Page 8 of My Family

He smiles. Steps close. His hands find my chest, palms flat over my heart, and I hug him, kissing the top of his head.

"Five-minute rule?" he asks.

"Five-minute rule."

He rises on his toes and kisses me. Soft.

He pulls back. Opens the door. Checks the hallway.

"See you in five, Daddy," he whispers, and grins, that full, ridiculous, radiant grin, and slips out.

The door closes. The office settles into quiet.

I stand there for a moment.

I wait the five minutes. Count them on the clock. Then I open the door, check the hallway, and walk toward the dorm, where five bunks and a basil plant called Happy and the boy I love are waiting.

Chapter 3. Liam

Lu Toussaint owns the kitchen, and I'm part of the fucking chaos she has to contain every day. She's in the middle of the room when I walk in, her hands on her hips, wearing a bright red head wrap. She's wearing her white apron over a long-sleeved dress, full of giant purple and red flowers that remind me of spice and a spring morning. A dress that probably started the day crisp and clean but is already dusted with flour and egg white. I love her like the mom I never had.

"Marsal!" she says while I wash my hands, get my blue plastic apron on, and my hairnet on. I grin at her, because that's what I always do, my practiced ticket to ride every train in my life, and she fake-scowls. "You late, boy."

I check the clock. It's not even 1:02 PM. Two minutes late. I'm tempted to argue, but I know better. "Sorry, ma'am," I say, and she gives me a frown, but I know it's a fake frown, just like the ones Ethan likes to give me, and maybe that's why I like her so much; she's strict with me just like Ethan is, and I'm a tiny masochist who likes to be told what to do. She turns away with a little grunt of satisfaction. I love it.

She points at the prep station, where three whole fish are laid out on a cutting board. The eyes are still in, glassy and staring. Fish smells bad.

"Eeew," I say. When I can't complain, something explodes inside me. So I have to. I simply do.

"No complaints, boy. Today you'll learn to clean fish," she says, already moving toward me. "This is snapper. Fresh, not frozen. Only the best for my boys. Even if we can't season them properly."

"Yes, ma'am," I say again. I can be crazy but not crazy enough to disrespect Lu.

She demonstrates with the first one. Her hands are fast, precise, but weirdly gentle. In about sixty seconds she's got the snapper scaled, gutted, and fileted, with all neat lines and clean cuts. She wipes her hands and looks at me, eyebrow cocked.

"Your turn. And don't make a mess."

I step up, take the knife, and immediately fumble it. I cut too deep, slice through the skin instead of just under it, and by the time I'm done with the first side, it looks like a fucking crime scene.

Lu tsk-tsks, shakes her head. "The fish isn't your enemy, silly boy," she laughs, but there's no bite to it. She comes around behind me, puts her hands on mine. Her fingers are warm, calloused, her grip iron, her hands damp from washing up. She guides my motion. "Gentle. Like you touch a cat, you know?"

I don't. I've never had a cat, and I'm not sure I've ever touched one, but I nod like I do, even with my eyebrows furrowed.

She walks me through the rest, then lets me try on my own. It goes better. By the time Margarete and Dora show up, I'm almost proud of my work. Margarete is humming under her breath; Dora is already teasing me in a mix of Portuguese and English.

Lu lifts my second fillet into the light, examining it. Her face softens into a genuine smile. "Look how beautiful," she says, nodding with approval. "You have good hands for this, Liam. I knew you would."

Is she calling me delicate?

I laugh to myself. She's not wrong.

The kitchen fills up as staff start coming in after lunch. The noise level rises, but it's like a party where everyone is working. Pots bang, mixers whir, and there are around seven people in total helping. One other student besides me is a Black guy named Rick. The three women are the cooks, and they are incredibly synchronized. They trade jokes in their own languages, switch to English to include me and the others, then everybody is speaking Spanish, which seems almost common ground, except for dumbasses like me, then back again to Creole, Portuguese, English, and so on. I only catch every third word, but I laugh anyway. There's salsa playing all the time, and we're all dancing. People are also cussing and screaming at each other when they make mistakes, when we run out of lettuce, when the chicken is undercooked, but there's a happy undertone even to that, like we're all a big family who are too used to being around each other.

At one station, Margarete is making dough for rolls. She lets me knead it, her hands over mine, showing me how to fold and press without tearing. The dough is soft and sticky, and after a minute my arms are sore, as I'm just a little twink, but the rhythm of it is addicting.

Dora is zesting limes for a glaze. She does it with this flourish, twisting the fruit and catching the strips in her palm before flicking the green curls at me when Lu isn't looking. She's impossible. She's almost as much of a goofball as me. I catch one on my tongue and fake a shudder like it's going to kill me, which makes her snort-laugh hard.

Lu moves back to my station, inspects my pile of snapper fillets. She nods, satisfied, then pulls a bunch of red and yellow peppers from the fridge.