Chapter Three

chapter three

THE SOUP KITCHEN ALWAYS SMELLS WARM. I VOLUNTEER ONWednesdays, which is the same day Miles and his mom come by. It used to be all of us—him, his parents, my parents. But when Mom died, Dad and I didn’t come for a while, and when I said I wanted to start going back, he didn’t come back with me. Said he was worried about germs, but I think that’s just an excuse. Because it always feels like Mom is there, sort of. Maybe less so since Priyanka went to South Africa. It’s all a little emptier. Just me, Miles, and Jasmine now.

“Hi, Emmett,” says Izzy, who runs the soup kitchen, when I come in the back. She checks me in on her clipboard and hands me an apron. “Jasmine is cooking… I don’t know what. It smells delicious, though.”

“It always does,” I say, tying my apron on.

“Only on Wednesdays,” she says. “I’m going to put you in the kitchen today with Jasmine and Miles, okay?”

“Of course,” I say. “Wherever you need me.”

“That’s what I like to hear,” she says, and points me at the kitchen. I leave the staff room and head inside to the large industrial kitchen, where Jasmine is operating the six-burner stove like the pro she is. To one side of the room, her PA, Knight, is filming her on their phone. Next to her, at the counter, is Miles, chopping up carrots.

“Perfect,” Knight says, angling the shot so they’re getting both of them.

“And here comes another member of our family,” Jasmine says, smiling at me. “Grab a peeler and help Miles with carrots, Emmett. We have pounds to get through.”

“Sure. Hi, Knight.”

“Hey, Emmett,” Knight says. Knight is extremely cool. They’re a college junior who’s been Jasmine’s intern for the past two years, managing social media, appointments, all that stuff. Paid, of course. Knight is their nickname, from their having actually saved someone while riding a horse at a Renfaire one time—at least, that’s what they say. Their real name is Sam Aquilar, but they never go by it. They’re hot, too, in a daddy kind of way, always wearing a leather motorcycle jacket, and with a black beard and a dyed white streak in their hair. I wonder if, once I turn eighteen in a few months, Knight might be amenable to taking over Harrison’s current… well, I don’t want to call them responsibilities. Privileges. Though that might be too close for comfort, with them being such a big part of Jasmine’s life.

I contemplate it as I grab the peeler and start in on the large pile of carrots next to Miles.

“So how goes it with the great matchmaker?” Miles asks. “Did Clarke, social media maven, agree to being set up with someone who I’m not even sure has a KamerUhh account?”

“He’s coming with us to the Hodges exhibit,” I say. “But I didn’t lead with it being a setup. I said a bunch of us were going, including Harrison. Hopefully they’ll just hit it off. It’s best to let these things happen naturally.”

“Naturally,” Miles repeats, a condescending smirk playing on his lips.

“Photos!” Knight says, walking around to us. Jasmine pauses at the stove, turns, and puts her arm around Miles’s waist, smiling at the camera. I edge away. “You get in there, too, Emmett,” Knight says, waving me closer. Miles puts his arm around my waist and I lay mine on his shoulder, smiling. “Perfect. That is a trio of attractive people helping out.” They snap a photo and Jasmine goes back to the stove.

“Emmett, that’s enough carrots for now,” Jasmine says, glancing over. “Can you chop onions?”

“Sure thing,” I say, looking around the kitchen and finding the onions and preparing for the tears as I start to chop them.

“Knight, you can go for the day, or you can grab an apron,” Jasmine says. “That’s more than enough social media.”

“All right, I have a paper I need to work on, but don’t forget you have that call in half an hour to go over the cover for the next book.”

“You put an alarm on my phone,” Jasmine says, tapping her pocket. “I won’t forget.”

“There’s a new book?” I ask.

“Miles didn’t tell you?” Jasmine asks, looking at her son, confused. “It’s going to have photos of you in it. You were supposed to tell him for when we ask him and Henry to sign the release.” She bumps him with her waist.

“I was waiting,” Miles says, looking sheepish. “You only decided on the concept last week.”

“Family meals. Mixed families—not just me and Priyanka, southern and Indian, but your mom, too, and some of the stuff I learned from her—Jewish food. Those latkes we made together. And the stuff she and Priyanka used to do in college, and… there’s a whole culture of Jewish Indian food, too, but I didn’t want to get into that, felt appropriative. So just… family. My family. And that includes your mom, and you.”

She pauses as I stare at the onions, remembering the smell of my mom’s latkes suddenly. I realize I should say something.

“That’s all right, right?” Jasmine says softly. “If it’s not…”

“No, no, that’s…” I wipe my eyes from the onions. “That’ll be great. You can use whatever photos of me you want, of course. And I can see if I have any of my mom cooking.”

“I have plenty of those.”

“You do?” I ask. I don’t know why that feels a little like a punch. “Have I seen them?”

“Of course you have… but why don’t you come over sometime, help me pick the best ones, okay?”

The onions are strong enough that I have to turn away for a moment. “Sure,” I say. “Of course I’ll help.” It’s the nice thing to do.

We’re quiet as Jasmine adds some of the chopped carrots to the huge pot in front of her. The latkes they made together were a mix of all these different things, and they weren’t just for Hanukkah, they were something any of them could have made any time of year. Potato and onion, fried in oil, but also corn, zucchini, chili peppers, all mixed in there, with a little paneer to help bind them, and because Mom always said you had to eat dairy on Hanukkah to honor Judith. They had some cumin and turmeric, too, and grated garlic you had to squeeze when wrapped in paper towels, so it wasn’t too wet. They tasted like a hundred different things. I haven’t eaten them since she died. I didn’t think anyone else had, either.

“You don’t have to, you know,” Miles says to me, softly so his mom can’t hear. “You can tell her you don’t want it.”

I shake my head quickly. Not let her use a recipe she created with my mom because I’m sad I haven’t eaten it since she died? No. “It’s what she wants. I’m not so mean I wouldn’t let her… and I think it’ll be nice. To have that recipe out there. Photos of Mom…”

“You sure? I will tell her not to.”

“I’m sure,” I say. “Thank you. But you really don’t need to worry about me, Miles.”

“Right,” he says, not believing.

“All right, bye, everyone,” Knight says, waving at us as they head out the door. “Bye, Emmett. I’ll tag you in that photo.”

“Sure,” I say. “Feel free to DM me, too,” I say. “We’re going to an art show this weekend. You should join.”

“Oh man, I have concert tickets. Maybe next time, though?” They smile as they head out the door.

“Please do not flirt with my mom’s assistant,” Miles says, his voice a sigh.

“Like I said, don’t worry about me.” I smile up at him.

“You’re crying,” he says, suddenly very worried-looking. He turns on his mother. “Mom, I don’t think—”

“Miles,” I interrupt, like telling a dog to heel. “Onions. It’s just onions. I really don’t need your protecting.”

He looks over at me and nods, his face a little cool. “Right. Fine. I’m going to go work the serving line for a bit. The smell in here is intense.”

He puts down the carrots and walks out the swinging doors into the main room, where the food is served.

“Do you need me to move back to carrots?” I ask Jasmine.

“No, no, honey.” She’s looking out the doors, where Miles just went. “What got into him?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “Just… Miles.”

“I feel like he’s been so secretive lately. Is he seeing anyone? A girlfriend?”

“No,” I say. “He hasn’t had a real girlfriend since Bella in fourth grade. He did call himself a romantic last night, which came as a surprise to me.”

“He did take that girl to homecoming last year, what was her name?”

“Shereen. From debate club. He said they were just going as friends, though.” I wonder for a moment if Jasmine is onto something, if he has a secret girlfriend. He and Shereen are close but I’ve never seen a hint of anything romantic between them. Maybe they’re special friends like me and Harrison. No, he clearly doesn’t approve of that kind of thing. Maybe they were secretly dating but broke up and now he’s interested in someone else.… Are there any girls I’ve seen him hanging around with? Eating lunch with? No, it’s mostly just been me… oh no. Georgia. I shake my head, banishing the thought. He would never. I’m overthinking this.

Jasmine shakes her head, then turns to another pan on the stove. “Kids your age change a lot, you know. So quickly. I try to keep up but…”

“My father texted you last night when he hadn’t heard back from me in five minutes.”

“Oh, Emmett, he just worries, it’s not—”

“I know. I’m just saying—as parents go, I think you’re doing a great job. Whatever is going on with Miles is his to deal with.”

She smiles. “All right, so you’re saying I’m a good mom as long as I wait six minutes before texting someone when I haven’t heard back from him?”

“Essentially.”

She laughs. “You’re a good kid, Emmett.”

I turn and look at the big swinging doors. Through the circular windows in them, I can see Miles standing behind the table where the food is, offering to make a plate for anyone who needs assistance.

“I try to be nice is all,” I say, still watching.

When the food is done a while later, I go out and stand next to him, but we don’t speak. Instead, I help some of the elderly and food-insecure folks who come in, looking for food and, more often than not, some conversation. I like talking to them, which is mostly listening, hearing them talk about a dead spouse or child or how I look like someone. It doesn’t always make sense, they’re just happy to have someone to talk to. I ask questions and give them food and I can feel them relax, which somehow makes me relax—not because it’s easy or because I’m not doing what I should, but because there’s something warm inside me that makes me feel different than I do the rest of the time. Different than nice. Better than nice, whatever that is.

Beside me, Miles does the same thing. When the shift is over and the room clears out, I look at him, and he smiles and waves goodbye without saying anything. I wonder why he didn’t tell me about the cookbook. I wave goodbye back.

I decide not to mention the cookbook to Dad when I get home. I think that should be Jasmine’s job. He might not take it well, or he might sob, or love it, I’m really not sure. I love my father, but the truth is that since Mom died, it’s been hard sometimes. He’s not abusive, obviously, and there’s nothing I could want for. I’m blessed. I know that. It’s just his moods, his worrying. Sometimes it feels bigger. Sometimes it feels like there’s an invisible house collapsing that only he can see and only he can hold up, and if he doesn’t, we’ll all be crushed, but when I ask him to show me how I can help, how we can escape or prop up some plaster, he just starts going on about health, STDs, free radicals.… Sometimes it makes me scared. That’s why I want to be a doctor, I think. So I won’t be scared. Because I’ll understand it all. And then I can make sure he’s not scared. And make sure people like Mom don’t… well. That one is a little obvious, isn’t it?

Even before Mom died, sometimes he got kind of anxious about stuff—he spent a month researching bike helmets before he let me get one. I had the bike just sitting in the garage. I think he would have gone longer, but one day when I was asking if I could just get a helmet so he could teach me how to ride, he said no, and Mom wrapped her arms around him, tight, a tight long hug, and she said, “You can’t control the world, Henry. He has to live in it anyway.” And then he got me a helmet. He taught me how to ride that weekend. Wouldn’t take the training wheels off for a year, but I was riding. That’s how I think it is with him now—I’m living, just with training wheels, like the lie about sex and sometimes taking my blood. It’s weird, I know, but once, the tests did spot a case of bronchitis before symptoms started and I got some preemptive treatment, so it’s not all bad, really.

For dinner, Dad makes some kind of superfood pasta that tastes a little like granola but isn’t bad if I add enough pesto and drink enough green tea. He talks to me about work—a client of his who is trying to put together a nonprofit to create towers that pull pollution out of the sky. He loves the idea, says they sound like reverse volcanoes, but he’s sad they don’t look as magical as they sound. “They’re just towers, Emmett. You’d think they’d add some light effects or cover them in flowers so people understood what they’re doing but…” He sighs. “I suppose some things are just practical, and not beautiful.”

“Maybe,” I say.

“Let’s get some flowers from the garden,” he says when we’re done eating, and we go outside and carefully cut some primroses and hydrangeas and arrange them in vases around the house.

“Maybe the reverse volcanoes can’t be as beautiful as they should, but at least our house can,” Dad says, kissing me on the forehead as we place the last vase. “I have some papers to review, but I’ll be in my study.”

“Thanks, Dad,” I say, not sure why I’m thanking him. He goes to his study to work and I go to my room to study. I spend the rest of the night reviewing my notes and offering my opinions on jewelry design ideas to Taylor as she sends me sketches and photos. She’s spiraling, so worried about this application, and it’s my job to make sure she knows how talented she is so she can get it done in time, and get into FIT. I have no doubts about it. Just like I have no doubts about her and me staying friends even if we’re on opposite coasts.

She FaceTimes me to show off some new pieces, asking which look best together.

“Does this necklace go with these earrings… or these?” she asks, the camera switching between two sets—one black, one white.

“Show me the necklace with each?” I ask. “Put it next to them.”

She obliges, moving the necklace—a multistrand of red metal beads that she handcrafted to look like hearts, but every sixth one is cracking open, a white gold rose bursting out.

“I think the white,” I say. “They highlight the roses better.” I smile. “Mom loved white roses.” Dad says they bloomed for her.

“Oh,” she says, quickly turning the camera to her face. “I’m sorry, Emmett, I didn’t…”

“I like it,” I say quickly. “C’mon, don’t do the pity thing with me. You promised.”

She smiles, a little sad. “I did, you’re right. Sorry.”

She never knew my mom. When we were first becoming friends, and I told her about how my mom had died—recently then—I made her promise not to look at me the way the other students and teachers who knew had, like I was such a sad case, poor Emmett. I hated that. It was like cellophane over me, trapping me with my grief. Every “How you doing?” made me have to relive the pain. I couldn’t just move on. But Taylor promised, and treated me like any other kid, and that feeling of being normal… it let me be normal again.

“Think she would have liked the necklace, though?” Taylor asks, which for a moment makes my eyes get watery.

“Absolutely,” I say.

The camera flips back around and she arranges the necklace with the white earrings.

“She would have loved all your stuff, I think,” I say, staring at her hands putting the earrings here, then moving them slightly, draping the necklace differently. “She loved flowers, and you do so many flowers. She didn’t wear jewelry much, because it got in the way at work, but studs, she loved little stud earrings. So those white ones would be great.”

“But they’re not flowers,” Taylor says.

“That’s okay,” I say.

“No,” she says. “I have…” The phone gets put down on the desk, the video screen going dark, and I hear her rummaging through her various bins and boxes of pieces she’s made. “What was she like?” she calls as she rummages. “That doesn’t break the rules, right?”

“I’ve told you,” I say, staring at the photo of Mom on my desk. She’s got blond hair, cut very short, but fashionable with longer bangs, and black cat-eyed glasses. Her eyes are bright green. She looks a lot like me, but her chin narrower, pointy, like a pixie. And her smile is so bright and wide. No one could have a smile like that. “She was smart. She always talked about how I wasn’t done growing and gave me chances to redo things so that I could grow better. She was forgiving, I guess, but not, like… soft. Just believed in second chances. Growing better. Becoming your best self by twenty-five, I guess. And she had a great laugh.”

“I found them,” Taylor says, picking up the phone again, the video now focusing on a new pair of earrings—white-gold roses, just like the ones in the hearts. “I’d almost forgotten about these. They were the first thing I made that I really… like, made. It wasn’t just an assignment. Think they go better?”

“They’re perfect,” I say. “My mom would love them.”

“Your mom sounds so great,” Taylor says, flipping the camera around. “She can even help me out, and I never knew her. Oh no.” She sees my face. “I’m sorry!”

“What?” I reach up and touch my face. A few stray tears have leaked out. “Oh, don’t worry about it. Just allergies.”

“Emmett, you don’t have allergies.” She smirks. “It’s okay to cry when missing your mom.”

“I didn’t even know I was doing it.” I wipe the tears off so my face shows no sign of them.

“Okay…,” she says, sounding like she doesn’t believe me. “Well, thank you, Emmett’s mom, for helping me pick this set out. It’s perfect.”

I laugh. “She would have loved you, too,” I say, and the moment it leaves my mouth it feels like a punch in the stomach, because Mom never knew one of my closest friends. I smile. “What else do you have for the portfolio?”

“Oh, well, I have this messy chaotic multistrand that’s like all different flowers.…”

We go over her picks for a while more before she says she feels like she’s done enough.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she says. “Thank you again. I’m going to give you the best thank-you!”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Andre, West’s brother.”

“Taylor, I—”

“Night, Emmett!” She waves into the camera, smiling and ignoring me, before hanging up. I put the phone down and laugh.

I don’t know why she’s so worried about it, or why she thinks setting me up with West’s brother will help, but… well, he is good-looking, and he is at Stanford. It might not be a bad idea to get to know him better.

It’s a shame about Harrison’s tutoring sessions, though. With midterms, I could use the relaxation, the hormones that make your body calmer, more focused. But none of that is worth having a boyfriend. And setting him up with Clarke is the nice thing to do. He deserves a worthy boyfriend and Clarke is perfect. I’m actually excited for the group hang on Saturday, seeing how they’ll click, discover things about each other, flirt. As long as Miles doesn’t get in the way, anyway. I can see him doing that, just to show me up, tell me I was wrong.

But no, my plan will work. I will make it work. That’s what I tell myself as I get ready for bed. Everything will work out perfectly.

After I’ve brushed my teeth and washed my face and I’m about to lie down and sleep, I’m struck by a sudden urge and go downstairs, outside into the flower garden. Dad tends it every day, and it smells almost overwhelming as I get close to it, every kind of flower that can bloom letting out a strong perfume, every petal reaching out to touch me as I pass by. It’s almost a hedge maze of flowers. But I find the ones I’m looking for, the white roses. They bloom all year round for some reason. Southern California, I guess. I clip one from the stem, carefully, with Dad’s pruners, and bring it inside, finding a small vase for it, and then taking it upstairs, where I put it on my desk. It smells so sweet and helps me fall asleep quickly.

Thursday goes by quickly, except for lunch, when Georgia announces she thinks John has a boyfriend in Paris but won’t tell her about it.

“I’m happy for him, of course, a French boyfriend is very hot, but it just feels like he’s pulling away,” she tells me very sincerely. I don’t know why she’s decided to make me the victim of this conversation. “Having experiences without me. Doing things I haven’t done.”

“So get a boyfriend,” I say. “Or girlfriend.”

“I don’t want one just because John has one.” She sighs. “I want someone I actually like. I just feel… like I’m missing out, you know?” I look around for help, but Harrison and Miles aren’t sitting with us today and so the only other people at the table are Taylor and West, who are lost in their own world, giggling at something on his phone.

“I’m sorry you feel that way,” I say, not sure what my role here is. “But I’m sure he’ll tell you all about it when he’s ready.”

“We used to tell each other everything.” She sighs again and looks down at her own phone. “His last photo of him is cropped. There’s a hand on his shoulder. He had to know I’d see it, right?” She holds up her phone. There’s John, this time in front of Versailles, a day trip. He’s wearing a pendant in the shape of a piano key. “And that necklace is new,” she says. “I wonder if it’s a gift?”

“Let’s not leap to conclusions,” I say, trying to reassure her. Georgia is right, though, there’s a hand on his arm, like someone pulling him close, but they’ve been cropped out. “Maybe it’s not a boyfriend, just a friend he doesn’t want to tell you about yet,” I say. “The hand is in a black glove. Could be a woman?”

“Like he has a new best friend?” She looks horrified. “I hadn’t thought of that. Oh god.”

I think she’s about to cry. I sigh. “No, no, just a friend, like, someone he likes; I don’t know why I said a woman. Like a boy, who is a friend, but he’s not telling you because he doesn’t want to jinx it, you know?” I let my mouth twist something out. It sounds reasonable. Though I wouldn’t fault him for finding a new Parisian bestie.

“Oh.” She nods, the tears not rolling. “That makes sense.” She sniffs, probably for effect. “Yes, you’re right. He likes a guy but doesn’t want to jinx it. Or get me too excited. You know how I get overly excited about things. Romance, couples.” She looks over at Taylor and West. “I do love love.”

“Sure,” I say, taking a sip of my pomegranate-flavored seltzer. “Who doesn’t love love?”