When I get home, I’m surprised to find a strange guy behind the kitchen counter, peeling a hard-boiled egg. He’s wearing a frilly pink apron over faded jeans and a black T-shirt that shows off a tattoo of the Virgin of Guadalupe. His hair is as short as an army recruit’s, but he has a line of whiskers down the center of his chin. A gourmet magazine is open on the counter and Spanish music is playing in the background.
“Hi,” he says, flashing me a grin. “You must be Aiko.”
“Yeah, that’s me.”
I see that there’s an open toolbox on the counter, filled with gadgets. Good thing he brought his own tools, because Mom doesn’t have that kind of equipment. You’re lucky if you can find a can opener in our drawers.
“I’m Raoul,” he says.
He puts down the egg he’s been peeling, runs some tap water over his hands, and wipes them on his apron. He reaches out to shake my hand.
I’m so surprised that I can’t think of anything to say at first.
“Uh, nice to meet you.”
I take a deep whiff: cinnamon and rum. “What are you making?”
“Chilean empanadas. I’m kind of a foodie. I like to try different things, but it’s no fun cooking just for myself.”
I nod as if I know what he’s talking about. My mouth starts to water.
“Smells good, so far,” I say. “Sounds interesting.” I look over his shoulder at the array of ingredients spread over the counter: raisins, olive oil, hard-boiled eggs, beef, phyllo pastry. “It looks very complicated.”
He nods. “It’ll be awhile.”
“Do you need some help?” It seems kind of unfair to make him cook for us, since Mom’s the one who invited him over for dinner. Maybe I could heat up those enchiladas to go with the feast.
“Come back in an hour,” he says, “and you can help me make the salad.”
In my room, I dig the latest pages of Gadget Girl out of my desk and get back to work.
Chaz, who is hiking in the mountains, is seared by the breath of a dragon. His leg is burned and he can’t walk. Enter Gadget Girl! She battles the dragon with her Swiss Army knife, then uses the screwdriver part to drill into the earth until it releases a spurt of milky water, which has restorative powers. Chaz looks on in amazement as Gadget Girl bathes his leg in the water. Not only do his burns disappear, but also his charred jeans are repaired!
I’ve just added a final wildflower to the scene when I hear the cry of “Dinner!”
Oops. So much for helping with the salad.
I put away my drawing materials and head to the table. Raoul has set out a platter of empanadas—delicate golden pastries filled with spiced meat, raisins, eggs, and olives—a green salad, and quinoa mixed with cilantro, avocado, and corn.
“It looks delicious!” Mom says.
“Mmm.” I agree. This is not the place to be tonight if you’re on a diet, which I’m not. I intend to pig out. Who knows when we’ll get another meal like this?
Once our plates are heaped with food, Raoul turns to me.
“So what kind of music do you like, Aiko?”
My mouth is full, so it takes a moment before I can answer.
“Lately, I’ve been listening to a lot of Chatmonchy.”
He frowns. “Chat munchie?”
Obviously he’s never heard of them. Well, probably no one else around here has either. I discovered them on YouTube. I introduced Whitney to the band, but she doesn’t like listening to foreign lyrics. She likes to be able to understand all the words and sing along.
“They’re an all-girl Japanese band,” I say. “From Shikoku.”
I look over at Mom to see if mention of my father’s island brings about a reaction. It’s hard to tell. There’s nothing dreamy or distant in her eyes, no indication that she’s thinking about Otosan. Dad. Instead, she reaches over and touches Raoul’s arm, just below the tattoo.
“Aiko really enjoys your radio show,” she says, “Don’t you, Aiko?’ ”
I make a humming noise, just to be polite.
“What’s your theme next week?” Mom asks.
“I’m thinking Japanese court music,” he says. “You know, flutes. Shakuhachi.”
I doubt that he’d like Chatmonchy, with their guitar riffs and perky vocals, or Bump of Chicken or the other J-pop bands I listen to.
“Oh, wonderful!” Mom gushes. “We’ll be sure to listen!”
Next Mom raves about the food, telling him that we hardly ever get to eat so well.
Try never. I wonder if he has any idea of what a non-cook my mother is. I have to agree, however, that this meal is truly delicious. Who knew empanadas were so yummy? The pastry is so light and fluffy. It melts on my tongue. And the meat filling is spiced just right with chili pepper and cinnamon.
“Where’d you learn to cook like this?” I ask. I’m so stuffed that I can’t eat any more.
“Oh, cookbooks. The Food Channel. You know, here and there.” He shrugs as if it’s no big deal. “So, ladies. Any requests for next time?”
I look over at Mom, feeling slightly alarmed. Isn’t she going to nip this romance in the bud? Wasn’t this a farewell dinner? I mean, Mom doesn’t usually have guys over for dinner more than once.
But instead of giving Raoul the heave ho, she runs her fingers over his tattoo and says, “Why don’t you make it a surprise?”