Hunger isn’t the only thing upsetting my belly. I haven’t seen Simo’s parents since the noticeboard message. There’s always something distant and sad about his dad, but it’s his mum who intimidates me.
‘Get up, lazy fart,’ Simo says, and throws an old soft toy at my head. He hovers by the door, and judging by the prominent vein on his brow, I’d say I’m not the only one who’s worried.
‘Can I borrow a clean T-shirt? And trousers? Mine have grass stains all over.’
‘This isn’t Sunday church,’ Simo replies, grabbing something from his dresser. He throws it my way and a second later I’m holding a pair of grey joggers in my hands. ‘You don’t need to try and impress my parents.’
I don’t know if that’s a good or a bad thing and decide not to ask. All my concentration goes into pretending it’s perfectly normal that I’m standing in Simo’s room wearing nothing but underwear. Which it sort of is. We’ve had more sleepovers than I can count. Since I was a kid, Simo has woken up in my bed at least once every other week, more so recently, which also means he sees me undressed on a regular basis. And I him.
With forced composure I pull the joggers on, while Simo searches for a T-shirt. I shrug into it, and the soft white fabric envelopes me in his scent. The vein is proof of his impatience, but there’s something else in his mellow brown eyes that I can’t discern.
‘I’m allowed to wash my face though, right?’ I ask, to break the weird tension that’s rising between us. ‘And brush my teeth? Or do you think your parents will like me more with morning breath?’
‘You never have morning breath. It’s unnerving,’ Simo mutters, but he leads me to the bathroom and searches the cabinets for a spare toothbrush. He hands it over and leavesme to myself, which is for the best. Not just because I can drop the fake coolness, but because my bladder has realised that we’re vertical again.
When I enter the dining room, I’m greeted by an array of foods so gorgeous that it belongs in a painting. Pancake towers so fluffy you want to sleep on them, bowls overflowing with berries, their blues and reds bursting on my tongue in anticipation. A golden masterpiece of a tortilla topped with pomegranate seeds that sparkle like rubies, next to a saucepan filled to the rim with a rich tomato stew, eggs swimming on the surface. Someone even added an arrangement of purple daisies to the table. A broad man with a round, bearded face walks in from the kitchen, carrying a loaf of sourdough. I can see the steam rising from the freshly cut slices.
‘There you are!’ Simo’s dad exclaims. Simo clearly inherited his eyes, brown and light like wildflower honey.
‘Good morning, Luca,’ a woman’s voice says, and I turn to Simo’s mum. She holds a jug of freshly made lemonade, and when she places it on the table, the ice clinks against the glass.
‘Morning,’ I repeat, and smile. I don’t have to fake it. It’s hard not to smile with food like this in front of me.
‘Now don’t you think this is a breakfast that would make your father’s customers green with envy? He’s not the only one who can cook, you know,’ Pedro says.
‘Dad!’ Simo scolds him.
Pedro wears a look of remorse and I realise that Simo has filled them in on everything that’s happened.
‘It looks incredible,’ I admit, and try not to let my face slip.We take our seats and for a minute we’re all busy loading our plates with more food than they can fit.
‘Have some shakshuka.’ Safa fills a small bowl with the tomato egg stew, then places it next to me. I pick up the spoon, thinking that she can’t harbour any grudges against me if she’s trying to stuff me with food. ‘My mother used to make this regularly.’
Simo stops chewing and stares at his mum like he’s hearing this for the first time.
‘Thank you,’ I say, remembering my manners. Safa is a slight woman, her frame much narrower than her husband’s and son’s. Despite her size, there’s a hardness in the way she holds herself, chin raised and back straight. She’s tough because the softness has been whittled away. I often forget that she’s a primary-school teacher. I can’t quite imagine the strict woman in front of me around a bunch of small kids.
I do as I’m told, take a mouthful of the shakshuka and barely manage to hold in a moan. If red was a dish, this is how it would taste: succulent, earthy, and with a hint of heat.
‘And you’re right, I think my dad would fear for his customers if you decided to open a restaurant.’ The compliment prompts a brief smile from Safa.
‘We don’t get to cook for guests every day,’ Pedro says, sounding pleased.
‘You have me,’ Simo points out. ‘You never cook like this for me.’
‘There’s no point, is there? Dinnertime comes around and you’re nowhere to be found.’ Safa slices open an egg with a single stab of her knife, and the yolk erupts like lava.
Simo takes a furiously big bite of pancake. He has a habit of making his parents sound worse than they are, though he wouldn’t catch me voicing that particular thought. I mean, they’re not all hugs and love exclamations, but they’re not bad either. Then again, I think we’re all biased when it comes to our families. We see them in a light much better or worse than an outsider would. Not entirely without reason; after all, an outsider has no idea what it’s like to grow up with them. But our impression of family is warped because we look at them through lenses we’ve worn for years. And sometimes we forget to take them off and see them not as a parent or child or sibling, but as themselves. Maybe that’s an impossible thing to do, anyway. Which is why Simo won’t give them the credit they deserve for raising my favourite person in the world. Which is why I’ve put my dad on a pedestal and can’t cope with the fact that he’s fallen off.
Thankfully Pedro pulls me away from the edge I’m teetering on. ‘You enjoyed Granada, did you? Simo didn’t tell us much about it.’
‘It’s the best holiday I’ve ever had,’ I reply truthfully. It’s also the only holiday I’ve ever been on, not that I’m complaining. Despite the stupid noticeboard and family secrets, I never wanted to be anywhere but here. ‘And Simo loved it too,’ I add.
He chews longer than any pancake needs chewing, but with his parents’ eyes on him, expecting an answer, he swallows reluctantly. ‘I did like it,’ he confesses, clearly underselling it. ‘In fact, I want to go back. For a gap year.’
He wants what? I almost drop the spoon on its way to my mouth, barely avoiding a shakshuka disaster.
Pedro nods with happy interest, but Safa puts her knife down with a decisive clink. ‘A gap year? That’s news to me.’
