"Those ladies took a liking to you during your detention," Griff adds as I stand. "Don't disappoint them."
"I won't." And I mean it. I like them too much to let them down.
The following day, I show up in the kitchen, and there's steam from three massive pots, the smell of onions and beans, and someone is singing. It's the opposite of every other roomin this place because everybody’s happy here, and not maniacally happy, which is common, but just normal happy.
Lu spots me. She's at a prep table, hair pulled back in a bun with the net, her black skin glistening with sweat from the heavy work, and when she sees me, her face cracks into a grin that shows the gap between her front teeth.
"They sent you back?!" she says, waving a knife.
"This time, not because I punched someone!" I exclaim. I hold up the permission slip. "I'm official now. Volunteer."
Margarete appears from behind a shelf of industrial-sized cans. She's taller than me and her dyed ginger hair is more fluorescent now than I remember. She takes the slip, reads it, and nods approvingly. "You must have impressed old Griff. Welcome back, sweetheart!"
"Miracles happen," I say. “On very rare occasions I can be really good.”
Dora is already clearing a space for me at the cutting board nearest the window, the good station, the one that catches natural light, and I can feel the sun, even there. She sets down a colander overflowing with apples, oranges, and pears like she's been expecting me.
"Fruit salad for dessert tonight," Margarete announces, coming over to us. "Think you can handle that, or do we need to supervise?"
"For sure, I can do it! I’m a fruit salad cutting specialist," I tell her, pointing at myself with my thumb. She laughs.
I wash my hands, tie on the apron that Margarete tosses me: it's plastic and blue, too big, makes me look like a kid playing chef; put on the hair net, which I hate, and start on the apples. The knife is sharp, and I'm actually impressed for a second they'd let me play with it like that. So maybe they do trust me somewhat.
Lu hums while she works, something Creole maybe. Margarete starts telling me that her grandson lost his first tooth.
"The youngest one, Rafael, he put the cat in the washing machine," she says, shaking her head while dicing celery. "Not to hurt him, he wanted to give him a bath. The cat survived. Rafael did not survive his mother's slipper."
I laugh, loud.
"Smaller pieces, sweetheart," Lu instructs, appearing at my elbow. She takes the knife from my hand, demonstrates three quick cuts that turn a chunky apple slice into thin, even crescents, and hands it back. Her fingers are warm and rough. "Like this. The boys eat fast. Big pieces, they choke. We don't need that paperwork."
“We're all adults, Lu!” I protest, finding that super funny.
“You'd be surprised. Even fifty-year-old men act like little boys sometimes. Don’t you?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I tell her, she grins, and I do as I'm told because apparently here it's all I do.
I mimic her technique, being as careful as I can be, which isn’t extremely careful, but more than I would be otherwise. “Like this?”
“Very good,” she says, satisfied, before returning to her station.
I slice through an orange, and it smells so good, citrus and sweet. I want to bite into it. And, knowing my fucked up brain which makes the weirdest associations all the time, I rememberwhoI want to bite. And, then, as I set the rhythm again, my mind goes to our room after lights out, when Harry's sleeping and Jack's snoring, and Miles is doing whatever Miles does. In there, I know Ethan likes me, because he actually acts as if he does. He'll lean over the edge of his bed, and his voice changes, goes softer.
"You awake, Liam?"
"Always."
And we chat about everything.
One night last week, I missed dinner because Griff had me reorganizing the supply closet after I mouthed off in MMA. I don’t know what I was thinking, but when he told me to stop chatting with Jack and focus, I was actually brave enough to mouth off. Of course it was a horrible idea, and Ethan didn’t let it slide either. He didn’t spank me, unfortunately, but he shot me one of those looks he does, the one that makes my heart stop for a second, and scolded me for at least five minutes. Which is a close second to being spanked in my enjoyment list. After that, I came back to the room hungry, but I'm often hungry, so I was just trying not to be, which I've perfected over the years. But there, on my pillow, was a napkin and a slice of chocolate cake. I knew who left it, of course.
I had to eat it. And not vomit. Because he got it for me.
"You're miles away, honey," Lu says, and her voice pulls me back to the cutting board, to the half-peeled pear in my hand, to the kitchen that smells like cinnamon now because someone has started on the oatmeal for tomorrow's breakfast. Everything seems to smell better and taste better over here.
"Sorry." I blink. "Just thinking."
I arrange the fruit on the metal serving trays, alternating colors the way Dora showed me, pear then apple then orange, like a cute fruit rainbow. Margarete watches me and doesn’t let go of what she’s thinking.
