Book Covers

Chapter 32

Charlotte O'Brien

There was a whack as my father slammed down the wooden spoon he had been using to stir the bouillabaisse soup which he was trying to perfect. We had first tasted the dish on a trip to France two summers ago, and since then, my dad has ravaged the Internet and every French cookbook he can get his hands on, copying down the recipes then trying them, trying to produce a soup as good as the one we had in France. This was a new recipe, so he hadn't found the right one yet; my mom liked to whisper to me that maybe it wasn't the recipe, but the cook, but that wasn't the problem either. My dad was an excellent cook, and I liked to think that that stemmed from his background in chemistry and pharmaceuticals. If you can mix together chemicals in a lab, you can make bouillabaisse. In theory.

I lifted my head up from my math homework that Donovan had had copied in Braille; the corners of my mouth were tugging up even as I pressed my lips together, trying to subdue it. "I can't believe that Mother has never told you that the only man she'd ever leave you for is Mr. Rochester from Jane Eyre by Charlotte Brontë." I tapped some numbers on my calculator, and the electronic voice beeped out each number, and then the answer. Ever so often Tyler, who was sitting next to me at the island, would tap a random key on the calculator, log, cosine, and minus, and the voice would speak; it was like he wanted to make sure that I didn't forget that he was there. Even without the yakking buttons, there was no way I could forget Tyler's presence. It felt like a miniature sun, right there in the middle of our kitchen.

"Well, she didn't! I feel lied to. Have I been lied to? Has our whole twenty-year marriage been a sham?" My father yelled dramatically. There was a thunk followed by several more. He must have been cutting up the potatoes he just finished peeling a few minutes ago. The tomatoes, onion, and garlic sizzled in the pot on the stove.

I laughed outright, a grin breaking across my face. Tyler immediately came closer, his energy heating me like a warm towel straight out of the dryer. I blinked, my mind momentarily going blank as I basked in the feeling. I pulled myself back to my father, back to Jane Eyre and bouillabaisse. "It's not like she committed grand theft auto and didn't tell you, Dad! And be glad that Mr. Rochester is fictional, or else she might have left you for him when she realized that you couldn't make a proper bouillabaisse." I replied to him, as my phone across the island beeped, indicating a text message. I ignored it, thinking it must be Ric and that we talked enough on Tuesday.

I didn't know what to think about Ric Legrand, with his honeyed and apologetic words as well as his grabbing hands. It seemed too cliché, too stereotypical, for the guy to fall in love with his childhood friend, the one he experienced growth spurts, gawkiness, and awkward phases with. I felt like I was in one of those stupid teenage movies that Braylynn always put on when she came over, movies with characters whose voices sounded like bubblegum: too sweet and plastic. I didn't want it to be like this, for our story to end with a dramatic kiss in the rain or at prom as the music crescendoed in the background. I just wanted to sit platonically on his floor while he strummed his guitar, then leave without any physical contact. Because, if I was being honest with myself, I couldn't imagine myself kissing Ric in the rain or in the middle of a crowded dance floor at prom. The only person I could envision myself doing that with had a southern accent, and I wouldn't allow myself to think about that for too long.

There was a louder thunk, and I could imagine my dad chopping more forcefully than before, his face screwed up in mock anger. "And you think Mr. Rochester can make bouillabaisse? Hm? He was a male in the nineteenth century! You know what they could do? Nothing!" He declared theatrically, his voice loud in the empty house. Mother wasn't home yet, so there wasn't the melody of her classical music to fill the silence that always seemed to settle on our house that was too big for only three people. My phone beeped again.