Jack stalked over and took the pot off the chopping board, wrinkling his nose at the smoking gravy before dropping it in the sink and turning the faucet on. Steam hissed up from the burned pot as it filled with water.
“You should wait for it to cool,” Jack said. “Otherwise it does stuff to the metal. But this pot’s already wrecked, so who gives a shit.”
Felix nodded obediently. Jack’s cooking style was a lot like his kitchen: functional, but not very pretty.
Jack Smith lived in a shitty little apartment a few blocks from campus. The door stuck in the winter and spring. The fridge had to be held closed with tape. The stove had several knobs that had snapped off and had to be operated by a wrench.
Still, it wasn’t a total hellhole. There was no mold or mouse shit. There was an assortment of weird magnets and photographs stuck on the fridge, giving it a homey feeling. Extension cords were taped to the wall, safely out of the way. The cupboards, from what Felix had glimpsed during the food-making process, were more or less organized.
Jack bent down to peer into the oven. “Lucky there’s nothing you can do to fuck this part up. How’s the timer?”
Felix checked his phone. “One minute to go.”
Jack sighed and straightened, rubbing his damp hands on his jeans. “That’ll work. You grab plates, I’ll get Robin.”
Felix turned off the alarm and gave him a flimsy thumbs-up. Jack eyed him warily then stomped into the hallway.
“ROBIN,” Jack yelled. “DINNER! GET IN HERE!”
Felix went through the cupboards, opening them to the glassware and the mugs before he finally found plates. Then he paused. How many was he getting? Was this a dinner invite or was he taking his portion home in an old container?
Jack nudged him with a fork. He’d gotten the utensils while Felix was staring into the cupboard.
“What’s the holdup, gravy-burner?” Jack said. “Go on, get the plates and then come over to the oven. I’ll show you how to cut the roast.”
“Cool,” Felix blurted. He grabbed three plates. Jack followed him to the table and set down three sets of utensils, which answered Felix’s dinner question. Even with his gravy fuckup, he was getting excited. He hadn’t had a home-cooked meal since he went home for Christmas, and his parents weren’t the best cooks. The stuff in the oven smelled way better than what he’d had a few weeks ago. Even better than Jacob’s Christmas dinner leftovers, which Felix ate to help him get rid of them faster. Jacob’s mom always made too much and complained if they had to throw it out. Eating Christmas leftovers was the only time Jacob’s parents approved of Felix.
Jack took the roast chicken out with two ratty dish towels wrapped around his hands, then the tray of vegetables below it. Then came the process of moving the chicken onto the cutting board, which surprisingly wasn’t burned from the gravy pot fuckup.
“We’re technically supposed to let it rest for a few minutes so it’s juicier or whatever,” Jack said as he sawed at the chicken breast. “But it’s the same as the stuffing and the shit you rub over the skin—you don’thaveto. Anyway, you gotta cut these slices right. Not too thick, not too thin. Here, try it out.”
He handed the knife to Felix.
Felix took it awkwardly, scrutinized the chicken, and started cutting from where Jack had left off.
“Great,” Jack said mildly. “Few more of those, then cut off a leg for Robin. She likes them, the little freak. Whose favorite part is thedrumsticks?”
They loaded up the plates with the chicken and then the roast vegetables. Jack fetched the green beans, which were still draining in the sieve next to the sink.
“There,” Jack declared as they stood back to examine the three plates loaded with food. “You made a roast.”
Felix opened his mouth to say Jack did most of it. But then again, it had been him who chopped half those vegetables. And he’d snapped those little ends off the green beans. He’d even poured oil over the chicken. He’d set the oven and the stove elements and yes, okay, he’d fucked up the gravy, but only because he got distracted. If he’d kept stirring like he was supposed to, it would probably have been fine.
“Huh,” Felix said. “I guess I did.”
A chair scraped behind them. Felix turned to see Robin Smith, a spindly tween with big, serious eyes, sitting down and looking around the table expectantly before finally turning to her brother. “Where’s the gravy?”
Jack snorted, picking up two plates and heading over to join her. “Did you hear the smoke alarm? Or were you wearing your giant headphones again?”
“They’re not that big,” Robin replied snootily.
Jack sat down next to her and dug into his food. Felix took the seat at the head of the table, which felt weird, but there were only three chairs at the table, so it was this or nothing.
Robin eyed Felix curiously and twirled her fork with a clumsiness that made Felix remember just how awkward it had been to grow into his teenage limbs.
Robin turned to her brother again. “Where’s he from?”
“College,” Jack replied, muffled through a mouthful of chicken. “I’m teaching him how to cook.”
