This Is What I Want to Tell You (10 page)

I watched Parker pouring from a bag into the pot of water.

What does that mean? I pointed at the spine of the book. I felt like a four-year-old.

He looked up, like he was surprised someone else was in the room with him.

Oh, it’s like a dictionary for cooks. It’s like—you can look up ingredients and stuff. It’s like this old French thing.

As he reached for a knife, the inked band around his arm waved slightly, the serpent danced against his skin. I thought right then that I might be in love with him. I had no idea what that felt like. But right then I decided I could move into this gasoline apartment and do my homework while he read French cookbooks and I wouldn’t be missing anything in my life. At all.

Hey, he said. Come stir this for me.

We were mostly quiet while Parker cooked. There was the jump of his knife against the cutting board and the hiss of boiling water and the snap of the containers he opened. I started to forget that I wasn’t wearing a shirt. I was stirring risotto, which is little oval-shaped Italian rice that takes forever to cook and needs to be carefully stirred, constantly. The steam from the pot warmed my chest and I didn’t care when my arm started to ache. Every once in a while Parker would reach over me to drop a handful of herbs or powder into the pot and each time he did, I felt my skin stand up. It was like he just, instinctually, knew things—the perfect pinch of ingredients or turn of the flame. Watching him cook I could feel he just knew.

On the burner next to me, he poured cream into a pot, a pat of butter, red flakes of something, onions, and handfuls of soft, white meat tinged in red.

What is it? I asked.

Lobster.

People didn’t eat lobster on any normal day. This I knew. It was the most expensive thing on a menu. It was special-occasion food.

When Parker proclaimed the risotto done, it was almost too tired to stir, white and gloppy and flecked with dark green and pepper. He heated butter in a pan and formed the risotto into full-moon patties and cooked them until they were gold on each side.

He smiled while he stirred and flipped and sliced and his eyes, all at once, seemed to be watching every pot and dish he had with this quiet, still intensity.

He pulled out two chipped china plates. I thought it was funny, just then. Parker had dishes. Where did he get them? I watched his hands move quickly—stirring, flipping. He put two of the gold-brown risotto patties on each plate, carefully side by side and then, slowly and gently, poured the red cream over the top, so gently that tiny heaps of lobster meat formed a near-perfect pyramid between the two cakes.

He put the plates on the table and stared at them.

Oh, he said. He reached into a drawer and pulled out two forks. Handing one to me, he sat down.

Okay, he said.

I sat down across from him. This is what we would do if we lived together. We would eat dinner like this.

Except I’d probably be fully dressed.

Or maybe not.

I took a bite. Parker watched me.

Wow, I said. I had no idea what to say. It tasted amazing. It tasted warm and creamy and rich and peppered and just a little bit crispy all at once.

It’s so good, I said. It’s really rich.

Parker stared at me.

Huh, he said.

He took a bite.

Yeah, it’s pretty good, he said. I overdid it on the heavy cream.

No, no you didn’t.

I had no idea what it would taste like if he underdid it on the heavy cream, but I had the distinct impression I couldn’t say anything right. I liked food. But I didn’t know food. I wanted to know everything. I wanted to stun him by tasting exactly the spices and the measurement of heavy cream.

I wanted to know what
gastronomique
meant.

There was this scholarship. It was for a summer-long Model U.N. program in New Haven, Connecticut. You had to submit your best resolution, and then a committee reviewed millions of them and chose a couple of students to send to New Haven and paid for everything and gave you money for college. It was the kind of thing I should want to do. It was the kind of thing I would have been all over last year. Mr. Taylor, my guidance counselor, pulled me aside right around Thanksgiving and told me I had to get it done.

Just do it, Nadio, he said. It’s a waste not to do it. Just get it done.

He was right. It was a Friday, but after school I went straight to the library. I sat down at a computer near the back windows and I just went to it. I knew I was supposed to write about the development of programs to recognize kids orphaned by AIDS. I surfed around and did a little bit of research. It was pretty easy once I got started. I had the format down. It was all about phrasing.

Noting: that children on the continent of Africa have been ravaged by the plague of AIDS, left homeless and orphaned and have resorted to crime and addiction.

Deeply concerned: that the international community has done little to remedy this plight.

Taking into account: that children and countries will be best served by programs that can allow these orphans to grow up with safe, healthy environments on their home soil.

Requests: that delegates develop U.N.-sponsored homes and programs for said orphans.

I stopped. Deeply concerned. Taking into account. It was everything we were thinking about my sister. It was all of my energy and all of my distraction.

Noting: that Noelle is in a weird place. She seems angry and messed up and is keeping her distance from her brother and her best friend.

Deeply concerned: that Noelle could be really hurt if she finds out her brother and her best friend are dating. Kind of dating.

Taking into account: that her brother and best friend really like spending time together and are tired of keeping secrets.

Requests: that all three have a conversation so all of this can stop driving everyone slightly crazy.

I dug my cell phone out of my pocket and called Keeley.

Hello?

I wanna take you out to dinner, I said.

She was quiet.

Really?

Yeah.

Nadio. That would be—okay. That’s awesome.

If we’re gonna go into the city we have to take the bus. You know Lace hasn’t taken me for my road test yet.

She laughed.

I have a license, remember?

This is humiliating, I said. But can you pick me up at the library?

Which part? That you’re at the library or that I have to drive you around?

Ha ha, I said.

Keeley and I drove to Mirabel’s. It’s just a little restaurant in the city that looks kind of fancy from the outside with dark purple tablecloths and wine glasses, but it’s not that expensive. I know because once Lace took us there for her birthday.

Anyway, Keeley and I went to Mirabel’s and they gave us a table in the back corner which was actually near the fireplace. We both ordered steak and ice water and Keeley made me promise we would split the check. I didn’t argue. To be honest, I couldn’t argue. I just wanted to be somewhere brand new with her.

She held my hand over the table.

You want to talk about something, don’t you? she said.

In fact, I said.

Do you want to break up with me?

No, I said. Even though I think she knew that wasn’t what I wanted.

This is weird, I said. I moved my hand so it was over hers.

It’s just … okay. First, I think keeping this from Noelle is ridiculous. I mean, she is my sister and she’s your best friend and this is just the truth. She needs to know.

What’s the truth?

What do you mean?

Well, you said “this” is the truth. What’s “this”?

You and me, Keeley. You’re my girlfriend. That’s the truth.

She smiled, but there was something off about her smile.

I like to hear you say that, she whispered.

What’s wrong?

She lowered her eyes. She wriggled her fingers and then laced them through mine.

I’m not sure when I’m gonna be ready to have sex with you.

My stomach jumped. For some reason it felt weird to hear her say this out loud. It’s like we weren’t supposed to talk about this out loud.

Okay, I said. But—

Why? she asked.

Yes, I wanted to say. Why? Why not? What are we waiting for? What am I supposed to do here? But I didn’t say anything.

There’s just all this stuff. And Nadio, I just can’t tell you about it all yet but I want to. And sometimes it’s like I want to so bad. Do it. Tell you. Everything. But then I don’t. But then being with you is like the best thing. I just have to ask you to be patient with me. But I understand if you can’t.

Of course I can, I said.

Because I could. Even if I didn’t always feel like it. I had no idea what she was talking about. And I couldn’t tell if it was serious or just a girl thing—just a girl not being ready. Being ready, I know, is just different for a girl. I knew I could wait. At least right now I felt like I could.

Anyway, she said.

Just then the waiter hovered over us. He grinned as we pulled our hands apart. He put the plates down in front of us—two giant brown steaks, piles of mashed potatoes, hills of green spinach.

Keeley picked up her knife and fork.

Anyway, I love you, she said, slicing into her steak. And you don’t have to say anything. In fact, don’t say anything. Even if you mean it. Say it a different time when it doesn’t feel like you’re being forced to say it.

And she shoved her fork in her mouth. She smiled and chewed at the same time, looking kind of beautiful and crazy all at once and I thought, even if I couldn’t say it, I might mean it.

We never got back to talking about Noelle.

After he cooked, Parker seemed distracted. He piled the dishes in the sink and didn’t seem to notice when I put my T-shirt back on.

Thanks, he said when I started to do the dishes. Seriously.

He lit a cigarette, offering his pack to me. I shook my head. He sat down and smoked quietly. I washed and piled the dishes and he was quiet. I felt this strange mix of content and anxiety. Like he’d just showed me this deep and true part of him and we were closer. And like I’d reacted all wrong and he didn’t want me around.

I finished the dishes. Even though it was Friday, it was kind of late and I didn’t have a cover plan and I had to go home. I got my stuff from the couch. He had his big French cooking bible out and was flipping through it.

I have to go, I said.

Yeah. Parker looked up. He stubbed out his cigarette and stood up. He watched me pull on my shoes and zip my coat. Then he reached his arm out and pulled me to him and tilted my face up and kissed me.

I felt like I could fly.

You’re good to cook for, he said.

You’re a good cook.

He smiled.

I’ll see you, he said.

It was cold outside, the just-before-the-snow kind of cold. The air felt sharp and fresh on my face as I started toward the bus stop. I felt like I’d cracked open and had a brand new skin and something completely new was going to happen in my life. I felt possible.