Alone in my room, I stare at the ceiling in a state of total confusion and despair, alongside the obvious sexual frustration.
I’ve prayed for days to have just a few quiet hours by myself. To be at home, away from all the drama. And the one night I want to spend at Kate’s, it figures I’d end up alone in my bed instead. Be careful what you wish for, right?
Also, what happened today in her room? What did the kiss mean?
I know what it meant to me, and that I started it, but for her? Kate seemed eager enough… but then, she’d just broken up with Marco. Am I nothing more than the rebound guy?
The ceiling doesn’t hold any answers for me, no matter how long I stare at it. I wish I had the nerve to call Kate and ask her directly… although I’m not sure she’d have any more answers than I do.
Still, for the first time in a long while, I’m looking forward to seeing her tomorrow.
***
The next morning we meet directly at the chocolate factory and, among all the investors and parents, we can’t talk alone. Also, we have a job to do.
We step into the roles of tour guides easily, since we’ve chaperoned this tour together so many times it’s a well-practiced routine. Once all the investors have gathered in the main hall—a big, circular space with wide glass walls and revolving entrance doors—Kate steps in and begins the spiel.
“Konnichiwa, everyone,” she says. “I’m afraid that’s the extent of my Japanese.” The delegation responds with demure, close-lipped smiles. Guess this won’t be our most hot-blooded audience, but Kate and I can work any crowd. “Thank you for joining us today on this tour of The Bluewater Springs Chocolate Factory,” she continues, unfazed by the lukewarm response. “Before we move into the actual factory, I wanted to tell you a little more about what we’re going to learn on today’s tour. What is chocolate, the ingredients chocolate is made of, how chocolate is made and molded into different shapes, and why it became such a popular treat as soon as it was discovered.”
The Japanese all bow and nod, apparently satisfied with the morning’s agenda.
It’s my turn, so I step forward and clear my throat to draw their attention.
“What is chocolate, you might wonder. Many of us eat it without thinking what chocolate is made of—which, in most cases, is a mix of cocoa mass, sugar, and other ingredients like powdered milk.” I point at the explanatory panel behind my shoulders. “But why do we need all these ingredients? Well, we do because the cocoa is extremely bitter when eaten in its raw state. In fact, the name ‘chocolate’ comes from the Aztec word xocolatl, which means bitter water.”
At this point, I sometimes tell a joke on how ‘bitter water’ may sound bad, but it’s nothing compared to what the Aztecs called avocados—āhuacatl, or, in plain English, testicles. Something about the texture and shape and the way they grow in pairs inspired the unflattering name. The pun usually kills, but I don’t think this group would appreciate that particular brand of humor. So, I move on with the regular presentation.
“The most unique ingredient is, of course, the cocoa mass, which is made from the seeds of the cacao trees.” As I speak, I catch Kate’s eye and find her struggling not to laugh. She knows I’ve skipped the T-joke, and now we probably both have the T-word stuck on repeat in our brains. I look away, suppressing a smile and trying to keep a poker face as I continue with the standard introduction. “And it’s with these tiny seeds that everything starts. If you’d like to follow us, we can now move to our sorting facility.”
We guide the visitors through our chocolate-making process, from bean sorting, to roasting, to cracking and winnowing—to get rid of the outer husk of the cocoa beans—to melanging with the other ingredients, and finally to the tempering stage which allows the chocolate to cool down in a controlled environment allowing for only tiny, uniform crystals to form as it solidifies. It’s an impressive operation we’ve built here, and the Japanese delegates seem pleased.
Then we move on to the chocolate bar production facility and show them how the chocolate is molded, shaken to remove any air bubbles, and chilled to create bars. The final stage of the process is packaging, and we watch as the chocolate bars move along the conveyor belt to be wrapped in aluminum foil, then paper, and be finally put into boxes ready to be shipped to the stores.
All throughout the visit, Kate and I are completely in sync. We finish each other’s sentences, never miss a beat, and even manage to snatch a smile or two out of the serious boss-man Mr. Tagawa Yoshiaki.
We’re one hell of a team. Always have been.
When the tour is over, I’m positive our new partners are going to leave Bluewater Springs impressed.
In fact, Mr. Tagawa Yoshiaki bows to us saying, “I had been told the two of you were the best possible faces for The Bluewater Springs Chokorēto Kōjō, and I now agree. The Chucokate will be a big hit in our country.” Then he bows, adding, “Otsukaresama deshita.”
“Deshita,” Kate and I reply, with no idea of what we’re saying.
The Japanese leave to continue the business talks with Mick and my mom, leaving Kate and me finally alone.
“So,” Kate says. “That went well.”
“Our best tour in a while, I’d say.”
“What now?” Kate shifts on her feet. “We wait for the Japanese to leave, and then we gather our parents and tell them the truth?”
I’m about to reply, when my world suddenly goes dark. Something rough has been pulled over my head—a sack? As I panic, Kate lets out a little scream. Are they after her too? I flail out with my fists, hoping to catch one of our attackers unawares, but hands grab me and prevent me from struggling free.
A million possibilities cross my head, each one less likely than the next. I’m being kidnapped for ransom. Marco and his gym buddies have come to teach me a lesson about fake-impregnating other dudes’ girlfriends. The Yakuza has followed Mr. Tagawa Yoshiaki and they want in on the deal and aren’t going to say please.
I redouble my efforts to struggle free, but whoever is holding me is strong and doesn’t budge.
“What’s going on?” Kate asks. Her voice is surprised, but not nearly as panicked as it should be if members of Japan’s most notorious crime syndicate were actually abducting us.
If a response is given, I can’t hear it. Someone slides a hand in my pocket and takes out my phone. Something heavy—a blanket, perhaps—is wrapped tightly around me.
Another point against the Yakuza theory. The Japanese mafia wouldn’t worry about me catching a cold.
Once I’ve been turned into a human burrito I’m bodily lifted off my feet. The guy holding me from under my armpits gets someone to help him and lift my legs. They carry me away in this awkward, gangly fashion until we stop again outside. Even wrapped in the heavy blanket, I can feel the dramatic temperature change from the cozy, chocolaty warmth of the factory to the crisp air of a sunny winter day.
Whoever has taken me dumps me in what I assume must be the back of a car or a van. Yep, the seats soon begin vibrating underneath me as the engine shudders to life and the car is put into gear. Gravel screeches under the tires as they drive me away to who knows where.