person I have told
about my parents who hasn’t tried to console me with “Everything will be all right.”
Maybe reading this book will actually help.

“Thanks. That was thoughtful.” I hold up the book. “How did you know I
read French?”

I’ve been taking French classes all through middle and high school,
and my father is fluent in the language from his time living in Paris as a
young adult. Growing up, he would teach me phrases and quiz me on words. It is actually
one of the few bonding experiences I can remember having with him as a child. I
am currently at an AP level in school, a class that isn’t even technically
offered. I sit in with the Advanced French III kids, doing an independent study
of sorts. The class consists of me reading books Madame
Jacquel
picks out for me and writing long papers on them. Les
Misérables
,
LeFantôme
de
l'Opéra
,
Candide
. Maybe I would suggest I read this one next.

Nevertheless, Jake couldn’t have known that.

He shrugs. “Aunt B mentioned something about it.”

I try to remember ever mentioning it to Betsy but come up short. His
explanation is insufficient, but I don’t push him further.

“Oh. Well, Thanks again. I can’t wait to read it.”

He smiles, and instead of moving to leave, he leans back against the
wall opposite me, crossing his legs at the ankle, looking relaxed. In an
attempt to avoid awkward silence, I sit back against the lockers, trying to
mimic his comfortable stance and ask, “Do you study French at all?”

“Yup. In high school, and now I have to take a few classes as a
prerequisite for my major. That’s actually my copy from class, so sorry for the
shitty condition. It probably has a lot of highlighting and some translated
notes.”

I am thrilled by the prospect of seeing which passages he marked for
later reconsideration. “Where do you go again?”

“Emerson.” He continues by reading my mind and answering my next
question before I have the opportunity to ask it. “Philosophy major, literature
minor.”

“Wow. That sounds awesome. I would love to study something like that.”

“I like it. I get to read a lot of cool books, and classes are mostly
discussion based, which is way less painful than lectures.”

“What type of job are you hoping to come from it when you graduate?” I
ask curiously.

He shrugs in response, “No clue.”

I cringe. “And that doesn’t terrify you?”

He laughs heartily before pausing for a long moment, considering his
answer before speaking. “There are more important things to be scared of in
life than dismal job prospects.”

I narrow my eyes at him, trying to read his meaning, but he changes
the subject before I have the chance to form a reply.

“Now that classes are in full swing and Aunt B is satisfied that I’ve
gotten a good feel for my teachers and class schedule, I’ll probably be around
here more often helping out. She’s pretty strict about schoolwork and wanted to
make sure I was settled in first. Maybe I’ll see you around?”

Betsy pops her head in and announces that she is heading out to grab a
bite to eat. She asks Jake if he wouldn’t mind watching the register for twenty
minutes since he is already here. He agrees, and embarrassed about still hiding
out in the storage room, I inform her that I was on my way out. I pack up my
stuff and head to the front alongside her. As soon as I’m out the door, I flip
through the book. It is heavily marked up with notes. I beam and clutch the
book to my chest as if I have been given a secret treasure that I need to
protect.