I want to storm out of the whole gala, make that big dramatic exit, but instead I need to think of logistics, like how I’m going to get a ride home without Nico. I have to find my family.
Luckily, that’s not difficult. Miles’s tinkling-keys, car-crash laugh carries across the wide room, and I follow it until I find him standing near the entrance to the kitchen. Right next to Sam.
Sam looks handsome in a white chef’s coat over slim black pants. His face is lit up, laughing over something my brother is telling him, but it shifts as soon as he sees me. I expect my newfound realization of love to be written all over my face, but his guarded expression reminds me that things are still the same between us.
“Tessie!” Miles calls when I walk over. I can’t help but pull him into a tight hug. He is exactly right just the way he is, no matter what anyone thinks, and he is mine.
“I love you, Miles.”
“I love you too,” he says, and then he gives a sly smile, signaling that he’s gearing up for some sort of snark. “You know I’m not your boyfriend, right?”
“Oh, be quiet!” I snort, and he smiles wider, satisfied. I grab him tight around the shoulders, giving him a noogie, and his giggles bounce around the room. I don’t care who looks.
“Are you going to eat that?” Sam’s voice cuts through our fun. When I look at him, confused, he just motions to the macaron, which I didn’t realize was still in my hand from earlier, a little crushed in the napkin now.
I give Miles one last squeeze, and then I take a big bite of it, the crackly shell melting into the gooey insides. It’s just as perfect as it looks. And it tastes like rose. My mind starts to spiral, wondering if that means something.
“You’ve really . . . this is just amazing, Sam. All of it.”
“Did you see the dessert table, Tessie? He said he put cookies-and-cream donuts on it just for me!” Miles is practically vibrating, he’s so excited (and probably hopped up on the sugar he’s already had). I follow his pointing fingers to a three-yard-long table, covered in tiered cakes of various heights, a chocolate fountain, and countless trays of sugary creations. It’s the most popular spot in the gala, more crowded than any gallery set up in the room.
“I’m getting some right now! Bye!” Miles moves over there at a speed I’ve never witnessed from him. I’m about to chase after him, but then I see my parents waving from the crowd. Mom winks at me.
I turn to Sam, and he’s already turning to go back to the kitchen. I need to say something to keep him here. I need to somehow repair what I’ve broken.
“So . . .”
I didn’t say it had to be genius.
“So, where’s Nico?” he asks, his voice full of scorn.
“Not here.”
“You two look good together.”
“Well, we’re not together anymore.”
“Sure didn’t look like that.”
I sigh. This isn’t going to be easy. And it shouldn’t be—I don’t deserve that. But right now I would give anything for the closeness we used to have. Maybe it just starts with being honest.
“How about a congratulations? Can we talk about that? Because what you’ve created tonight is really impressive, Sam. I mean, I’m not surprised. I always knew the greatness you were capable of. But I’m glad everyone else can see it now too.”
He rubs the side of his face. “I don’t know . . . I guess it’s going okay.”
“Hey, stop talking shit about my friend!” I say, and that makes him crack a smile. “Look at all these people. Look how happy everyone is. And it’s all because of your creations—your art that you’re sharing with them.” I point to Miles, who is bouncing and giving a thumbs-up from across the room, crumbs all over his suit. “I mean, if that’s not an honest review . . .”
“Thanks, Tessa.” His voice has softened a bit now. “It’s been . . . well, it’s been a hard week, getting ready for this. Food prep, and I don’t know. Mentally.”
“Yeah?”
“I kept getting struck with this panic, this fear, you know? And I’d think I was forgetting something, so I’d check my prep list, and everything would be right on track. But the feeling wouldn’t go away. I finally realized it was just all the pressure of tonight getting to me . . . proving the people right who only think I was chosen because of my mom, disappointing my mom, having people laugh at me. Now that it’s here and almost done . . . I finally feel like I can breathe.”
He looks up at me with a start, just as surprised as I am that he’s shared this much with me.
“I thought you were never nervous,” I say. “Not about your food, at least.”
That makes him laugh. “Of course I am! I’m fucking terrified. I’d be crazy not to be, doing all this.” He waves around the room. “But I have to push past the fear. I’ll never know unless I put myself out there.”
. . . and you won’t either. It’s unspoken, but his heavy look says it all.
“You say it as if it’s easy.”
“It’s not,” he says. “But it’s necessary.”
Sam is so unapologetically himself. Someone who knows his worth—even when it came to me.
“Excuse me, can I have your attention please?” Dr. Hoffman, the principal of Chrysalis, is standing on the stage at the front of the room. I recognize his face from the website and pamphlets I pored over before starting the school. “Hey, is this thing on?” A polite chuckle comes from some of the adults, and then a silence falls over the room. I don’t know what, but something important is about to happen.
“Every year at our winter gala, we review the unique and impressive accomplishments of our featured artists and choose one student to receive our Metamorphosis award. The Metamorphosis award is given to a student who demonstrates talent, innovation, and a remarkable commitment to their art. They are the butterfly coming out of the chrysalis, so to speak.” He chuckles again at his cheesiness before continuing. “And as you can probably gather from what you’ve seen tonight, it’s an extremely tough decision.”
People applaud, but next to me, Sam stiffens. I can feel the nervous energy pulsing off him.
“All right, well, without further ado”—Dr. Hoffman’s voice booms from the stage—“the recipient of this year’s Metamorphosis award has been a pioneer in Chrysalis Academy’s brand-new Culinary Arts conservatory. He has demonstrated through both his hard work and his beautiful, and really quite tasty, works of art that he is on his way to becoming a leader in the field. Ladies and gentleman, please congratulate with me our Metamorphosis award winner, Sam Weiner!”
Sam’s mouth drops open, and I scream and pull him into a tight hug. It feels good, familiar, but I come back to myself and jump back, self-conscious.
Sam smiles at me, a real smile with his dimple showing, and then he begins to make his way through the crowd. People pat his back and shake his hand. Lenore grabs his hand and twirls him around, and then passes him to Theodore, who dips him right in front of the stage.
As he climbs the stairs, I think, He deserves this. Putting his heart and joy on a plate for others, being his authentic self, taking the risk that so many of us are afraid to—pushing past the fear that I let paralyze me and force me into letting go of something I love so much.
And that is the greatest risk, presenting something that you love and asking others to love it too.
But I can see—looking at Sam’s beaming face, his mom with tears pouring down her cheeks in the audience—that the risk is worth the reward. And maybe now I’m finally ready to take that risk too.