Chapter 2
2
Hayden
senior year
“If you don’t mind, can I label the cell samples today?”
I gesture toward the cutouts of the cartoon-style images of cells. Carefully drawn by Mr. Khan, each print is cut out into two-inch by two-inch pieces of paper with no indication of it being a skin cell, a bone cell, or a muscle cell. Natalia peers up at me with dark eyes that look like they belong to a sweet, timid puppy dog.
“Sure,” Natalia answers a little nervously, though she appears less skeptical than last week when I worked through our lab assignment like a bumbling idiot. I spent the weekend reading through this week’s chapter ahead of time. If not to prove that I know what I’m doing, then at least for the sake of my steady grade point average.
“Thanks.”
We both sit on our stools, with Natalia having to take a small hop before somewhat awkwardly climbing onto the seats that are too high. I can feel her eyes on me as she silently studies which images my hand lands on and where I place it to correspond with the correct labels. My brow furrows as I reconsider my offer to take over the assignment while wondering if maybe I looked over the wrong chapters at home once again.
From my periphery, I can see Natalia’s hand where she has a pencil twirling between her index and middle finger. She’s sitting close enough that I get a whiff of the subtle vanilla scent lingering around her. It’s not the cheap, artificial kind of vanilla. It’s more like the kind of sweetness that’s warm and inviting. It reminds me of how my entire house smells when my mom bakes a fresh batch of her oatmeal chocolate chip cookies, wrapping me in comfort and affection. That’s what Natalia smells like. Like coming to a warm home after a long day at school in the dead of winter where everything bites from the coldness.
“You know, I remember you from Mrs. Knight’s class,” I say abruptly in an attempt to break the silence between us.
When she tears her eyes away from the laser focus she had on the cell images, she looks surprised. As if there’s no explanation as to why I would remember her. Even though we’ve been going to the same schools since we were thirteen, passing by each other in the hallways, and always managing to see each other’s faces throughout every school year since.
“US History? At Madison?”
“Yeah,” I confirm. “Eighth grade, third period.”
I turn away from the counter, facing her completely as she tilts her head. She has her hair curled today, different from when she had it straightened last week, and the curls bounce as they drape over her shoulder. A breadth of a smile starts to appear as her eyes widen, the first time I’ve seen her face show anything but timid insecurity. I didn’t notice before, most likely because I’ve never paid attention to the way her smile lights up her whole face, but the tip of her nose dips for a second when she does.
“I remember you always coming in with a mustard-colored backpack that had an angry penguin hanging from the zipper.”
“Badtz Maru,” she says quietly.
“I’m sorry?”
“That’s the name of the penguin.”
“Oh.” I chuckle lightly, turning back to our assignment, determined to prove to her that I’m not some average jock who skates through classes based on my field position on the varsity football team. I actually want to do well in this class.
“I didn’t think you knew who I was.”
“I know who you are.”
Her smile grows even wider, and her eyes light up in a way that makes me think that maybe there’s more to Natalia Marquez than what’s on the outside.
past
“Everything go okay with the delivery?”
Uncle Pat greets me as soon as I walk into Pour Toujours, his restaurant and where I’ve been a sous chef for the past four and a half months. I don’t usually make pastry deliveries, so he walked me through each sandwich shop and coffee house that I had to stop by for our weekly orders.
“Uh, yeah.” I bite back the smile that creeps onto my face, thinking about how I ran into Natalia Marquez just a couple of hours ago.
“Andy will be back next week, so you shouldn’t have to continue these deliveries,” he explains apologetically, referring to our usual delivery man who was out with the flu. Pat leans back in the dining chair he’s sitting in, situated behind a clothed table nearest to the hostess counter. A tall glass of soda water with a lime wedge floating on the top along with a spread of menus and napkin cloth samples sit in front of him.
I wave him off. “It’s fine. I really don’t mind.”
I turn to walk into the kitchen to prepare for our dinner rush. But Pat clears his throat, his usual signal that there’s more to the conversation he wants to add. Sure enough, when I look at him, his solemn expression confirms it.
“I talked to your dad this morning.”
I nod, my eyes narrowing on the menu between his fingers as his thumb runs over the neat calligraphy print on the high-end paper stock.
“He just wanted to say hi and make sure you were doing okay.”
I purse my lips together, forming a judgmental smirk. “The phone rings both ways, Pat.”
“He knows,” he says with an understanding tone.
“He can talk to me when I call Mom,” I add for good measure.
“Hey,” he yields, avoiding taking sides, “I’m just the messenger. I already get heat for hiring my favorite nephew.”
I shake my head with a quick eye roll, knowing that I’m his only nephew. “I’m going to get back into the kitchen.” I tap two fingers on the tabletop, a dull, rhythmic thud signaling the end of our conversation.
“Yep,” he answers with a gruff nod .
I sigh, the frustration blowing out through my exhale as I realize that this, my strained relationship with my dad, isn’t my uncle’s fault. He and my mom are the ones who are caught in the middle, trying to mediate a rift that started with a blowout. One that ended with my dad accidentally flinging candied yams onto my mom’s holiday-themed tablecloth trimmed with fall leaves, right next to the uncarved turkey and steaming pile of stuffing. Uncle Pat was there to witness the whole argument. Right up until I stormed out and my dad stood with his fist pounded into the dining table.
I wish things were easier. I wish my entire past didn’t revolve around my dad’s idea of what my future should look like. I felt ashamed for choosing to go against the grain, opting for a career he once called “home economics” instead of becoming this idea of the perfect son along with the profession he deemed appropriate. Something that forced me into a straitjacket of a suit every day while surrounded by men in the same attire, all proving themselves through power struggles and measuring sticks.
I let out a deep sigh as I stalk toward the kitchen, walking through the almost empty dining room, and get hit in the face with heavy steam and the hot sizzle of oil hitting pans. I ready myself for our dinner rush, positioning a worn washcloth at my waist and washing my hands, just as the lingering thoughts of my dad and my career choices that drew the rift between us are interrupted by the clanging of plate to metal.
“ Who left the lamb out?! ”
Every movement in the kitchen stops. Spoons stirring in pots, knives hitting plastic board surfaces. Even the in and out of traffic between the swinging doors all comes to a halt. Everything is at a standstill as our head chef, Augustus DuPont, demands answers.
“I asked who left out the fucking lamb!”
With every member of the kitchen staff frozen in place, Pat rushes in to handle yet another anger-filled blowout from Chef DuPont.
“Chef, what’s going on? ”
“I asked who the fuck left the lamb out when it was supposed to be put in the walk-in right off the truck.”
Pat sighs. His hands come up in an attempt to calm Chef DuPont. “It’s fine. I’ll get someone to move it.”
Chef DuPont turns to Pat, his face coming inches away from him as his finger points at Pat’s chest. “I can’t work with an incompetent team like this. I’m tired of it!”
I watch from the assembly line, stacking a pile of clean plates, as Chef DuPont’s face grows redder and redder.
“Gus, it’s not a big deal,” Pat explains, attempting to smooth down his anger. “The delivery came in less than twenty minutes ago. I know because I signed for it. The meat hasn’t gone bad.”
Chef DuPont throws his towel against Pat’s chest and storms off. He purposely knocks over a saucepan sitting on the corner of the countertop as he rounds toward the back exit. Pat turns to the rest of the kitchen staff that seems to breathe a sigh of relief with Chef DuPont’s exit.
“Okay, people. Let’s keep things going. We have a busy dinner ahead of us,” he calls over the length of the kitchen. He then turns to me. “Hayden, can you take this to the walk-in? And make sure there isn’t anything else that was missed from the delivery?”
“Sure.”
“Thanks.” Pat sighs as he walks away, his shoulders hunched with stress and worry.
I pick up the plastic crates carrying the slabs of lamb chops, all neatly stacked with times and dates stamped along the cellophane covering, and walk them toward the walk-in on the other side of the kitchen. I avoid Chef DuPont as he stalks back into the kitchen. He mutters profanities under his breath as he works his way through the sous vide station to package and seal filets of monkfish for their water bath .
I spend the rest of my shift watchful of Chef DuPont’s whereabouts, trying to minimize contact with him while working through our nightly dinner rush. I plate dishes carefully and sear the prepared lamb chops to perfection, despite Chef DuPont’s rage over proper oil temperatures, until my shift is over late into the night.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, Pat.” I peer into Pat’s office as he waves at me without looking up from his desk. I wave a quick goodbye to a couple of servers at the hostess station before I walk out the door. Once outside in the early fall air, I look down at my phone to a new message from Natalia.
Natalia: We moved the party to 11 but feel free to show up whenever.
Her message is followed by her address, along with a reminder that I don’t have to bring any “cute friends” as Lucy requested.
Me: Sounds good. I’ll see you later.
There are a few memories that I’ve held on to since my time at Coolidge View High. Football practice and our homecoming games usually take front and center. Spending my lunch trying to stuff as much as I could into my Subway sandwich with disgusting junk food choices like Cheetos, ramen noodles, and gummy worms comes in a close second. But another constant memory I have is the fifty-five minutes I spent in AP Bio with Natalia Marquez as my lab partner senior year. Before that class, we’d never spoken a word to each other. We were just two fish in the sea of Coolidge View High students. But in the small bubble that formed around our lab table surrounded by the pungent odor of formalin and fragile beakers, we were two ends of a magnet, the opposite poles coming together for a single hour to talk about everything and nothing .
Natalia, much like all the minute details of high school, unexpectedly made an imprint on me. When I think of her, I think of home. Like what it felt like to stop by the local Wendy’s for a Frosty on Thursdays after school. Or the comfort I had going to Five Guys to stuff my face with burgers and shelled peanuts with the rest of the football team. It also reminds me that during one of the last years of our adolescence, before the both of us entered adulthood, Natalia was the most constant and real presence in my life. Someone who I had a hard time saying goodbye to when the last days of school finally approached.
When I walk through the front door of my apartment, I find my roommate, Dexter, sprawled along the couch with his phone held in the air.
“Hey,” he calls, lacking any form of energy.
“Do you have any plans tonight?”
“I’ll probably get off this couch at some point.” He exhales loudly, groaning as he sits up from his too comfortable position. “And walk over to Pepper Thai for some food. You?”
“I got invited to a party.”
His brows perk with interest. “A party? By who?”
“I ran into this girl I went to high school with,” I say softly, still unbelieving that the encounter happened at all.
“Is she cute?”
I ignore his question. “You want to go?”
“Sure,” he says with a casual shrug while tossing his phone onto our cluttered coffee table.
“We’ll leave in about an hour,” I say before I walk into my room.
I strip from the grease-infused jacket and the stiff polyester pants, tossing them into my hamper before stepping into my shower stall. The scent of coq au vin and chocolate soufflé dissipates into the stream of hot water as I lather cedar-scented body wash into my hands and wash away the remnants of the day from my body .
As the heat melts the tense muscles in my neck and shoulders, the expectancy of seeing Natalia starts to grow in small flutters.
Suddenly, senior year feels like an entirely different time. I know both myself and Natalia aren’t the same kids we were back then, but the need to revert back to being those imperfect seventeen-year-olds fills me. As if I can swipe the last eight years of my life and somehow transport back to that small classroom with Natalia by my side.
I don’t have very many friends, only a handful that I’ve made since my arrival to the city this year. Dexter is one of the oldest friends that I have. We met during our freshman year in college when we were assigned as roommates that first year before I never returned. But there’s no friendship like the one I had with Natalia, all of it revolving around memories, secrets, and inside jokes. Like how if I were to reference “Starbucks lovers,” Natalia would smile at the vivid image of our guidance counselor, Mrs. Geiss, incorrectly singing along to the very Taylor Swift song during a pep rally before spirit week. Or how if I were to say “mind the gap,” we would both think of Mr. Walton, with his fake British accent, bellowing at every student that ran through the threshold of each classroom more than ten seconds after the bell rang to announce each tardy arrival.
Showered and in the gradual process of air drying, I wrap a towel around my waist and search my closet for something to wear. I find that more than half of it is filled with chef’s jackets and the same uncomfortable polyester pants I wear every day, just in different variations of gray and black. Once I settle on a casual dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up and worn jeans, I walk into the living room to find Dexter dressed in an outfit almost identical to mine.
“Well, one of us has to change,” Dexter jokes.