1
PROLOGUE
AOIFE
Boston
It starts with my hands, always. Tonight, they’re trembling in the liminal space above a tray of perfect foie gras tartlets, so microscopic I’m convinced a dust mite could out-eat half the city’s real estate moguls. The ballroom is so over-lit and gilded it could have been painted by a minor deity with a Napoleon complex, all crystal tears and marble floors from which you can see your anxieties reflected. It’s as if the committee had sent out a memo—only attend if your net worth is at least a digit longer than your phone number and you’re willing to risk third-degree burns from the chandelier glare.
My station, at the far end of the grand arched room, is a temple to postmodern charcuterie. I could kill with the sharpness of my cheese knives and the bite of my Maldon flakes. Tonight’s uniform is a dress in a color the fashion blogs call “decayed cherry”, cut close to my body with just enough sleeve to pretend I don’t have tattoos. I wore heels out of respect for the venue (and because the other caterers mocked me last year for wearing Vans, the traditional shoe of culinary suicide attempts). My mother would say the dress was too much, my old culinaryprofessor would say it was not enough, but in the mirror before the party, I’d looked at myself and thought,at least you’re not invisible.
A balding man with a forehead so polished I could fix my lipstick in its reflection glides past, not even pretending to look at the food. He’s followed by a pair of suburban wives who pause, eyes narrowing at the seaweed crisps as if they might leap up and attack. I smile, wide enough to show the scar where I bit through my lip when I was eight, and offer the tray anyway.
“Are these gluten free?” one wife asks, pinching the stem of her wine glass so hard I think it might shatter.
“They’re gluten negative,” I say, voice syrupy. “Possibly the only negative thing at this event.”
She laughs, the brittle kind, then swallows a crisp without looking at it. Her friend licks the foam off her sparkling cocktail and says, “I hear you organized the students’ table. My niece was in your class at the Center. Such a shame she’s working at Panera now.”
“She’s probably unionized,” I say, deadpan. “We should all be so lucky.” Their faces do not register the joke, and they drift on, seeking more receptive venues for small talk and macaroons.
I use the lull to recalibrate the oyster display, which is drooping. The raw bar is the only thing standing between me and total existential collapse tonight, mostly because I love oysters for their refusal to ever be quite clean. Each is a mouthful of brine and risk. I wedge another slice of blood orange beside the ice and accidentally flick cold water onto my wrist. I pretend it’s not the most stimulating thing that’s happened all evening.
The band starts up—jazz, because we are all about subtle cruelty—and somewhere near the doors I spot the mayor’s wife in a designer tent dress the color of municipal cash. She laughs too loudly, and everyone within earshot turns to acknowledge her performance. My mother would’ve eaten it up, andsometimes I imagine she’s here, arms folded in the back, judging my posture. I stand up straighter and run my fingers along the seam of my dress, checking for stains or stray caviar.
Behind the table, the culinary students rotate through their shifts with the solemnity of altar boys. I catch Maggie, the youngest, nervously rearranging the garnish on the duck prosciutto. Her hands are shaking, too. “First time working a big gala?” I ask. I keep my voice low, confessional, as if we’re sharing secrets in a church pew.
She nods. “I keep thinking I’ll drop something. Or spill on someone. Or—” She stops. “Or someone will notice I don’t belong here.”
I think about telling her the truth. No one here belongs, least of all the donors. But she’s not ready for it, so I just smile. “You belong. You’re fine.”
She stifles a laugh and hands me a tiny plate of amuse-bouche for approval. I nod, though the microgreens are listing to starboard. A line forms. Someone’s told the finance bros that there are Wagyu beef sliders, and a stampede is building. I recite my spiel—Yes, it’s locally sourced, yes, the aioli is vegan (oh, the irony), no, I cannot disclose the “secret ingredient” unless you have a nut allergy or a direct line to the Health Department—and watch them stack plates with the hunger of men who have never once missed a meal.
A hand, pale and ringed in gold, reaches over the shoulder of an intern and snatches a slider. No eye contact. I see myself in the man’s mirrored sunglasses and stick my tongue out just enough for it to register. He either doesn’t notice or, more likely, doesn’t care.
For a moment, I want to call my old professor. Tell him how the people with the best taste are always the ones who never taste. Instead, I refill the canapés and practice my posture, chin up, arms loose, smile just right.
Between guests, I retreat to my safe place—polishing the silver tongs, refolding napkins, adjusting the geometry of every platter. There’s a kind of mindfulness in it, a tactile way of reminding myself that I can create order, even in a room designed for beautiful chaos. Once, in a therapy session, I tried to describe the feeling of carving a perfect cube of tuna with a razor-sharp yanagiba, how it made me feel like a god for three seconds. The therapist had nodded and written something in her notebook that I never asked about. If she could see me now, she’d probably say, “How do you feel being on display, Aoife?” And I’d answer, “Like a crab on a cake platter, trying not to scuttle.”
The evening progresses. The lighting, somehow, gets harsher, and the laughter floats on a current of increasingly expensive wine. I catch snippets of conversation… “My daughter’s at Harvard, of course.” “We gave four million to the medical wing this year.” “You simply must come to the vineyard this summer.” I count six different brands of high heels within a three-foot radius. My own feet hurt less than I expected. Adrenaline is the best orthotic, if only someone could bottle it. A woman with hair like spun steel approaches, clutching a clutch as if it contains the antidote to her own mortality. “You’re Aoife Kelly, yes?” She pronounces it “Ee-fay” in the European way, which I appreciate.
“That’s me,” I say. “Unless you’re here to collect a debt, in which case I’m dead.”
She almost smiles. “You did the Center’s lunch last April. My husband adored your leek-and-potato terrine. We still talk about it.”
I bow my head, not out of modesty but because I want to make sure I remember her for next time. “Thank you. I hope you’ll let me outdo myself tonight.”
“I doubt you’ll have a problem,” she says and walks away with a morsel between her teeth, like a queen absconding with tribute.
Near midnight, the food thins out and so do the guests. A few linger, circling the room with predatory patience, scanning for new targets or last calls. I start cleaning up, stacking the fancy plates and tossing wilted microgreens into a compost bucket. The other students sneak glances at the leftover champagne bottles, but I wave them off. The last thing I need is a hungover army tomorrow morning.
In the corner, a couple is slow-dancing, their eyes closed, as if pretending there’s no one else. It’s a little beautiful, a little sad. I wonder if I’ll ever be the kind of person who dances at galas, who floats through crowds on someone else’s arm.
But for now, I am the station. I am the food, the hands, the spine under the starched white tablecloth. I breathe in the scents of lemon and salt and steel, and I do not drop anything.
I’m scraping the last of the pate from a serving board when I notice a man—tall, rumpled, expensive in a way only a certain class of Bostonian can manage. Not the neon-plastic shine of the city’s newest tech money, but the faded, monogrammed gravitas of old bloodlines and even older grudges. He’s walking toward me, singular purpose in every step, eyes not on the crowd or the champagne waterfall or even the mayor’s wife, who is now pretending to laugh at the MC’s jokes. No, his eyes are on the table, on the food, which is almost enough to make me forgive the universe for every prior party trick.
I brace myself. If this is another recruiter, or a bored board member, I am prepared to deploy my last-resort conversational gambit about the local water quality and its effect on sourdough starters. But when he reaches the table, he doesn’t open with a question or a complaint. He just stands there, hands tucked into the pockets of a navy suit that must have cost more than my lastsemester at the Center, and surveys the remaining options with what looks like… actual respect.
