Mom’s screaming again.
Top of her lungs, with enough f-bombs to send the kitchen staff scurrying for cover. Something crashes against the tile floor, the high, tinny sounds reverberating through the empty restaurant like the cymbal solo in my favorite Peaches song. Heather, the bartender, flinches. I take another sip of my Diet Coke.
“Kelsie!” my mom screams. “Get in here!”
Heather shoots me a sympathetic glance. “You don’t have to go in there, Kelsie.”
I slide off the barstool. “Yeah, I do. Or she’ll bring the drama out here. And no one wants that.”
Heather grimaces. She knows I’m right.
“It’ll be fine,” I tell her. “She’s just fired up because a review of the restaurant came out in the Rowbury Times today.” I tried to beat my mom to the paper, taking the one that lands on our stoop every morning and tossing it in the recycling out back. I even made sure no one coming in for the lunch shift brought a copy with them. But somehow she’d gotten hold of one anyway.
“Was the review bad?” Heather asks.
“Not as bad as the last one. Three stars, I think? They liked the drinks.” I give her a weak smile and start back toward the kitchen. I can hear my mom still muttering at volume, but I haven’t heard anything else break, so the angry is probably passing into tears by now.
Behind me, Heather says, “It’s hard running a restaurant all by yourself like your mom does. It’s a lot of stress since . . . you know. Your dad. Your mom’s lucky she has you. That she has someone who loves her.”
I pause, look back. Heather’s a nice person, but she’s only been working at the Indigenous Gastronomist a few weeks. I know she means well, but she doesn’t know anything. She sees the slick modern décor, the glass wall up front, the hip antler chandeliers that drop soft, gauzy lighting over the intimate clusters of tables, and she thinks everything is beautiful here. She hasn’t caught on to the rot just underneath. The stink of failure hiding behind the pretty plating. She doesn’t know that the restaurant is failing, and my family is failing along with it.
I think about telling her. Telling her that I hate this place, and more than that, I hate my mother, and my mother hates me. But I know normal families don’t hate each other, so people like Heather always react with some platitude about how that can’t be true and how my mom really loves me and I just don’t realize it because I’m only sixteen, so I just smile and say what she expects me to say.
“Yeah, we’re both real lucky.”
* * *
“Oh, there you are!” Mom says, grabbing my arm, her fingers digging into my bicep, as soon as I come through the swinging door. “Did you see the paper today? Three stars! We won’t survive on three stars.” She literally spins me around to face the newspaper.
The restaurant section of the Rowbury Times is spread out on the stainless-steel cooking counter. I rub at the red marks she leaves on my arm and, with my other hand, turn the paper around to face me. Skim the articles. There are three reviews for this Sunday. A new Mexican restaurant on Tansy Street, a halal food cart in the park that I tried last week and loved, and mom’s restaurant, the Indigenous Gastronomist. The other restaurants have good to great reviews. Ours is by far the worst.
“You shouldn’t read—” I start before Mom cuts me off.
“Did you see this?” she demands, turning the paper back toward herself and stabbing a finger at the print. “Did you see what they said?” She leans over to read: “ ‘The innovative restaurant, serving fusion Native American cuisine, was once the most promising newcomer on Hungry Heart Row. But after the sudden death of its founder, Franklin Tenorio, the dishes seem to be missing something. Call it heart. Although the endeavor has been nobly carried on by his wife, the Indigenous Gastronomist fails to live up to the hype’ . . . blah, blah . . .” She huffs. “They don’t even mention me by name. Just ‘his wife.’ My name is Jeanette.” She stabs at the paper again. “Jeanette!”
“Well, Dad did start the restaurant,” I say. “And you’re not even Native.”
She stares at me so hard I take a step back, worried I’ve gone too far. But somebody had to say it. It’s not like nobody’s thinking it.
“Mind your mouth,” she spits at me. “You’re part white too.”
“I never said I wasn’t. I’m just saying that this was Dad’s dream, and he’s the Native one so . . .”
Mom’s face turns a dangerous shade of red, and her words come out hot and fast, grease popping in a sauté pan. “Your father was a line cook when I met him. A cook! A nothing. I’m the one with the culinary degree. I’m the chef. But because I’m a woman . . .” Her fingers curl into fists, and it takes her a moment before she can talk again. When she does, her voice practically seethes. “I work my fingers raw for this place. Who plans the menus? I do. Who hires the staff? I do. Who makes sure every plate is perfect when it goes out that door?”
“Well then don’t read—”
“But even I can taste it,” she says, looking down at the paper again, “what Mr. High-and-Mighty Reviewer calls ‘heart.’ Your father had a gift, and I just don’t seem to be able to . . .” She trails off.
I want to say something comforting to my mom, but the truth is that this is not a new conversation. Every time a review comes out in the paper, or on Served, or even on some rando blog, we have this talk. Because they all say the same thing. Beautiful restaurant, great presentation, but something’s missing.
I watch as Mom’s shoulders heave, and before I can say anything more, she’s crying, heavy and hard. I have to wait a few minutes for her to get herself back together. When she finally does, she looks at me with red-rimmed eyes. “I just want the restaurant to do well, Kelsie. Is that so awful, for me to want that? Am I a bad mother for that?”
Yes! I want to scream. Not because this was Dad’s dream before it was yours, and not because you talk about him like he’s trash even now, but because you are obsessed with your stupid five-star review. Because you love this restaurant more than you love me. Yes, that makes you a bad mom! Yes!
But instead I say, “No, Mom. I’m real lucky to have you.”
“We’re lucky to have each other.” She smiles through her tears and comes around the corner of the table to hug me. She’s wearing short sleeves, and the skin on her arms is cold against my own. The hug is suffocating, but mercifully brief. She lets me go and turns back to the newspaper.
“We should have dinner together tonight,” she says absently. “Something simple. Just the two of us, maybe at that Persian place . . .” Her voice drifts away as her eyes are drawn to the review again. I can see her lips moving silently as she reads it. Twist to bitterness on “his wife.” The feel of her arms around me lingers, and I realize that I can’t remember the last time she hugged me. Maybe not since Dad’s funeral two years ago. Against my better judgment, I feel a little hopeful. Enough to make me say, “So we’ll have dinner together tonight?”
She looks up, confused. “What?”
“You were saying maybe we could do something, just us.”
She rubs at her forehead. “Did I? Hey, could you ask Heather to come in for a sec? I need to tweak that cranberry-sage martini recipe before brunch starts. If I can get the balance right, I’m sure it’s going to be a winner. Maybe even worth another star . . .”
She’s still talking when I slip out the door.
I don’t think she even notices.
* * *
It’s the lull between brunch and dinner rush, and I’m out by the Dumpster smoking a joint and texting my best friend Morgan when the kitchen door slams open. I jump up, put out the J against the wall, and tuck it into my shirt pocket. Pull out a stick of gum with the same quick move and drop it in my mouth before I turn back around to see who it is.
Seth, one of the busboys, is dragging trash out. He heaves it up over the edge of the Dumpster lip and drops it in. He’s got his uniform on—black pants and a black button-up shirt with a generic tribal pattern across the chest. In small turquoise letters across the pocket it says making more of myself! in some obnoxiously optimistic font.
Seth’s a Fresh Start kid. Fresh Start is the program my dad began to bring teens from the reservation to the city to work at the restaurant. My mom hates Fresh Start, but she can’t get rid of it; it’s written into the incorporation documents for the restaurant or something. I don’t know why she would care. It costs her almost nothing, since the Fresh Start kids all live below me and mom in our basement apartment across the street from the restaurant and work for minimum wage. But maybe they remind her of Dad. And if they remind her of Dad, I can only imagine what looking at me every day does to her. No wonder she hates me.
Seth hasn’t noticed me yet, and I try to act causal, hoping he won’t. But he sniffs the air dramatically and looks my way, eyebrows raised. “Didn’t figure you for a bad girl,” he drawls in his Texas accent. “Does your mama know?”
I roll my eyes, annoyed, but mainly worried. Seth’s pretty new, and I don’t know if he’s cool like that, yet. He’s from some small rez in southwest Texas; I can’t remember his tribe, and he’s only been here a month or so. He’s never spoken to me. In fact, he’s pretty much gone out of his way to avoid me. I figured it was because Mom is his boss. Some of the kids don’t mind it; some like it and try to get me to do favors for them or put in a good word with Mom. But Seth has never even seemed to notice me. Until now.
“She doesn’t care,” I say, trying to sound cool and collected. “She’s got other things on her mind.”
“Poor thing.” He tsks as he pulls a cigarette pack from his pants. He shakes out one and tucks it between his lips. “What was your nice white mama yelling about?”
“The restaurant got a so-so review in the Sunday paper. I mean, it wasn’t terrible, but it wasn’t good, either. Mom wasn’t happy.”
“ ‘Mom wasn’t happy . . .’ ” He stretches the words out long and slow, like they mean more than I’m letting on. His match flares as he lights the tip of his cigarette. “Sorry to hear it.”
“Yeah, well, it’s nothing new. You’re not working at Le Cirque, you know.”
He tilts his head. Flicks the strand of black hair that’s escaped from his ponytail out of his eyes and gives me a look. “This is the best job I’ve ever had,” he says. “Three meals a day. A roof over my head. My own bed that I don’t got to share unless I want to. Maybe you take a place like this for granted,” he says, jerking his head to indicate the restaurant, and maybe Rowbury as a whole, “but you ain’t ever lived on the rez.”
Heat rises on my face, making my ears burn. “You shouldn’t smoke cigarettes,” I say. It’s kind of a blurt, and I know I don’t have any business telling Seth not to smoke when I indulge in the occasional joint, but I don’t like the way he’s looking at me, like I’m some kind of stupid, rich, half-white girl who doesn’t get it.
He exhales, smoke curling around his head. “Tobacco is pleasing to the Creator. Didn’t your daddy teach you that before he died? Creator don’t mind as long as it’s that clean mountain tobacco you’re smokin’. Which this is.” He lifts the cigarette in a kind of salute.
“Tobacco’s sacred,” I say, remembering exactly what my dad taught me. “You should be using it in ceremony, for prayers and stuff. Not just standing around smoking it.”
“My life is a constant prayer,” he quips.
“To who? Lord Voldemort?”
He raises an eyebrow at that but doesn’t say anything.
“Sorry,” I mutter, already regretting my stupid Harry Potter joke. Now Seth probably thinks I’m not only spoiled, but a total nerd. This is turning into the worst conversation ever. “I better go inside,” I say, pushing off the wall. “Dinner rush starts soon, and Mom wants me up front at the hostess station.”
“She’s an ambitious one.”
I pause. “Who? My mom?”
“I can guess her story. A lady like her. Probably went to one of them fancy culinary schools and graduated top of her class. Real smart. But things didn’t work out like she expected. Thought her smarts would be enough to get her what she wanted. She underestimated.”
“Underestimated what?” I don’t really know Mom’s story before she met Dad. It’s something she only shares in snarls and bursts of rage.
“I bet having a baby put a real knot in her plans,” Seth continues. “Bet someone like your mama was thinking she’d be a chef in New York City or maybe one of those celebrity places in Las Vegas. But here she is, in Rowbury, a single mom with a teenage daughter and mediocre restaurant reviews. That must really chap her hide.”
I wince. Even without knowing Mom’s whole story, I can guess that Seth’s real close to the truth. I always suspected I was a burden, but to hear someone else say it stings more than I care to admit.
“You ever get tired of it?” he asks.
“Of Rowbury?”
“Of your mama. Doing everything your mama wants even when it’s never gonna be enough to make her happy.”
“It’s not like that.”
Seth’s face says he doesn’t believe me. And he shouldn’t, because, yeah, he’s right. But he doesn’t even know me, or my life. He can psychoanalyze my mom all he wants, but I’m not going to let him do it to me. I fold my arms across my chest. “My mom’s problems don’t affect me. I do what I want.” I pat the pocket with the leftover weed in it to make my point.
Seth leans against the wall, lets that cigarette hang loose in his mouth. “And what is it that you want? Besides hiding out here and getting high?”
“None of your business.”
“People want things,” he says. “No shame in that. Problem is, they’re not willing to sacrifice for them. Not willing to give up something to get something. That’s the trouble with your mama, too. For all her ambition, she’s not willing to sacrifice.”
“And what have you sacrificed in your life?”
He exhales blue, fixes me with dark eyes. “You couldn’t take it if I told you.”
The way he says it makes the little hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I shake it off, swallow down a sudden urge to get out of here. I plant my feet instead, stubborn, not willing to let Seth intimidate me. “You’re full of it.”
He shrugs one shoulder. “Okay, then. Think what you want. I’m not telling you what to do. I’m just saying that everything comes at a cost. The bigger the cost, the bigger the reward. Where I come from, there’s people who can help with things like that. And maybe I learned a thing or two from those people. So maybe I could help you, too.”
That same little voice that made my hair stand up whispers in my ear to beware, and my courage falters a bit. I remember that I don’t know this guy. And that what he’s saying . . . well, it’s a lot. But then I remind myself that he’s only eighteen, not that much older than me, and he’s probably just big talk, trying to prove he’s cool.
“We have those here, too,” I say, voice sarcastic. “They’re called criminals.”
He shakes he head. Squints at me through the smoky haze that surrounds him. “Not like that. More like . . .” He makes a sort of abracadabra motion with his hand. “Harry Potter.”
“Magic?”
“We don’t call it that back home.” His eyes linger on mine as he takes a long drag. I rub at my arms, chilled. I look up, expecting a cloud to have passed between me and the sun, but the sky is still that bright late-spring blue.
“This is the weirdest conversation I’ve ever had,” I say. “You know you sound completely wack.”
He grins. “Think about it, city girl. What is it white people say? ‘There’s on more things in heaven and on earth’?”
“You know Shakespeare?”
He straightens, stubs out his cigarette under his foot, clearly done with the conversation. “Just think about it.” He slips his hands into his pockets and turns for the door.
“Wait!” Because I do want something. And I believe in witchcraft. Sorta. But I also think Seth is the kind of guy who might know a guy who could make things happen, magic or not. So I have to know. Even if my stomach is doing a flip-flop and my heart is pounding a mile a minute.
Seth stops. Cocks his head expectantly.
“Let’s say I did want something, and I was willing to . . . sacrifice. What would I have to do?”
His grin stretches a little wider. “For starters? Cook for me. But not just any old thing. It’s gotta mean something to you. You do that, and I can make sure you get anything you want.”
* * *
“What do you think he meant by all that?” Morgan asks the next day as we make our way between classes. Morgan’s got trig right next to my AP History class, so we usually walk together, stopping at my locker before crossing the courtyard to the honors buildings. It’s my favorite time of the day besides lunch, because it’s the only time we get to talk.
“I don’t know. It was weird, though. Like, I could swear it felt . . . real.”
“What do you mean ‘real’?”
“Like what he was saying was important. The truth.” I shiver, the memory enough to raise goose bumps. “I can’t explain it, but it was heavy.”
“Yeah, but you were smoking weed, Kels. Being high will do that to you.”
I shrug. I’m sure she’s right, and I’m just being paranoid.
“But let’s say he could make things happen,” she says, surprising me with the one-eighty. “What would you want?”
I’ve thought about it ever since our conversation last night. In fact, it’s all I’ve thought about. “I would want my dad back. But if I couldn’t have that, I would wish that my parents never opened that restaurant.”
“Well, neither of those are going to happen unless Seth can go back in time.”
I groan. “I know. I mean— What’s this?”
Morgan’s holding a pink bakery box out to me. I open it and take a look inside. The smell of cinnamon and anise tickles my nose.
“Lila dropped them off,” she tells me. “She said to give them to you, and that you should take some to your mom, too. She said it would help.”
“Help with what?”
Morgan shrugs. “Make you sweet?”
“Yeah, right. No thanks.” I shake my head, and stuff Lila’s box of sweets into my locker. The last thing I need is more sugar. “I just need to accept that the restaurant means more to my mother than I do and keep it moving. Stop thinking things are going to change.”
The bell rings, and Morgan gives me a quick hug. “We’ll talk more later, okay? Don’t do anything rash until we talk. And stay away from Seth. Honestly, Kels, he sounds like bad news. Promise?”
I give her a faint smile. “Promise.”
* * *
“You decide you gonna cook for me?” Seth asks.
I freeze three steps in front of the door to my apartment, one hand outstretched for the doorknob, the other digging through my bag for my keys. Seth is coming out, and, my mind focused on the lock, I almost run right into him.
“What are you doing in my house?!”
“Actually, I’m just leaving your house,” he says as he pulls the door closed. He’s got his sleeves rolled up, and there’s a long gash on his forearm that looks like it’s only recently stopped bleeding. He sees me notice and pulls his sleeve down, not like he’s embarrassed, but like it’s none of my business.
“Having trouble handling the knives?” I joke, my tone a little more mocking than I mean it to be.
“I never had trouble with a knife,” he says, one of his weird little grins leaking across his face.
“You say the creepiest things—you know that?” I say, an involuntary shiver juddering through my body. I lean to the side to look around him. The lights are all on, so Mom must be home.
“Were you just in there talking to my mom?” My heart ticks up a beat, worried about what he could tell her about our conversation.
“Your mom is my boss,” he says, spreading his hands, grin still in place. “I kind of have to talk to her. Restaurant’s closed today, so she asked me to come here. To her house.”
“Oh, yeah. That makes sense.” But it doesn’t make sense. I’ve never known Mom to have a Fresh Start kid in our house.
“Besides, I already know what Jeanette wants.” His smile falls sideways. “I’ve tasted her cooking.”
I blink. “Were you . . . were you helping her with recipes?” I mean, weirder things have happened, but not many.
“You think about what we talked about the other night?” he asks, not answering my question.
“Not really,” I lie. “Look, I need to go.”
He steps out of the way, and I move past him, half expecting him to reach for me or say something creepy as I pass. But he lets me by, unbothered. I look back as I close the door, and he gives me a little salute. So weird.
Once I’m inside, I turn the lock. The bolt lock too. I swear I hear him laughing.
“Kelsie?” Mom calls from the kitchen. “Is that you? Come in here, will you?”
I dump my stuff by the front door. “What is it?” I say, stomping into the kitchen.
“Try this,” she says, sliding a plate across the counter toward me.
“What is it?”
“Pumpkin compote in a masa shell,” she says. “It’s a new recipe I’m going to try this week.”
“So, a pumpkin tamale? You know you can just call it a pumpkin tamale. Nobody’s going to be impressed because you used some fancy words.”
Her mouth turns down. “Thank you for the editorial. Just try it.”
I take a bite. It’s good. Better than I expected. The balance of cinnamon and nutmeg is perfect, a hint of allspice. And some ingredient I can’t place. Almost . . . coppery? But it works. “Did Seth help you make this?”
Mom’s hand freezes, reaching for the produce in front of her. Just for a second, but I see it. And then she’s picking up an onion and positioning it on the cutting board. “Who?” she asks, her voice an octave too high.
“The Fresh Start kid. He was just here.”
“Oh,” she says. “No. I was just giving him his schedule for the week. That’s all.”
I put my fork down. As long as we’re on the subject, I might as well ask. “I was thinking,” I begin, trying to ease into the conversation.
“That sounds dangerous.”
“Ha-ha. So . . .” I hesitate, already feeling unsure about it.
She gives me a tight smile. “Spit it out, Kelsie.”
Might as well. I can always change my mind if I decide to chicken out. “How would you feel if I had someone over?”
She raises an eyebrow. “Someone?”
“A boy.”
“Someone I know?”
“Weird coincidence, but Seth. From the restaurant.”
This time her whole body freezes. I can see the muscle in her jaw tighten. “No.”
“Mom.”
“I do not want you spending time with the Fresh Start kids, especially him.” Her knife cuts through the onion in front of her, the blade a sharp rhythm against the wood cutting board. “They’re a bad influence. Did you know he smokes?”
“Half the restaurant industry smokes.”
Her mouth tightens. “I said no, Kelsie.”
“I just want to cook for him.”
She looks at me, eyes wide. A thin layer of sweat sheens her forehead. “Cook? Then definitely no.” She laughs, light and breathless. “You can’t even cook.”
My stomach tightens, and something inside me feels like falling. “That’s not true,” I say, sounding as hurt as I feel. “I used to cook with Dad all the time.”
Her mouth turns down, disgusted. Not a bit of nostalgia in her face, just distaste in the way she wrinkles her brow. “Oh, we were so poor back then, trying to get the restaurant off the ground. Besides, what do you remember about your father? You were a child when he died.”
“Mom, it was two years ago. I remember everything.”
She exhales heavily. Slams the knife down hard enough to make me flinch. “Oh, Kelsie, you know what I mean. Why do you always insist on misinterpreting me? I just . . .” She sighs. Checks the clock on the wall. “We’ll talk about Seth later. Right now I have to finish this recipe, and I can’t get it done with you sitting there pestering like that. I’ll take everything to the restaurant kitchen. You can stay here.” She starts to gather her supplies.
“Wait, you’re just going to walk out on me?”
“Don’t be so dramatic.”
“How is that dramatic?”
“Look, you may think I’m not working right now, but I’m always working. Do you know how hard it is to run a restaurant all by mys—”
“Yes, I know. Because you are always telling me! I know. I fucking know.”
“Kelsie. Language!”
I shove off from the counter, knocking the plate with the tamale onto the floor. It shatters, the sharp sound of porcelain breaking into pieces making me cringe. The perfect tamale splatters into mush against the hardwood. I pause, stunned. “I’m s-sorry . . . ,” I stutter out.
“Just go,” she says, her voice one step from disgusted. “I can’t deal with you right now.”
“Can’t deal with me right now?” I shout, unable to control my frustration. “You never deal with me! You care more about that fucking restaurant than you do me!”
And that’s when it happens.
She hits me. An open-handed slap across my cheek that whips my head to the side. My skin burns, half from the sting of her hand, and half from the humiliation. And rage.
“I wish it had been you instead of Dad!” I scream, tears already hot in my eyes.
Her jaw pulses. “You don’t mean that.”
“Oh, I do. I really, really do.”
“Well, if that’s how you feel,” she says, her voice as cold as a February snowstorm. And there’s something about her eyes. Something dark and hurt and unforgiving that I’ve never seen before.
And for a minute I want to take it back. I want to take it all back. But it’s too late for that.
I run for the door.
* * *
“Where’s Seth?” I say, bursting into the Fresh Start apartment.
A girl I don’t know looks up from playing a video game. “Second room on the left.”
I throw her a grateful nod and run down the hallway. I don’t even knock, just fling open the door. Seth’s sitting on his bed, headphones on. I can hear the tinny music coming out of the cheap speakers. Something loud with a heavy bass line.
He sees me and sits up, wary. Slides off his headphones.
“Now,” I bark, before turning and stomping back the way I came.
I don’t turn to see if Seth’s following me, but I know he is. The kitchen here is small, just a wall of shallow cabinets and a two-burner stove, but I don’t need much. I start opening cabinets, looking for ingredients. Lard, flour, baking soda. Basic stuff that any house of Native kids would have.
“Hey,” the video game girl calls from the couch, “what are you doing?”
“Get out,” growls a voice from behind me, and it takes me a moment to realize it’s Seth. The girl mutters something that sounds like “whatever, freak,” grabs her bag, and leaves. Seth follows her, locking the front door behind her.
I stop for a minute, my eyes on that locked door. My breath catches, and a tiny thread of fear trickles down my spine. Logic tells me that the door locks from the inside. It’s not like I can’t open it if I want to leave. So why do I suddenly feel trapped?
“Just so nobody will bother us,” Seth says, his accent thick. “I’m not locking you in.”
“Right,” I say, shaking off my paranoia. I square my shoulders, determined. “Let’s do this.”
I gather all my ingredients on the table. It’s been a few years, but I remember how to make frybread like I was born to it, and maybe I was.
I measure out the ingredients, dump them all in a bowl.
“Water,” I tell Seth. “Warm. Not too hot.”
He fills a measuring cup with warm water and sets it beside me.
“Lard in the pan,” I command him. “Burner on high.” He does as he’s told.
My dough is mixed, and I add the water in bits, just enough to keep it thick and sticky, adding pinches of flour as I go. And as I work, I feel something inside waking up, something that’s been dormant since I lost my dad. My hands push through the dough, and I put all my grief, all my rage, all the emotions that I’m feeling into the bread.
When I’m satisfied with the dough, I pull out a section and shape it into a ball. Stretch the ball and drop it into the hot lard. It sizzles like rain against a tin roof, a sound that makes me smile with memories. I watch it cook, turning it once, and when it starts to fry golden brown, I use tongs to pull it out. Place it on the paper towel Seth’s set out for me. I reach for the powdered sugar and cinnamon on the shelf, but he stops my hand.
“Not yet,” he says, his voice eager and his dark eyes shining. “Like this, first. Pure.”
I nod, feeling it too. Feeling there’s something sacred in this moment, some magic in what I’ve made. As weird as that sounds, I know it’s true.
He gingerly tears a corner of the hot bread off with his fingers. Puts it in his mouth. I catch a glimpse of his teeth, his tongue. He chews, eyes closed, and for some reason I’m stupidly nervous. I want him to like it. No, I want him to love it.
After a moment, he opens his eyes. Smiles.
“Good girl. I didn’t know if you had it in you, but you do.” His dark eyes are intense, his voice no more than a whisper. “What do you want, Kelsie? What do you really want?”
“I want it to be the way it was before my dad died. I want . . .” I take a breath. “I want my mom back.”
He nods, like he’s considering it. “Now what are you willing to sacrifice for it?”
“Every single brick, every chair, every table, every damn chandelier. Every pot, every pan, every martini glass. Take it. Take the whole restaurant. I want you to tear the Indigenous Gastronomist to the ground.”
* * *
I wake up feeling great. Better than I have in forever. I practically skip downstairs to the kitchen for breakfast. Mom’s left already, probably to meet the delivery truck or hit the farmers market early. I make sprouted-wheat toast, the only bread Mom keeps in the house, slathering it with cream cheese. Wash it down with orange juice before heading to school.
Last night runs through my mind. The feel of my mother’s palm against my cheek most of all. But also cooking for Seth, making my dad’s frybread. The feeling of the dough in my hands, and the memories of my dad filling my heart. I don’t really understand why it meant so much to Seth, but I know it meant the world to me, and now, in just a few short hours, my world is going to change.
Seth and I agreed that it would be done by four o’clock. A perfect time, since the restaurant’s closed from two to five p.m. Even the staff won’t be there. I want the place destroyed, but I don’t want anyone to get hurt.
The day zips by in nervous anticipation, and before I know it, it’s final period. Morgan’s waiting for me in the usual spot, and we walk across the courtyard together. I think about whether to tell Morgan about my deal with Seth, but decide against it. I don’t want her trying to talk me out of it.
“What is going on with you?” she asks after one look at my face. I should have known I couldn’t hide a secret from her. But I try to play it off anyway.
“What do you mean?”
“Your mom called my mom last night?”
“My mom? Why?”
“Girl, they weren’t going to tell me. But I’ve got eavesdropping skills. Seems your mom was doing the laundry and found, and I quote, a ‘bud of marijuana’ in your shirt pocket.”
“Oh, shit.” The roach I put in my pocket when Seth caught me in the alleyway. I’d totally forgotten.
“How you going to be so thoughtless, Kelsie? Getting caught smoking weed? From what I heard, your mom’s going to be there waiting for you after school, and you are going to be grounded for life.”
I groan.
“Oh yes,” Morgan says. “And I heard your mom say something about night shifts during the week at the restaurant so she can keep an eye on you?”
“You don’t understand. Last night my mom and I got in a fight. I said—” I flush, embarrassed just thinking about it. “I told her I wished she had died instead of Dad.”
Morgan blinks. “Oh no, Kels. You didn’t.”
“It gets worse.”
“Worse than wishing your mother dead?”
“I went to see Seth.”
“The creepy magic dude? You guys aren’t . . . ?”
“No, nothing like that.”
“Oh good. Wait, you didn’t tell him to hurt your mom, did you?”
“No!” I take a deep breath before I say, “I told him to destroy the restaurant.”
Morgan stares at me, chewing on her lip. “Well, that’s a little better,” she finally says. “But not much. Did he say how he was going to do that?”
“I didn’t ask,” I admit. “I’m not sure I want to know the details. For all I know, he’s already put it in motion.”
“Kelsie, think. This is not smart. What is he going to do?”
“I imagine he’ll burn it to the ground. That’s what I would do. Make it look like a gas leak in the kitchen or something.”
“But your mom will be in there! You don’t really want to hurt your mom. Do you?” She has a look of horror on her face.
“Of course not! I’m doing this because I want my mom back. Once there’s no more restaurant, everything between us will be fine.”
“But she’s going to be there.”
“No, Thursdays are her farmers market days. She never gets there earlier than five p.m. on market days. No one does.”
“I just told you. She’s sending Heather to the market so that she can be there when you get home at three to talk to you about your drug problem.”
My stomach drops to my feet. “Oh God, Morgan. I didn’t know. What do I do?”
“You go back there right now and you stop Seth before you ruin your whole entire life!”
She’s right. I’m so stupid. How could I have been so stupid?
“Go!” Morgan says, pushing at my shoulder. “I’ll cover for you. Just, go!”
I shove my heavy backpack at her and take off running.
* * *
“Mom!” I scream as I come through the heavy glass doors. The restaurant is empty, silent as a graveyard at this time of the day. Nobody here. I checked Seth’s room first, to see if I could catch him before he started whatever he has planned, but he wasn’t there. And then I went upstairs to our apartment, but it was empty too. So I came to the restaurant last.
The doors of the restaurant are unlocked, so someone has to be here.
“Mom!” I yell again, striding across the dining area floor toward the kitchen. Part of me is relieved to find the restaurant intact, nothing wrong. But the other part of me feels uneasy, the air too still, like it’s holding its breath, waiting. Watching.
I’m almost to the kitchen when Mom pushes the swinging door open.
I sob with relief. “Mom!” I cry, rushing forward to hug her. I wrap my arms around her. She’s shaking, and she holds on to me so tightly I have to peel her away. Her face crumples, tears streaming down her cheeks as she looks at me.
“I-I’m sorry,” I say, feeling awful about how upset she is. “I won’t smoke again. I didn’t know you would care.”
But she shakes her head back and forth, no.
“Then what?” I ask, confused. “If you’re not upset about me smoking weed, then what?”
“Hey, bad girl,” Seth says, stepping out from behind my mom. I hadn’t even noticed him there. My stomach plummets. He must have told her about our plan.
“I can explain,” I say in a rush.
“You cooked for him, Kelsie,” Mom says, her voice cracking. “Why did you do that? I told you not to. I told you no. I would have made it work with just Seth. But now he knows. Now I know. And I can’t . . . I can’t walk away from that.”
Fear skittles down my back. “It was just frybread.”
“We both know that ain’t true,” Seth says.
I want to protest that it is true, that it was just flour and baking powder and a little bit of salt. But he’s right. It was more, and we both know it.
“You were right last night,” Mom says, still crying. “Seth came to the house to help me with my recipes. He figured out what’s missing.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The missing ingredient? Remember what the review in the Rowbury Times said? What they all say?”
“They just don’t appreciate you.”
“No, no. They’re right. I know it. We all know it. A white woman trying to cook indigenous foods. No matter my years at school, my prestigious internships, my hours in the kitchen. I just couldn’t get it right. But Seth explained it to me.”
I eye Seth warily. He lifts his arm up, showing me the wound on his forearm. “It’s either in you, or it’s not.” I take a step back. My eyes dart between the two of them, trying to understand.
“All I had to do,” Mom says, “was want it bad enough. Be willing to make a sacrifice.”
“But you’ve already sacrificed so much for the restaurant,” I say. “Everything!”
Mom’s blue eyes soften. “Oh, Kelsie. Not everything.”
And that’s when I notice Seth’s holding a knife in his other hand. The big butcher’s knife that’s used for quartering beef. Slicing through muscle and tendon. It flashes bright in the light from the oversize windows. And I remember how he said he’s good with knives. But there’s nothing here to butcher.
“Mom?” I whisper. “What’s going on?”
“I need this,” she says, her voice a whisper. “Please understand. What you’re doing for me, it means everything. My dreams. Your dad’s dreams. You’re going to make them all come true.” Tears spill down her cheeks, but her eyes are hungry, and she licks her lips, excited. “I’ll name my new dish after you, I promise. I won’t forget your sacrifice.”
“The new dish?”
“The one’s that’s going to get me five stars.”
“I told you this was the best job I ever had,” Seth drawls, twirling the knife between his fingers. “All I had to do was figure out what your mama’s recipes were missing. If I did that, she’d move me on up to the kitchen. No more trash, no more busboy. Ain’t that right, Jeanette?”
Mom nods through her tears.
“Blood is good and all,” he says, taking a step closer to me. “But why stop there when you can do better? Your mama’s recipes need more than I can give her.” His smile spreads. “They need heart.”