North of Happy Page 8

  Every time she looks over in my direction, there’s this shot of adrenaline that beats the exhaustion away, that tells me last night was not a fluke. Then Emma clinks glasses with someone and flickers off, shines her light over by the pool table. Disappointment stirs within me.

  My head falls back to rest against the wall for just a moment and I’m instantly asleep. I’m not sure how much time passes. Despite the noise of the pool cues and Isaiah’s upbeat musical selections, what wakes me up is the feel of something tickling my forehead. I wave my hand to swat it away, and in the ensuing sounds of laughter my eyes snap open.

  Matt is in front of me, a big grin on his face and a permanent marker in his hand. At his side, Boris is doubled over, cackling. “Welcome to the team!” Matt says with a sneer.

  I wipe at my forehead, and through the dark of the bar I see the faintest trace of black on my fingertips. I rub again, suddenly aware of the slight weight of ink, how it’s already drying. Matt and Boris let loose with another round of exaggerated laughter. Elias appears at their side, assessing the situation. I’m sure he’s about to tell them off, since he’s been nice to me, and he comes off as more mature. But he just cracks a grin and shakes his head and then tells me I might want to go wash up.

  In the bathroom mirror, I stare at the crude drawing of a penis that now takes up the entirety of my forehead, hoping for the love of god that Emma didn’t see it. And that it’ll wash off. A couple pumps of soap and some vigorous scrubbing do nothing. The whole time I’m thinking how immature and stupid and unoriginal Matt is. I’m trying to ignore the faintness of my reflection.

  I push open the bathroom door, flushed with embarrassment. Disoriented, I look around the dark bar for the exit. My eyes land on Emma, arms around the neck of some faceless, shapeless wad of flesh. My stomach drops, the recognition of the act undeniable.

  I find the exit, and speed toward it, one hand cupping my forehead. I hear Matt calling out behind me, “It’s just a joke, you wuss!”

  What a world, I think, but this time in Dad’s voice, mocking me. I should have listened to Felix and gone to bed tonight. I shouldn’t worry about Emma, get caught up with a girl who was probably just trying to be friendly last night. I should go home.

  It takes me two blocks to realize I’ve been speed-walking in the opposite direction of my motel. “Hijo de la chingada,” I yell.

  My shadow laughs. “I never hear you say that,” Felix says.

  “Not now,” I beg, hands shoved in my pockets, head down.

  “‘Not now’ what?”

  I look up and see Emma, eyes glazed and distant and happy. Her cheeks are flushed, and she’s got a beer bottle in her hand.

  “Huh?”

  “You said, ‘not now,’” she says, taking a step closer to me. “Was that to me? I can let you...” She gestures down the road.

  “No, no,” I say. “It was...” I trail off, knowing I have nothing sane with which to finish the thought. Emma is a near stranger. She showed me some cool spots around the island; we had a nice night. I have no right to feel hurt. But there it is anyway. “I don’t know what it was.”

  Emma chuckles, which leads to a hiccup. “You know what sounds good right now?”

  “Industrial-grade soap?” I say, reaching for my forehead. “Bed.”

  “Quesadillas. Do you know where we can get some at this time of night? Ants optional.”

  My mind flashes to the fridge in the motel, the package of tortillas and cheese inside. It flashes to her making out with someone at the bar, and I know I should keep this latter image in mind. Then Emma sways a little, stumbles a few steps. “You okay?”

  “Yup,” she says. “Just a quesadilla deficiency.” She smiles, face glowing with booze and warmth and whatever else.

  I look over her shoulder, down the road that leads to what, this week, I’m calling home. Aside from the faint thumping of music coming from the bar, the night is dead quiet. We’re on a small two-lane road in the middle of the woods, and from here it’d be impossible to tell that anyone lives on this island at all. Emma’s looking at me expectantly, and I remember what she did for me last night, how she noticed my panic attack and showed me something that made me feel better than I have in months. I didn’t have to pretend. Whatever hasty romantic notions were thwarted at the bar, I know that much was true.

  “I could probably make some at my place. But...” I try to convey what I’m thinking. That she’s a little drunk and I’m a little out of my mind. Hard to do in just a hand gesture. “Maybe I should help you get home instead?” I say.

  Emma rolls her eyes. “Your place. Quesadillas. Lead the way.”

  After a twenty-minute walk, I push open the door to my motel room. Emma steps in, sets her bag down on the floor, says nothing.

  Not knowing what else to do, I head to the kitchen. “Sorry this place sucks. If you use the bathroom, ignore all the stains. I’m pretty sure none of them are blood.” Goddamn, jokes again.

  I open the fridge, pull out the flour tortillas, pour the tomatillo salsa I made the other day into a bowl, light the flame on the stove and set my saucepan on top of it. There’s such comfort in these things, things I know how to do.

  Instead of plopping herself down on the edge of the bed, like I expect, Emma takes a seat on the edge of the counter, watching me work. I try to focus on the cilantro I’m chopping when her leg and my arm are inches away from each other, make sure my fingers are curled away from the blade.

  “Hey, Carlos?”

  “Yeah,” I say, not looking up.

  “You still have a penis on your forehead.” She chuckles and then rests her head back against the cabinet, closing her eyes. “I didn’t get drunk enough,” she says.

  All day, I’ve been hoping for a repetition of last night. I’m not sure this is what I was envisioning. “Sorry I don’t have anything to offer.” Then, before I know what my mouth is doing, I ask, “So, who was that guy?”

  “What guy?” Emma asks.

  “You were...” I flip the tortillas I’m warming on the pan. “That guy.”

  “Oh,” she says, shrugging, looking one-hundred-percent more interested in me pulling stuff out of the fridge than in the conversation. “Some guy. Drunken makeouts are fun.”

  “He’s not, like, a boyfriend?”

  Emma laughs. “God, no. Some tourist.”

  My knuckles against the blade are a kind of security blanket right now, something to keep my mind off this strange nervousness that’s settled into my stomach.

  When I look up, Emma’s got her eyes on me, her legs swinging slightly so that the heels of her sneakers hit the cupboard by her feet. The arrhythmic beat fills the motel room, and I can’t even hear my thoughts over it.

  I’m afraid she’ll bring up the fact that she caught me talking to myself. The thumping of her shoes feels like that countdown music on Final Jeopardy and I have to say something or a buzzer will go off and someone will take away ten thousand dollars from me. So I ask her if she knows what she wants to do with her life, because that’s a question everyone lobs at everyone else, right?

  She opens her eyes, tilts her head toward me with a look that says: Really? “No idea. I’ve got time to figure that out. Probably a few more drunken makeouts before I need to really decide.”

  I force a chuckle. Wipe the knife blade, put it on its block. Petty jealousy in the pit of my stomach, and I think that maybe it’s replacing some of the other pain I’ve been living with but that it’s pain either way. “What about school? Do you have that figured out yet?”

  “Yeah, to an extent.” Emma reaches over to the plate of cheese I sliced into thin strips since there’s no grater, scoops a pinch into her mouth, chews with pleasure. “I know I’m going to University of Washington in the fall. Not much more than that. Go around looking for imaginary friends, I
guess.” She laughs. I fold the cheese into the tortillas, press down with the back of the fork so the cheese will melt the two sides together. A little square slips out of the pocket, sizzles as soon as it hits the pan. I let it brown for a second before I scrape it off with the edge of the fork, and offer it to Emma. She uses her finger to grab the burnt cheese off the fork, slip it into her mouth, gives a gentle sigh. “You? You have it all planned out, right? The glamour of the kitchen. I could see it in your eyes yesterday. I just wanted to help, you know...” She flicks both wrists forward, as if she brushing flies away from her food. “Push things along.”

  “I don’t know if planned out really applies to me. I have no idea what I’m doing,” I say, and then try to chuckle when I realize that’s exactly right. I have no idea what I’m doing. Maybe what she saw in my eyes yesterday was only psychosis. “I don’t know why I stayed to work today,” I admit. “My brother used to tell me I should work in kitchens. But I never really thought it was an option.”

  “Well, it sure is now.”

  “Yeah, did I mention how weird that was?” I laugh. “I’m only supposed to be here a week.” I slide the fork under each quesadilla and lift them off the pan, placing them on a small plate. I try to appreciate this moment and not cling to anything else. Just this.

  She takes the plate and looks me in the eyes, swaying a little but not breaking eye contact. “You should stay longer,” she says, taking her glasses off and resting them on her lap. I want to say something smooth and flirty, but nothing comes to mind. “You are the nicest dickhead I’ve ever met,” she says, barely acknowledging her own joke before she takes a large bite of the quesadilla.

  I laugh and take a bite of my own, thinking maybe this is where the night changes. After this we’ll go out into the breezeway, chat until the sun rises, her head resting on my shoulder. It’ll be one of those nights where secrets spill out and bind you closer to another person.

  But Emma takes a few bites and then leans her head back against the wall, falling asleep before we can say anything else to each other. So I go to the bathroom and scrub at my forehead with soap and a sponge that barely works. When the water and suds start to drip down my neck and onto my shirt, I realize that I still smell like dirty dishes and grease, so I hop in the shower, trying not to be lulled to sleep by the warm water. Condensation on the tiles forms into Felix’s face, and I immediately smack the wall, wiping the droplets away. I keep my eyes closed the rest of the shower, breathing slowly, trying to think of nothing but water.

  When I come back out, Emma’s gone. Our empty plates are pushed to the side, half-inch-wide trails left in the salsa, perfect fingers running through the spilled leftovers. I stand for a long time looking at the space she occupied, wishing she hadn’t left me alone.

  CHAPTER 10

  GRILLED CHICKEN KEBABS

  3 pounds chicken breasts, cut into 1-inch cubes

  1 red bell pepper

  1 green bell pepper

  1 red onion

  1 cup mushrooms

  For the marinade:

  1 bunch parsley

  1 bunch cilantro

  1 shallot

  3 tablespoons dried oregano

  ½ cup vegetable oil

  ¼ cup red wine vinegar

  3 cloves garlic

  1 tablespoon red pepper flakes

  METHOD:

  Ah, coffee.

  Now I get it. Why the whole world reaches for this first thing in the morning.

  It’s six in the morning, and the kitchen is preparing for another brunch. Everyone’s quiet as they arrive, bloodshot eyes, sleep still creaking their joints. Without coffee I’d be a zombie. Felix, fucking class clown that he is, walks through the kitchen as an actual zombie, hands out in front of him, groaning.

  I bought a second coffee for Emma at a nearby bakery, figuring she’d need it after last night. But she’s not in, so I offer it to Elias instead. “Did you get enough sleep last night?” he asks.

  I laugh, a little confused. “We got off work, like, five hours ago.” Last night when I set my alarm, I was sure I was doing the math wrong, no one could possibly survive off this little sleep and go work around flames and blades. I can’t imagine this exhaustion being a part of your daily life.

  That thought makes me wonder why I’m here. Why I bothered getting out of bed to come back. Why I’m not on the way to Mexico. Instead, I filled out that application and gave it to Sue first thing this morning, imagining the look on Dad’s face if he saw me doing it. I didn’t want to picture the look on Mom’s face.

  Elias smiles wide, a smile that reminds me of Felix when he was being a smartass. “Welcome to the restaurant world.” I get giddy at the words and start thinking that this island really is magic; that’s the only explanation for how I’ve managed to find myself here so quickly. Then, keeping that same smile, Elias says, “Don’t fuck anything up today. If the dishwashers fall behind, we all do, and I do not feel like falling behind.” The giddiness dissipates a little.

  I go to my station to check in with Roberto, but nothing’s piled up yet, so I get to go back out in the kitchen, watch it slowly come to life. Lourdes comes in carrying a huge vat of something, which she puts on a burner. A few cooks gather around her station, talking about last night. Vee has a distinctly rum-like smell to her. Memo stayed past the bar’s closing, so there’s conjecturing as to whether or not he and the bartender, Lisa, went home together. Isaiah bets Gus three prep-sheet items that Memo was successful. I’m happy to feel invisible, as long as no one brings up the whole penis-on-my-forehead thing.

  “Ya está,” Lourdes says, taking the lid off her vat. “Quién quiere?”

  The whole kitchen clamors to try to get the first cup. It smells like cinnamon, and I try to get a glimpse of what it is. “Qué es?” I ask Memo.

  “You shitting me, man?” Boris says, laughing. “Yo, Matt, check it out. The kid from Mexico City doesn’t know what atole is.”

  Fuck.

  “I know what it is,” I say, trying to save face. “I just couldn’t see.” I know what atole is, of course...but I’ve never actually had it. Just one of those things I’ve somehow missed out on, like a phrase you’ve misheard most your life until you’re embarrassingly corrected in public. I used to think it was nip it in the butt. So, kind of the same thing?

  Whenever my family goes out to eat, it’s usually fancier restaurants—an Argentine steak house, a French bistro, one of those classic return-home tacos. Mom likes to eat healthy, and so she’s taught Rosalba to make recipes off the internet, dishes with quinoa and kale and coconut oil subbed in for butter. Felix was the biggest proponent of traditional Mexican dishes, taking me to restaurants and markets our parents wouldn’t set foot in, begging Rosalba to bust out anything in her repertoire. And there’s so many dishes in our cuisine that it’s not crazy to think that I might have missed out on this one cinnamon-y beverage, ubiquitous though it may be.

  There’s no way I’m offering any of this up as an excuse, though.

  “Hey, dickhead, are you lying about being Mexican?” Matt says, letting Lourdes scoop him some. I barely hear what he says afterward, his word choice stinging more than it should. I had to scrub my forehead so hard that it still kind of hurts. “Do you know what mole is? Salsa? Have you heard of salsa?”

  “Ya, déjenlo en paz,” Lourdes says, handing me a Styrofoam cup and offering a smile.

  “I could tell you were a rich boy,” Matt says. “Didn’t you come in here for a meal the other night?” He snaps his fingers in recognition, not waiting for me to respond. “You did. And now, what, you’re slummin’ it with us common folk?”

  I want to protest, want to ask him why he’s got it in for me. Instead I shrink. I’m surprised no one reacts, because I catch a reflection of myself in a nearby soup ladle, and I look like th
at computer-generated tiny version of Chris Evans in Captain America before he gets turned into a superhero. I take another sip of coffee for strength, wait for an ally to show themselves. Zombie Felix creeps up behind Matt and starts gnawing on his skull. Which I guess is a sweet, protective gesture.

  “Fuckin’ rich people,” Matt adds. “They always forget their country’s food. That’s a sin.”

  Sous-Chef Melissa pokes her head into the prep kitchen, takes stock of the situation. “Fun times in here? You guys done all your shit for the day, then? Ready for service?”

  There’s a chorus of “No, Chef. Sorry, Chef.” The congregation scatters. Boris bumps into me and tells me to get the fuck out of the way. I take my atole straight to the sink, try to take out my frustration with my scrubber. I don’t understand how the hell there’s suddenly such a large pile for me to work through when everyone’s been standing around.

  The exhaustion sets in almost immediately, especially when I think about how long the day will be. I don’t understand why I’m doing this to myself, but at no point do I actually get the urge to hang up my apron and go.

  If I have a spare moment, Roberto has me go out and help clean, since cleanliness reigns supreme in kitchens. I grab a dishrag and wipe away drops of sauce and oil, take out garbage. Avoiding Matt and Boris, I go around each station, asking if I can take a cutting board, if they need more rags, any pans. Chef comes in, makes eye contact, gives me maybe the slightest of nods. Felix is in the air, ready to mock her solemnness, but somehow I keep my brother from fully taking shape (whichever shape he was planning on taking).

  By the time I’m finished, the kitchen is deserted, the induction hood off, making everything eerily silent, peaceful. I’m even more exhausted than I was last night, and the scene feels even more surreal, the way a recurring dream is stranger because of its slight familiarity.

  Despite the tiredness, I find myself hoping everyone isn’t gone. That they’re up to something, lingering by the exit planning another night out. That I can tag along, not return to that motel room. I get the feeling Emma hasn’t left without a good-bye.