The Birch House

Chapter Twenty Three

"The cops will find them," Alyssa said in an undertone to me as we stood in the kitchen making pasta. Pasta, apparently, was a new thing that Alyssa wanted to try. She frowned down at the package of spaghetti, then at the not-yet-bubbling pot of water. "Chase's dad and his merry band of assholes, I mean."

"Yeah," I agreed, not because I thought they would, but because, well, it seemed like the thing to say. "Want me to warm up the sauce?"

"Do we do that? I mean, it's in a jar, right? Can't you just dump it over the pasta?"

"Well, you can, but it tastes better if you warm it up."

"Oh." Alyssa sighed. "This is complicated. No wonder I never cook."

"You make breakfast!"

"I make two things: bacon and eggs. And sometimes sandwiches. I hate cooking. Cooking reminds me of my mother." Alyssa took another pot from the rack and banged it down onto the massive stove. "Here."

I struggled with the top on the spaghetti sauce jar, and finally got it to release with a pop. "You think they're going to stay mad at each other?" I asked.

"Alex and Chase?"

"Mmm-hmmm." The sauce plopped into the pot, chunky and wet and vaguely nauseating. I considered the second jar, decided that if two of the four of us were boys, more was better. I got it opened and in the pot, as well, then turned on the burner and set it to simmer.

"Who knows?" Alyssa shrugged. "Boys are idiots. You'd think Chase could just say, "Oh man, I'm glad you're alive," but no. It's either guilt or amateur night at the Drama Queen Theater." She blew out a frustrated breath. "Boys. I'd turn gay if they weren't so sexy."

I tried not to laugh, but I couldn't help it, and after a second Alyssa smiled and chuckled, too. The water started boiling. In went the pasta.

"Can I ask?"

"About what?" Alyssa was still frowning at the pasta like she suspected it was going to do something clever, like try to escape from the pot.

"You and Alex."

"Oh." A surge of pink to Alyssa's cheeks. Between that and the fact that she was wearing colors outside of the Goth red and black rainbow, she looked young and very cute. "Well. I don't know if it's... God, he's just so..."

"Hot?" I asked.

"Hot," Alyssa admitted. "Nuclear hot. Surface of the sun hot. And-"

She stopped, the flush in her cheeks getting darker. I picked up a wooden spoon and poked the pasta, which was beginning to loosen up. "And?"

"And I was planning on putting the moves on him before all this happened. That's why I had on the garters and stuff. Planning ahead."

"Oh, wow."

"Yeah, embarrassing. Did he peek?"

"When you were changing?" I asked. "I don't think so. But I think he wanted to."

"That's okay, then." Alyssa blinked down at the pasta, which had formed a thick white foam on top. "Is it supposed to be doing that?"

I hadn't ever seen it happen at my parents house. But then again, they hadn't made spaghetti much. "I don't know."

"Oh crap!" The white foam kept growing, like in one of those cheesy science fiction movies. The foam that ate the Birch House - it mushroomed up over the top of the pot and down over the sides, and we yelped as it hit the burners and began to sizzle and pop. I grabbed the pot and moved it. Alyssa turned down the burner. "Right, pasta makes foam, good to know. Too hot. Way too hot."