Undercover As Geek

The Preparation

Noah waves the floppy tortilla in my face. Involuntarily, I crinkle my nose and shrink back.

"This is not a taco," he says, pushing the flour based contraption farther into my comfort zone.

"Gee," I say, and shove his hand out of the way. "I get it, I get it, okay?!"

"Do you?" Noah counters and wiggles the tortilla in my face. "Tacos have hard shells. Not-- I don't know-- blubber." His shakes the flat bread for emphasis. I roll my eyes.

"I get it! And I have some of the hard ones, anyway!" I peek at Noah over the top of the tortilla. Although he isn't smiling, his eyes are glittering mischievously. To surprise him, I leap at the soft disc in his hand and tear a bite out of it with my mouth, snarling.

Noah yelps and releases the tattered piece of food. He gives me a ridiculous look and I begin to laugh with tortilla shreds hanging from my teeth. It isn't long before he joins in, shaking his head at me.

My mother walks in the kitchen and stops short when she sees me and Noah. Her eyes especially linger on the savage way I'm ingesting nutrients. Hurriedly, I spit them out and approach her. Silent, Noah follows a few feet behind.

Even though she is barely past forty-five, my mother seems older. She has small wrinkles beneath her eyes and all too little around her mouth, slightly graying brown hair, and thin limbs that hang from her frame. She is beautiful when she smiles, though, but these moments of splendor are dwindling as of late. Right now, the left corner of her mouth is twitching as her blue eyes bounce between me and Noah. I place a hand on her shoulder and offer her a smile of my own.

"Hey, Mom," I say. "This is Noah. He and I are in the U... Same club together." My mother gazes at Noah warily. Noah gives a polite smile and holds out his hand. Startled, Mom shakes it, and I notice that her eyebrows have lifted with slight approval.

"It's nice to meet you, Mrs. Bradshaw," Noah says.

My mom nods. "Nice to meet you, too," she mumbles.

"We need to make hard tacos--" I say and glance at Noah, who decides not to respond-- "for the picnic next week. Is it okay if we make them in here?" My attention returns to my mother, who is still regarding Noah cautiously.

After an excruciating silence, she turns to me and actually smiles. "Sure, honey," she says brightly. "But mind you"-- she wags a finger at me-- "I'll be in the other room!"

I am blushing furiously as my mom exits the kitchen. Expectant, I wait for Noah to comment. But instead, he turns abruptly and returns to the counter, where the open bag of tortillas remain after their earlier confrontation. My face returning to its normal shade, I walk up beside him. While my house isn't very new, my father had remodeled the kitchen recently, driven by his wife's excessive complaints. The countertops were cobbled marble, the refrigerator was a chic black, and the rest of the room reminded me of a type of commercial. I wasn't necessarily in love with the decor, mainly because I hardly ever used the kitchen in the first place. So it took me a few minutes to hunt around and find the hard tacos that I had bought a couple of days ago in one of bottom cabinets.

I stand up from my crouching position to discover Noah quietly brushing off my half-chewed tortilla pieces into the trash can. When he finished, he went back to his place beside the counter, ignorant of my surprised and appreciative observation.

I toss the bag of taco shells in front of him and push the lettuce, beans, sauce, and other fillings beside it. "There," I say. "Hard shells. Happy?"

Noah grins. "Very." He picks up the shredded cheese and pinches a few between his fingertips. "Have you ever made tacos before, Kennedy?"

I roll my eyes. "Of course."