North of Happy Read online

  Emma leads us to the living room. “The way I see it, after our date we both want the night to keep going, and so I invite you over to watch a movie and some cuddles, but we end up falling asleep.” She stands in front of the couch, powers on the TV but nothing else, so that the screen is showing a no signal message. Then she turns around, suddenly hesitant, wringing her hands, biting her lip. “Is this too weird? Was this a bad idea?”

  Emboldened, thinking this is far from a bad idea, I close the slight gap between us and we kiss again.

  * * *

  It turns out that, while attempting to sleep near each other early in a first date provides a glorious amount of touching and comfort and arousal, it does not make for a conducive sleeping environment. Emma and I end up doing more giggling than anything, our hands clasped together beneath a thin plaid blanket.

  “Carlos, are you asleep?”

  “Of course I’m asleep,” I respond, eyes tightly shut.

  “Okay, good. Because if we don’t fall asleep, then we can’t do the other parts of the date.” I fake a snore, nuzzle a little closer, don’t even envision what these other parts of the date might be. Emma throws an arm across my chest, matches the snore, and within moments we’re laughing again.

  Who knows how long this goes on for, jokes interrupted by rare moments of quiet, where I think maybe one of us is about to really fall asleep, and I’m surprised by how benign my thoughts are in the silence. Then Emma turns on the video game console to find a movie on Netflix. Before hitting Play, Emma runs out to the kitchen to make us some popcorn and grab some drinks. On the couch, I run a hand through my hair in disbelief.

  Emma comes back, settles herself against my chest with the oversized bowl on her lap. She picks up the remote control, cranes her head back so her lips are grazing my jawbone. Through the sheer curtains, I can see the sun poke its red head over the ocean.

  Throughout the movie, we alternate between raucous laughter (“Why is he wearing snakes on his wrists? That makes no sense!”) and a silence more comfortable than I could have ever imagined. Outside people begin their days. Garage doors grind open, car engines turn on, children freed by summer squeal as they run outside to play.

  When the credits roll, I ask Emma, “Can I kiss you again?”

  And she responds wordlessly.

  * * *

  At the diner downtown, while a mix of local fishermen and tourist families have eggs and bacon, Emma and I dine on burgers and milkshakes. It is distinctly and satisfyingly American. I consider how, despite my passport, I have never really felt American. The one thing about Dad’s plan that felt right all along was me staying in Mexico. Now, though, I’m not so sure. Slanted sunbeams streak across the table through the blinds, lighting up Emma’s skin.

  I didn’t think to pack a swimsuit when I was making my escape to the island, so we go into one of those convenient beach-goods stores on the boardwalk and buy me the cheapest, ugliest pair of swim trunks we can find, along with a beach towel depicting a kitten eating a cobra in space. Since Emma’s offended that I didn’t bring a book with me either, we go to the used bookstore and I pick out a paperback by Italo Calvino, who I’ve never heard about but sounds intriguing.

  By the time we get down to the lake, the tiredness of a long week and our early meet up is sinking in. We set the towel down on a tree-shaded stretch of grass and strip down to our swimwear. We read for a few minutes, but before too long the heat has me dropping my book on my face, so I push it aside, turn so that I’m facing Emma, doze off.

  I wake up briefly and see Emma’s in the same position as me, her face inches away, eyes serenely closed. Somewhere in the distance, people are splashing around in the lake. It seems like we’re miles away from anyone else, worlds away. I maneuver myself half an inch closer, amazed at the slight distance between us.

  Again I wake up, and this time I’m alone. The air is a little chillier; the sun has dipped beneath the peak of the island’s hill. I sit up, rubbing the sleep from my eyes, wondering where the hell Emma’s gone, instantly nervous that the date is over.

  “You’re cute when you sleep,” Emma calls out from the lake, which is turning pink with the sunset. She’s only a few feet in, lying facedown in the shallow water, hands propping her head up.

  “Are you saying I’m not at other times?”

  She shrugs. “At least now you know.”

  I run into the lake, which is so warm that I can’t help splashing past Emma until I’m fully submerged. Then I turn back around, just as she’s swimming into my arms.

  * * *

  Night falls, and we’re standing back in front of Emma’s door. Her hair’s still wet, dripping onto the faded welcome mat on her porch. I swear I can still see bioluminescence clinging to her; each drop that falls looks like tiny contained fireworks. We’re both grinning like fools.

  “So, how do we start this date?” I ask.

  “I had planned for an awkward hug,” Emma says. “But I really want to kiss you again.”

  “Bold start,” I say.

  Emma shrugs, tilts her head toward mine. “I’m okay with that.”

  CHAPTER 15

  TOM YUM POZOLE

  Guajillo, pasilla, arbol chili peppers, toasted and rehydrated

  5 cloves garlic

  1 onion

  5 stalks lemongrass

  2 tablespoons galangal

  3 kaffir lime leaves

  50 grams fresh ginger

  3 16-ounce cans hominy

  10 cups chicken stock

  10 cups water

  8 pounds pork loin

  8 tablespoons lime juice

  8 tablespoons fish sauce

  4 tablespoons oregano

  METHOD:

  On Tuesday morning, Chef Elise returns, and I attack my dishes with the vigor that only the happy can muster. Though all the cooks are busy replenishing mise containers, bubbling stocks and sauces meant to last the week, I’m ahead of the incoming tide of pots and pans. It’s like magic how quickly I go through the work, how much better I am at this than when I arrived a few weeks ago. I don’t know how much Mom and Dad would share in the feeling, but pride surges within me when I finish a stack. More than anything, I am happy that the sight of Felix—when he invariably shows—cannot undo this.

  Roberto takes a coffee break, and I go around emptying people’s bins for them. I see Chef in the office, making phone calls, checking off items on a clipboard. Typical teasing from Matt, who seems to be the only person in the kitchen who can always see me.

  Elias intercepts me near the pass. “Hey, man, how do you feel about making staff meal again?”

  Though the kitchen is at its typical roar, and Chef’s on the phone in her office, I instinctively lower my voice. “Don’t you remember? Chef told me to stay away from the food. I’ll help someone else or something, but...”

  “What, the mysterious hero is scared?” Elias cuts me off. “Chef’s loaded with paperwork and shit back there. If you’re handling your stuff and not messing with other people, no one cares what you do. You could teach yourself how to salsa dance if you wanted to.”

  “She’s not going to, like, fire me or stab me or something? I didn’t exactly kill it last time.”

  Elias rolls his eyes. “Cut the shit, man. You got time to cook or should I find someone else?”

  I look back at Chef’s office. I’ve been hoping every day for another chance to cook, redeem myself. Felix appears in her doorway. “If you don’t say yes, I will haunt you in increasingly annoying ways.” I nod quietly, and Elias leads me to the walk-ins again.

  I’ve got a few hours before it has to be ready, and the first thing my mind goes to is pozole, the rich aromas that’ll fill the kitchen. Felix and I used to make it at home sometimes, weekend mornings when he was hung
over. We’d hang out in the kitchen the whole day, taste-testing, letting the broth simmer itself delicious. It’s the meal my friends always ask me to make for them. Dad too.

  It’s relatively easy to make, so I won’t screw up, but I can find a way to mix it up too. Maybe keep the Mexican-Asian fusion theme going. I grab an assorted handful of dried chilies from the pantry, some lemon­grass, a jar of galangal, kaffir lime leaves.

  After the chilies are toasted, the prep work is pretty easy. Just throw most of the stuff into a stockpot and let it simmer for a few hours while I disappear behind my partition, safe from Chef’s wrath. I relive kisses with Emma as the suds and steam surround me. Every time I come by to deliver dishes or pots to the line, I check on my creation, give it a stir, taste with a clean spoon and then carry it back to the sink with me to dispose of the evidence.

  At around noon, the soup tastes exactly like I’d envisioned. It tastes so good that I’m actually a little sad that Felix can’t ever try it. When Elias comes by to ask if I’m almost done cooking, I get Roberto to cover me and then set up a tray of garnishes so that people can do what they want to it (an oregano–nam prik pao mix, limes, radishes). “Everything’s good to go,” I say. “Don’t tell Chef it was me, though.”

  Elias takes a spoonful, blows on it gingerly and then swallows, shakes his head. “Fuck, man. Those sandwiches the other day were alright for staff meal. But I could tell you had something.”

  I turn the music up to make the announcement. I serve myself a bowl first and then hang around to see people’s reactions. Lourdes is pouring herself a bowl when Chef turns up, among the first to do so. She leans over Lourdes’s shoulder, comments about the smell, offering her compliments. I beam so hard I’m surprised the whole kitchen doesn’t burst into flames.

  “No fui yo, Chef,” Lourdes says.

  I keep my eyes down, slurping at the broth and the hominy. Elias is leaning against the wall, smirking at me with his eyebrows raised.

  “No? Who the hell else makes pozole here? It’s different than usual. Ginger, lemongrass. This is nice.”

  I try to beg Elias not to do what he’s thinking of doing. The look on his face is such a Felix look that I’m afraid I’m hallucinating. Every time Felix was about to piss Dad off, he’d get that same smirk. For the first time, I wonder if Felix can inhabit the living. “Everyone was slammed, Chef. So I told the new guy to whip something up. Told me he could cook. I kind of agree.”

  “The dishwasher,” Chef says, as if I’m nameless.

  I imagine her firing me on the spot or maybe emptying the stockpot into the sink. I picture a finger pointed at the exit, maybe me even getting shoved out. Fuck, what if she actually stabs me?

  She doesn’t visibly react, though. She serves herself a ladleful and sips at the broth thoughtfully. Her eyes are locked onto mine, and I’m pretty sure she’s killed someone like this, that the only reason the expression if looks could kill still exists is because not enough people have witnessed the fact that her looks can. Lourdes and Memo chat obliviously about their families while Chef finishes the bowl quietly.

  She doesn’t take her eyes off me the entire time. Eight insane minutes of prolonged eye contact. My head might actually explode.

  “Not enough balance here,” she says, finally. “It’s all spice.” She sets the bowl down on the counter and crosses her arms over her chest, still burning holes with her stare.

  “Yes, Chef,” I whisper, though I’m not sure I say it audibly enough for her to hear. I want to turn my head away because I can’t ever remember being this uncomfortable, not even at Felix’s funeral when we were burying my brother, but I could see him dancing through the crowd. My stomach drops as I realize that I’ve disobeyed her orders, that she could easily send me packing back to Mexico.

  “Come with me,” Chef says.

  I walk through the kitchen already feeling nostalgic for it. Its roars of activity and noise, its unique language, Kitchenese in English and Spanish, its bursts of curse words and laughter. Flurries of food and fire.

  In her office, Chef gestures for me to sit and then closes the door behind me. She sits down behind her desk, leaning back, hands folded over her stomach. Again, just a quiet stare. There’s a wall calendar covered in red-inked handwriting, a few Post-its. There’s a pen holder on the corner of the desk, a couple clipboards hanging up on the wall, not a trace of clutter. A wall clock ticks loudly.

  Fuck, I don’t want to go back to Mexico.

  “So,” she says, after an eternity. “You cook.”

  I straighten out a little, clear my throat. I’m not sure what approach she’s taking here, but at least it isn’t instant berating. “Yes, Chef. I’m sorry, I know you told me not to, but...” I start to stammer an explanation, but she shuts me up with a raised hand.

  “Culinary school?”

  I shake my head. The way she asks, it makes it sound so obvious. Why didn’t I even think about that before?

  She doesn’t nod, doesn’t smile.

  Through the door, I can hear Sue, the kitchen manager, call out, “Six open menus!” Dinner’s starting up. I’m technically off the clock now, but I wish I’d signed up for another double. I want more time here, and I’m afraid all that will be undone when Chef says the words that cast me away.

  “You have your own knife?”

  I furrow my brow. If Emma were here, she’d probably joke about Chef wanting to stab me with it.

  “No, Chef.”

  “Go buy one.”

  Chef Elise is still looking at me, and she hasn’t blinked in months. I nod. Finally, she swivels her chair away from me, turns to the computer. “You’re going to start coming in early. Bring a knife,” she says, clicking the mouse a few times. “You’re still a dishwasher, but you can take over staff meals, as long as you’re caught up.” She gives me a look while I try to contain my smile. “Don’t get all fucking giddy about it. No one wants that job.”

  “Yes, Chef,” I say, though Felix has shown up behind me and is literally pulling the corners of my mouth up into a smile. I dip my head so that Chef won’t see. She clicks around on the computer a little more, while Felix does a little dance. I almost feel like joining in.

  Then Chef looks back at me. “What are you waiting for, a hug good-bye? Go away. I’ll see you at six.”

  I scramble to my feet. “Yes, Chef. Sorry, Chef. Thank you.” I close the office door behind me, bringing Felix along. The empty hallway looks like it’s not lit up by fluorescent light bulbs, but by the Needle Eye sun, a constant golden-hour hue. I can’t resist it: I join my brother in a celebratory jig.

  CHAPTER 16

  CARROT CAKE

  2 cups flour

  3 large eggs

  12 ounces grated carrots

  2 cups sugar

  ½ cup softened butter

  ¾ cup vegetable oil

  1 teaspoon baking powder

  1 teaspoon baking soda

  ¼ teaspoon ground allspice

  1 teaspoon ground cinnamon

  2 teaspoons vanilla extract

  1 cup chopped pecans

  Pinch of salt

  METHOD:

  When I step outside the restaurant, I’ve got the whole evening ahead to myself. Usually, my free hours fill me with a nameless dread, a weight that presses down on me and brings me no joy.

  But tonight the empty hours feel full of possibilities. I could explore the island by myself until Emma gets off the late shift (which she should be arriving for at any moment). I could cook us a seven-course meal. I could get on a ferry and go check out Seattle. I stand on the corner, where I can turn one way and see the ocean (sun still a few hours away from setting, sailboats floating on golden waters) and turn the other and see Main Street (tourists lining up for dinner, smiling families everywhere).
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br />   A block or so away from the restaurant there’s one of those superwhite-middle-class French-named stores that sells everything from melon ballers to fondue sets. Stuff I’ve only ever seen on cooking shows. I marvel at all the little kitchen gadgets that I would never be able to find in Mexico. An ice-cream maker. A vegetable spiralizer. A pepper corer. I know Felix would scoff at the opulence, but I still want every single ridiculous tool. I picture how I might use them. A cross between chiles rellenos and jalapeño poppers, maybe, using a corer and that deep fat fryer over there. I’d serve two on a plate, stuffed with corn, Oaxaca cheese and cilantro, arranged carefully over a sea of red salsa. If I made this dish, Felix could never have it. The realization threatens to stop my giddiness cold, so I step away before the thought can fully land.

  I go over to the knives, wondering why I don’t know more about picking them out. There’s a whole row of stainless-steel chef’s knives, and I pick out one called a gyuto, just because I think I’ve heard the name before. It’s a stupid purchase considering how much money I’ve run through already, but I leave the store feeling like I’m King Arthur with Excalibur in my hand.

  As I make my way back to Provecho to wait for Emma, I can picture her walking with her earphones in, kicking pebbles, taking shortcuts only she knows through the woods, secret pathways that part just for her. It’s like I can feel her the closer she gets, a warmth emanating from her that could reach me from halfway across the island. When I see her turn onto Main Street I feel like my skin is actually glowing with joy.

  She breaks out into a smile when she sees me, and I have to play it cool to keep myself from running through the crowd and into her arms.

  “Hey,” she says.

  I want to tell her the news right away, but instead I take her by the hand to the back of the restaurant, and I kiss her the way I’ve been wanting to all day. What a world, I think, slipping my fingers through her hair.

  Even the slamming of the side door does little to interrupt that thought, until it’s followed by a throat clearing. Emma and I pull away from each other, and I see Emma’s cheeks redden and her glasses fully cloud. It makes me want to kiss her again, but something in her expression makes me turn around.