“April, no—”
“I’ve basically stamped my ticket to her lunch table. I made it clear Carlos and I are just friends.Closefriends. And no one’s gonna mess with me if Maria Patterson is trying to earn an invite tomyhouse.”
“You are downright Machiavellian.”
“I’m free. That’s what I am.”
“You still have a week of detentions to serve out, Little MissFree.”
April only shrugs.
Once the dust has settled, April turns out to be right. The sad irony is that the girl April slapped—Gia—ends up with nothing. Whatever increased popularity she might have hoped for by doing the Patterson girl’s dirty work goes to April, who quickly joins their circle. Maria Patterson even shows up at the acreage a few nights later, under the pretext of helping April study for an upcoming test. They come up into the apartment, giggling madly over something that happened on the way in, only for Maria to draw to a stop as she surveys the room.
“Where’s all your stuff?”
“Right? Sid doesn’t ownanything.” April grabs the girl’s hand and drags her to the bedroom we share. “C’mon. We can just sit on the bed.”
“But then we’re going downstairs for dinner, right? Everyone eats together, right?”
“Yeah.Carlosmakes most of the food!”
They both burst into laughter, and I decide I don’t need to sit around listening to this. Besides, I’ve got nowhere to read with them in the room. I head downstairs.
Carlos isn’t in the kitchen yet, so I get started mincing carrots, celery and onions into a soffritto by myself. The next steps come easily, as I render lard in a pan, then tip the vegetables in to sauté. Next come the shrimp Wendell bought in town this morning. Once a golden rim forms along each side, I take the aromatics and shrimp off the heat, reserving them in a bowl. Now for the hard part. I add a little more lard, then whisk in flour, until a golden paste forms at the bottom of the pan. Gradually, I top itoff with cream and grated cheese. From there, it’s small adjustments. Parsley, basil, oregano. A dash more salt.
Finally, it’s time to grab the pasta that I rolled out earlier in the morning and drop it into a pot of salted water. A splash of pasta water goes into the sauce, making it glossy and fluid. With all the components prepped, it’s nothing but assembly. Pasta. Sauce. Shrimp. It all gets a quick mix over the heat, flavours warming and melding into each other. By the time Carlos stumbles through the door, all that’s left to do is send him back out to gather everyone else.
James arrives first, guitar over his back. “You did that by yourself?”
“Yeah. Guess I did.”
“Well. I will gladly eat my wordsandthat.”
“Eat your words?”
He shrugs. “Silas and I were taking bets on if you would ever stop burning things.”
I smack him hard in the arm, which only makes him laugh. As I place the finished pasta on the table, he starts strumming the opening notes ofAlice’s Restaurant. The other guys file in, Carlos and the girls arriving last. Everyone says nice things about the meal, though I think the best compliment is the fact that Maria doesn’t mention it at all. Nor does she look secretly disgusted.
Knowing she might gossip about anything that happens at our house, I purposely sit next to Sid. It’s been a while since the disastrous Patterson party, and though things are still awkward, we’ve made an effort to chit-chat around the acreage. We can’t risk another situation like the day Tom caught us unprepared. Still, Sid stiffens when I run a hand along his shoulders, tracing little circles down his back.
“What are you—”
“Maria, April. How’s the math going?” I say, smiling vaguely in their direction.
The girls give a chorus of “fine,” both far more focused on dinner and talking to Carlos, who looks very confused by whatever it is he’s been caught in. Sid, however, has wised up. His gaze lingers on Maria for a second; then, he slings an arm around the back of my chair. I try to ignore the thrill of his touch.
For a while, we eat in silence, letting the comradery of the others wash over us.
“This really is good,” he says, once his bowl is almost empty.
“Thanks.”
“You keep getting better. If you wanted…” He trails off, no doubt remembering how little good it does to suggest I try something new. Guilt pinches me as I wonder if he was right. Am I just afraid of everything that could make me happy?
“Town hall tomorrow,” I say, trying to keep the small talk going. “You ready?”
“Yeah. I think so. You?”
