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“And you’re weird for a not-rich boy, so I guess we’re just both weird. Shut up and get a plate; they’re in the cabinet behind you. I think this is done. Probably.”
Bishop laughed. “You don’t even know if the food is done? You’re makin’ me nervous, Princess.”
I scowled at him, narrowing my eyes. “I’m still learning. Be nice, or you can stand there and watch me eat.”
“Okay, okay.” He lifted his hands in mock innocence, a warm, deep laugh falling from his lips. “Chill out. Don’t you know what a joke is?”
This was the loosest I’d seen Bishop—the most easy and relaxed. I wasn’t sure what had brought about the shift in him, but I couldn’t deny that I liked it.
He got down the plates as I made the final preparations with the food. The house didn’t have a dining room, just a tiny table in one corner of the kitchen with two mismatched chairs. After serving up the pasta, we settled down across from each other, our knees brushing under the table.
I looked down at the plate. It wasn’t the prettiest thing I’d ever seen, but I was beginning to learn that when it came to food, edibility was much more important than looks. Twirling my fork into the noodles, I took a bite.
My jaw froze halfway through chewing as a single flavor overwhelmed me.
Salt. Too much damn salt.
Bishop coughed, forcing down his own first bite.
“Well, it doesn’t taste like arsenic, so I guess that’s a plus.” He pulled a face, clearing his throat.
I sighed, disappointment filling me. Dammit. I was so close. “Yeah… but it doesn’t taste edible, either.”
“Easy fix.” His expression cleared, and he shrugged. “Let me show you.”
To my surprise, he got up, going to the cupboards to rummage through them. I watched him with a curious gaze as he pulled out a bag of sugar. He spooned out a small helping onto my plate, and then onto his.
“Mix it.” He jerked his chin toward the pasta and the little pile of sugar.
I couldn’t see how it would possibly make anything better, but I did as he instructed, then took an experimental bite.
“Oh… oh, wow.” My eyes widened. “That’s actually… good. How the hell did you do that?”
Bishop shrugged, tucking into his own food. “When you’re always broke, you learn how to make food edible no matter what. Sauce too salty? Add a little sugar. Sauce too sugary? Add some salt. Or some spice. It’s all about balance. Honestly, Misael is a fucking wizard in the kitchen. Most of the stuff I know, I picked up from him. My foster mom can’t cook for shit.”
“Huh. I’ll have to ask him for some tips then.”
There were so many more questions I wanted to ask, so many more things I wanted to know about this boy’s life. I’d discovered that all three of the Lost Boys lived with foster families, but I didn’t know how they’d all ended up there.
But Bishop had never been this easy-going and open before, and I was a little afraid that if I pushed too hard, he would realize he’d said too much and clam back up. So I didn’t push for more, and we fell into silence as we ate—but it was a comfortable, enjoyable kind of silence.
Too soon, our food was finished. Bish stood up, taking our plates. “Get ready. I’ll clean up.”
I was surprised by his offer, but I nodded and headed to my room to change. My misguided attempt at making my wardrobe fit in at Slateview had left me with very few clothes that weren’t distressed in some way, but I was actually starting to feel comfortable in them.
It didn’t feel so much like a costume anymore.
After trying on a couple of outfits, I settled on something that seemed appropriate. I pulled my light blonde hair back into a ponytail, peering at my face in the tiny mirror on the dresser before deciding against any more makeup. Then I headed back out to meet Bishop.
Well, here goes nothing.
Eighteen
I never would’ve thought I’d feel out of place when it came to a party. I’d been to so many with my parents that the concept of “social gathering” was probably ingrained in my DNA somewhere, to be honest.
Smiles, politics, and flattery. Cocktails, five to seven course meals, and glasses full of the finest champagne—those were all the things I was used to at the parties I’d attended.
But a party with Slateview students was nothing like the refined parties I was used to making appearances at with my parents. When we pulled up to the house a couple miles from where Mom and I lived, there were already dozens of cars out front, haphazardly parked alongside the worn-out sidewalk. Deep, pounding bass blared from within, and I got the distinct impression that most of the neighbors didn’t care, since the central house on the block wasn’t the only one where something was going on.
