"Welcome back!" She pulls me into a hug. When she pulls away, she straightens my collar. Dora comes out then, carrying a tray of bread rolls. She sets the tray down and hugs me with one arm, the other hand still in an oven mitt.
"We saved your station," Dora says, with that thick Brazilian accent, pointing to the prep counter near the window, and it means the world to me that she’s actually trying to speak with me in English, something she hates.
“The best station! Thank you, guys,” I say. There are five or six more people working around us, and they all smile at me as well, still focused on their tasks. It really is home.
Lu puts me to work immediately. No small talk, no easing in, she hands me a knife and a pile of onions and says, "Dice. Small. Don't cry."
"The onions or in general?"
"Both."
“But I love crying!” I exclaim, and she laughs, loud.
“You always surprise me, boy, even though this shouldn’t come as a surprise at all,” she says.
“Are you calling me a cry baby?” I ask, pretending to be hurt. She laughs more, and that right here is the reason I wanted to come back to kitchen duty.
I dice, and yes, I do tear up. Only because of the onions, of course. Lu works beside me, chopping peppers with terrifying speed.
"You know," she says casually, not lookingup, "we heard some things. About you not eating."
My knife pauses, I look at her, and for half a second, I’m terrified she’s going to scold me or tell me she’s terribly disappointed at me. I can take people angry at me, but disappointed? Oh, boy.
"People talk," she says gently. "Small place."
"Yeah." I resume dicing. "It's... I'm working on it."
"Good." She reaches over and squeezes my wrist once, quick and firm. "You work on it. And you can come here and eat my food, every day. The good one, the one we make only for staff, seasoned, not caring about allergies or nutritional value. Okay?"
"Yes, ma'am."
“I mean it. I’ll talk to Griff. He listens to me,” she says, proud.
“Yes, ma’am,” I repeat. She nods, satisfied, and we keep chopping.
Margarete calls me over to help with the stew. She shows me how she builds the base, browning the meat first, then deglazing the pot with stock, scraping up all the fond from the bottom.
"You can't rush good food," she says. "Unfortunately, good things take time.”
I don't think she's only talking about food.
I'm stirring the pot, following Margarete's instructions about heat levels, when I hear the kitchen door open behind me. I don't turn around because I'm focused on not ruining the stew, but Lu looks up from her station and frowns.
"Can I help you?" she asks, in the tone she reserves for people who enter her kitchen without invitation, which is to say, a tone that could curdle milk.
"Sorry to bother you, ma'am."
It’s Ethan's voice! My heart does a stupid little flip, and I turn around, my mouth hanging open.
"I'm here to check the inventory logs for Griff. He needs the supply numbers for the monthly report."
That is, without a doubt, the most made-up excuse I've ever heard in my life. Griff has never once in his career asked a student leader to check kitchen inventory logs. Ethan is here because he wants to see me. The thought makes me so giddy I almost stir the stew off the stove, and I'm standing there with the silliest smile, bouncing like a chihuahua.
"The logs are in the office," Margarete says, nodding toward the small room in the back. "Help yourself."
But Ethan doesn't go to the office. He lingers, looking around the kitchen with genuine curiosity. His eyes land on me, and I watch him fight the smile. He loses.
"Liam, I didn't know you were back on kitchen duty," he says. Liar. Such a terrible liar. I told him yesterday. Twice. And then again this morning.
