Chapter 3. Liam
Lu Toussaint owns the kitchen, and I'm part of the fucking chaos she has to contain every day.
She's in the middle of the room when I walk in, her hands on her hips, wearing a bright red head wrap.
She's wearing her white apron over a long-sleeved dress, full of giant purple and red flowers that remind me of spice and a spring morning.
A dress that probably started the day crisp and clean but is already dusted with flour and egg white. I love her like the mom I never had.
"Marsal!" she says while I wash my hands, get my blue plastic apron on, and my hairnet on. I grin at her, because that's what I always do, my practiced ticket to ride every train in my life, and she fake-scowls. "You late, boy."
She points at the prep station, where three whole fish are laid out on a cutting board. The eyes are still in, glassy and staring. Fish smells bad.
"Eeew," I say. When I can't complain, something explodes inside me. So I have to. I simply do.
"No complaints, boy. Today you'll learn to clean fish," she says, already moving toward me. "This is snapper. Fresh, not frozen. Only the best for my boys. Even if we can't season them properly."
"Yes, ma'am," I say again. I can be crazy but not crazy enough to disrespect Lu.
She demonstrates with the first one. Her hands are fast, precise, but weirdly gentle. In about sixty seconds she's got the snapper scaled, gutted, and fileted, with all neat lines and clean cuts. She wipes her hands and looks at me, eyebrow cocked.
"Your turn. And don't make a mess."
I step up, take the knife, and immediately fumble it. I cut too deep, slice through the skin instead of just under it, and by the time I'm done with the first side, it looks like a fucking crime scene.
Lu tsk-tsks, shakes her head. "The fish isn't your enemy, silly boy," she laughs, but there's no bite to it.
She comes around behind me, puts her hands on mine.
Her fingers are warm, calloused, her grip iron, her hands damp from washing up.
She guides my motion. "Gentle. Like you touch a cat, you know? "
I don't. I've never had a cat, and I'm not sure I've ever touched one, but I nod like I do, even with my eyebrows furrowed.
She walks me through the rest, then lets me try on my own. It goes better. By the time Margarete and Dora show up, I'm almost proud of my work. Margarete is humming under her breath; Dora is already teasing me in a mix of Portuguese and English.
Lu lifts my second fillet into the light, examining it. Her face softens into a genuine smile. "Look how beautiful," she says, nodding with approval. "You have good hands for this, Liam. I knew you would."
Is she calling me delicate?
I laugh to myself. She's not wrong.
The kitchen fills up as staff start coming in after lunch.
The noise level rises, but it's like a party where everyone is working.
Pots bang, mixers whir, and there are around seven people in total helping.
One other student besides me is a Black guy named Rick.
The three women are the cooks, and they are incredibly synchronized.
They trade jokes in their own languages, switch to English to include me and the others, then everybody is speaking Spanish, which seems almost common ground, except for dumbasses like me, then back again to Creole, Portuguese, English, and so on.
I only catch every third word, but I laugh anyway.
There's salsa playing all the time, and we're all dancing.
People are also cussing and screaming at each other when they make mistakes, when we run out of lettuce, when the chicken is undercooked, but there's a happy undertone even to that, like we're all a big family who are too used to being around each other.
At one station, Margarete is making dough for rolls. She lets me knead it, her hands over mine, showing me how to fold and press without tearing. The dough is soft and sticky, and after a minute my arms are sore, as I'm just a little twink, but the rhythm of it is addicting.
Dora is zesting limes for a glaze. She does it with this flourish, twisting the fruit and catching the strips in her palm before flicking the green curls at me when Lu isn't looking.
She's impossible. She's almost as much of a goofball as me.
I catch one on my tongue and fake a shudder like it's going to kill me, which makes her snort-laugh hard.
Lu moves back to my station, inspects my pile of snapper fillets. She nods, satisfied, then pulls a bunch of red and yellow peppers from the fridge.
"Now, we make epis. You know epis?"
I shake my head.
She grins. "It is the heart of every good Haitian dish. Garlic, scallion, parsley, pepper, lime, all crushed together."
She demonstrates, pounding the ingredients in a mortar and pestle. The smell is amazing, garlicky, peppery, bright with lime. She lets me try. My arms are still tired from the dough, but I go at it anyway, and after a minute she says, "Good. You have strong arms for a skinny boy."
Pretty sure Ethan said the same thing to me last time we worked out.
Margarete snickers. "He's strong, but not strong enough to fight off Lu."
Dora chimes in, "Nobody strong enough to fight off Lu. She is boss."
I chuckle. They're right.
We work for an hour, prepping everything.
Lu shows me how to cook down the epis in oil, how to layer in the fish without breaking it, how to taste for salt and acid.
Every step is a lesson, and even though she's strict, she never gets angry when I mess up.
She just corrects, demonstrates, makes me do it again.
I don't even like fish, but I want to eat it all.
"Fuck yeah, Lu," I say, stealing another fried skin. It's so lemony and crisp it makes my mouth water.
"Language!" she exclaims and slaps my wrist. I laugh, loud.
I enjoy it a little too much. It's work, but the repetition makes my hands remember what to do even when my brain's a mess.
After cleanup, I hang around the kitchen, pretending to help with inventory, but mostly just not wanting to go back to the main building yet. Quiet Time is almost over, and we'll get a snack and be allowed to hang out until exercise time. But I'd rather stay.
Lu is at the big metal table, rolling out dough for tomorrow's empanadas. Margarete is slicing onions, humming, and Dora is cleaning the fryer. Cleaning the fryer is a terrible job. They once gave it to me and immediately regretted it, because I managed to spill oil all over the kitchen.
That's when Harry appears in the doorway.
He's not supposed to be here. Like, at all. But he glides in like he owns the place, as he does to every place he enters, hands in his pockets, posture relaxed. His hair is short, so straight it sticks up at the ends, glasses perched on the end of his nose.
Lu sees him first. "No boys in the kitchen during prep. Out."
He gives her a slow, lazy smile. "Just here to see my favorite ladies," he says. "Don't kick me out, Lu. I brought gifts."
She pauses, narrows her eyes. "What gifts?"
He produces lollipops from his pocket. The kind they give out at the nurse's station.
He offers one to Margarete, who takes it with a snort, and to Dora, who rolls her eyes but unwraps it anyway, popping it in her mouth.
Then, seeing he wasn't getting kicked out, he starts distributing lollipops to everyone there, including me. When he hands me mine, he winks.
"Such a charmer," Margarete says, sticking the orange lollipop in the corner of her mouth.
Harry bows. "I live to serve." Then, he sidles up next to Dora, leaning way too close. "Did you get a haircut? Looks fantastic."
Dora snorts, rolls her eyes, and says something in Portuguese.
"Esse moleque…"
"You need something, Harry?" Lu asks again. She puts her lollipop in her uniform pocket.
He shrugs. "Just some cleaning supplies for the dorm. We're out, and I don't want to get written up again. You know how it is. If I ask admin, it will take forever; I need to get it cleaned today."
I watch the way he operates, smooth as glass.
The smile is real, so friendly, your best friend, like a demon in disguise.
If Harry wanted to be a politician, he'd probably have a shot.
If he wanted to rob a bank, he'd get away with it and have half the staff write him thank-you notes on his way out.
Dora sighs and goes to the utility closet. She comes back with a small bottle of the industrial sanitizer, the stuff that smells like a hospital and gives you a headache after three minutes.
"Just this, okay? If Griff finds out I gave you more, I die."
Harry puts a hand over his heart. "You have my eternal gratitude. You are a queen among women." He bows again, and Lu watches him, unconvinced.
The timer goes off on the oven. Lu heads over to check the bread, and Margarete follows to help. Dora is reassembling the espresso machine, distracted. Everybody else is minding their own business.
That's when I see it.
Harry's hand slides into the shelf next to the prep table, pulls out a small package. Yeast, I realize, the kind you need for baking… but also probably for brewing. In the same motion, he sweeps three sugar packets and slips them into his other pocket.
He catches me watching.
For half a second, there's no smile at all. His face is blank and hard. Then he grins, and winks at me again.
I pretend to be looking at the empanada dough, but I'm not stupid. I know exactly what he's doing.
Harry thanks Dora again, waves to Lu and Margarete, and gets out.
I hesitate for a second, then tell Lu I need to use the bathroom. She waves me off without looking, already focused on the oven.
I slip out of the kitchen, following Harry into the back hallway. The hallway smells like old onions, even though all the onions are sealed in plastic bins, and like garbage, because that's where the bins are.
He glances over his shoulder when he sees me.
"Following me, Marsal?"
"What are you doing with the yeast?"
He pauses for a second, then shrugs. I step in front of him, blocking his way.
"You're not making bread," I press. "Not with sanitizer and sugar and whatever else you've got stuffed in your pockets. What are you really doing?"
He sighs. It's theatrical, but the effect is a little off today.
I see he looks uneasy, which is weird as fuck.
He's never uneasy, or at least he never lets it show.
He eyes the space between us, probably calculating if he can get past me if he needs to.
He decides he can't and leans against the wall, mirroring my posture.
"Fine," he says. "You got me, Marsal. I'm making juice for the kids who can't survive another week sober. Maybe for myself, too. Yeast for fermentation, sugar to keep it going, sanitizer to keep the mold down. You happy?"
I let the silence hang, studying him. His face is blank.
"How do you do it without anyone realizing?" I ask.
He smirks. "Pay the right people, know the guards' schedule, don't get greedy.
" He looks at me, and for the first time since I've known him, there's something in his eyes that isn't arrogance.
There's a slight tension in him. "It's not a big operation, okay?
Just enough to keep people from losing their minds. Relax a little."
He's about to slide past me, but I block the path.
"You should be careful," I say. "If you get caught, they'll send you to real prison. Not this daycare version. With drugs it's easier to hide, but brewing?"
He laughs, but there's no joy in it. "Don't worry, Marsal. I've been doing this longer than you've been here. I know the risks. You're sounding too much like your owner, and that's no fun."
I roll my eyes at him bringing up Ethan, but he's not wrong.
I step aside and let him leave. As he passes, he drops his voice so only I can hear it.
"Thanks for not ratting. I'll make sure you get first taste when it's ready."
Then he's gone.