The Secret Ingredient Read online

  When the fillets come out of the oven I taste one, and since I barely have to chew the fish, I know I’ve done my job. I pair it with butternut squash and some sautéed spinach. One thing about spinach a lot of people don’t know is if you salt the leaves before you sauté them, they become infused. There’s nothing worse than bland spinach.

  At about eight-thirty, Bell tells me there’s a guest for me at table eight. I go out and see Theo, already eating my salmon. Sitting next to him is a boy who I assume is Timothy. He looks like a plump version of Theo and has a scar above his left eye. He seems to be very contained at the moment, but he has an electric energy about him, as if his whole body is buzzing with nerves.

  I sit down with them, and Theo compliments my dish by just pointing at it with his mouth full and rolling his eyes.

  “Thanks.” I turn toward Timothy, who smiles wildly at me.

  “I love your fish,” he says, his mouth also full.

  “Thank you.”

  Theo reaches over and dabs at Timothy’s mouth with his own napkin, and I melt inside. How lucky is Timothy to have Theo for a brother? I feel my face flush, and I excuse myself.

  Later, from the kitchen window, I see Theo helping Timothy with his dessert, and again, the gesture is unbearably sweet. Bell comes up behind me and snaps me out of my trance.

  “He’s a good guy.”

  “Yes, he is. It’s weird, every time I see him I feel more and more like I’ve known him forever.”

  Bell smiles at me. “That’s a great feeling to have.”

  He’s right, and I am happy, but it’s not enough. I still need to find the missing piece, my secret ingredient. Is it my mother? I feel like finding my mom might solve everything, but I just can’t do it yet. Because what if it doesn’t? And as long as meeting her is in the future, like Theo said, anything is possible.

  When I get home, I call Lola to check in. She sounds sad and frustrated, and we talk for an hour and a half, until we are pretty much asleep. I wonder if there’s such a thing as an easy life and complete happiness. If Lola doesn’t have it, I don’t think anyone does.

  CHAPTER 17

  I’m getting ready to go over to Theo’s place for the first time on Sunday morning when I hear a knock at the door, followed by a sneeze. I know it’s a stranger because the knock sounds very formal. And anyway, at our house, people usually just walk in. I go downstairs and open the door. Standing there are two men in suits, one of them sweating slightly.

  “Hello. Is Mr. Reese here?” says the unsweaty one.

  “No, but I’m his daughter. Can I help with something?”

  The men give each other a look, and I immediately translate it as: not an issue for children.

  “Could you just leave this card with him and tell him to call me by the end of the day tomorrow? It’s very important.”

  Ever since things started happening this summer, I’ve felt more fearless, and I find myself talking before I even decide what to say. “How much does he owe? For the mortgage.”

  “I’m afraid we can’t discuss that with you.”

  “But that’s what it’s about, right?”

  They don’t say anything, which I take as a yes. I thank them as politely as possible and go inside to call Bell. He’s not at the restaurant and doesn’t answer his cell. I return the safe-deposit box key to its place inside Bell’s desk, then go to his bedroom and put the man’s card on his nightstand.

  As I leave for Theo’s, I feel pretty great, considering I may not even have a house to come home to soon. It’s like, whenever I think about Theo, the world looks brighter, and there’s a bounce in my step.

  I find Theo’s place and walk up to it. It’s a small gray house off Sunset that could use a paint job. Theo answers the door, then leads me into his room, which is filled with cycling tools and posters from the Tour de France. I keep stealing looks at his legs—they’re shaved, which is weird but cool, and they’re definitely ripped. As he shows me his movie collection, his fish, and some old photos, I feel important, like not everyone gets let into Theo’s world. He looks at me with his green eyes shining, like I’m worthy, maybe even beautiful. He kisses me again, and it’s not like other boys’ kisses. He’s slow about it. It gives me this feeling of something growing out of me, like a flower opening toward the sun.

  * * *

  “The great thing is,” Theo says, when he finally leads me back downstairs, “I found Timothy a caretaker, someone who specializes in his type of case. She’s amazing. Her name is Hope. She’s dropping him off now.”

  Watching Theo and how cute he is, I can see why his aunt encouraged him to try acting. His mouth forms an odd shape when he talks, and his eyes are super expressive. He’s different, in a good way. But looks are only half the package.

  A sweet-looking middle-aged lady brings Timothy inside and shakes Theo’s hand. She isn’t expecting me, and neither is Timothy, who starts fidgeting and looking everywhere but at me.

  “T, this is Olivia—remember? The girl from the restaurant.”

  “You’re really really really really pretty,” Timothy says. His voice is loud and monotone. “You want to play checkers?”

  “Sure,” I say, thinking, How hard could that be?

  As Theo repairs one of the tubes for his bike wheel, Timothy and I start playing checkers. Not knowing his exact intelligence level, I start to let him win. About halfway through the game, his expression, until now open and sweet, turns sour. The corners of his lips turn down and he squints a little. I can tell I’ve done something wrong.

  “I can play checkers,” Timothy says.

  “I know,” I say, feeling my cheeks flush, wanting to crawl under a rock.

  Then, in a flat, low tone that doesn’t even sound like his voice, Timothy says, “I’m not retarded.”

  A cloud comes over the room. Theo looks up from his bike wheel and says, “Easy, T. No one said you were retarded.”

  We start to play more, and all of a sudden Timothy’s breathing really heavily. Then he picks up a checker piece and puts it in his mouth.

  “See,” he says, his words garbled, “I’m a wee tard.”

  I reach out to grab it, like he’s a baby who might choke, which makes it worse, and he spits the checker piece right in my face. It hurts. He starts moaning a little, and rocking back and forth. I act like it’s no big deal, because that’s what you do in situations where it’s totally a big deal. Theo comes over and quickly leads Timothy out of the room.

  I’m not sure how long I’m alone, but it’s long enough for the tears to completely dry on my face. When Theo comes back, he brings me tea. The cup has a lipstick mark from his mother on it, but it doesn’t matter. Theo’s gesture makes me want to curl up in his arms and stay there for days.

  * * *

  Later, Theo asks me if I will make something from what’s in his kitchen.

  “You have free rein,” he says.

  There’s not much there. Lots of cereal and granola bars. I find a bag of black beans and two apples. I boil the beans with the apples and end up making burritos with (cringe) American cheese. He loves it, and Timothy, who has joined us at last, does too, the checkers incident seemingly forgotten. As I watch Theo with Timothy, Theo comes into focus. It’s like when you see a house from the beginning of a long driveway get closer and closer as you drive up, and eventually you can actually see what’s going on inside. Last year in the restaurant, Theo was always cool and smooth, like he hadn’t a care in the world, but that was so far from the truth.

  He seems to really appreciate everything in life, including Timothy, even though he’s a lot of work. I can feel that he really likes me. I’ve never had this kind of intense interest from a boy before, unless you count Ryan Smith writing a notebook full of poems for me in fifth grade. I really don’t know how to act. I never watch TV except for cooking shows, and not even movies, aside from Bell’s favorites, and those are mainly black-and-white or involve singing and dancing, not making out. Except for some m
ore contemporary books I’ve checked out from the library that have date scenes, I have no guide, no rules to live by. I suppose this is where having a mother, not just a nurturing Enrique, would come in handy, but in my utter naiveté, I just act like myself, the only way I know how, and it seems to work, especially in the kitchen. Bell’s chef says that there is no one way to cook something. It’s about intuition. I guess being with someone is the same way. When you spend time with someone, you have to trust yourself, give in to the moment. And for the first time, I’m beginning to trust myself, to feel worthy of the attention of a boy like Theo.

  I’m starting to understand what Enrique described when he was talking about Bell. That unseen safety net, an underlying contentment that feels like a mild drug taking the edge off. Timothy gives me a big smile, as if he knows what I’m thinking about. Maybe he does. And suddenly, I feel like I have the strength to tell Bell and Enrique about Jane Armont.

  But when I get home, my dads are running out the door.

  “Come on! They’re letting Jeremy out!”

  We jump into our old Honda, and Enrique lets out a yip of victory.

  “The public defender proved he didn’t steal the truck,” Bell says. “Jeremy signed papers, and the lawyer got ahold of them and found the guy who sold Jeremy the truck to confirm it. Jeremy still has to go to court, but he’s free.”

  Both of my dads look so happy. I can’t tell them about Jane now. Instead I sit, content, a slight smile lingering on the corners of my lips.

  The precinct is eerily quiet. Bell goes up to sign some documents, and Enrique puts his arm around me and squeezes.

  Five minutes later, my brother comes out. He’s mainly intact but looks tired and a little shaken. My smile diminishes.

  We take him to a diner, where he scarfs down a three-egg omelet.

  “And just ’cause I know it’s what you’re thinking, nothing happened,” Jeremy says. “I was in a cell with some guy who set his wife on fire.”

  “That’s comforting,” Bell says.

  “And I had to take a dump in front of him.”

  “Hey!” Enrique scolds.

  Then Jeremy gets all serious. “Sorry, you guys. I was trying to help.”

  “I know,” Enrique says. “We’re just glad you’re out.”

  I don’t say anything, and I can’t really eat. When Jeremy gets up to go to the bathroom, I follow him and stop him in the back hallway.

  He turns to face me. “What is it, Ol?”

  “You have to grow up, Jeremy,” I blurt out. “You have to learn to think things through. The ice cream truck wasn’t a good idea. It just made things worse.” I feel myself gaining steam, like I might just slap him across the face.

  “I know, dude. I screwed up.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s all you ever do!” I want to keep yelling, but I really can’t look at his face another second, so I turn around and go back to the table. A few minutes later, Jeremy comes back but doesn’t look me in the eye.

  “Listen, Jeremy,” Bell says, “no more ice cream trucks, okay? The restaurant is picking up. We’ll work everything out. In the meantime, just do your demo deal and work on your music.”

  “Shit!” Jeremy says, almost spitting out his last bite. “I was supposed to meet the songwriter chick. I’m so screwed.”

  All of a sudden, I go from the angriest I’ve ever been to sister mode. I guess that’s how it is with family. You forgive them for things you’d never forgive anyone else for. And no matter how hurt I still feel, I want the best for Jeremy.

  “Why don’t I go with you, and we’ll explain together?” I offer.

  “That’s a good idea,” Bell says. “Enrique, you and I have to go deal with the bankers.”

  The waitress drops off our check, and Bell leaves some cash.

  “Well, this has been real,” Jeremy says.

  “Nothing like an after-jail family get-together,” Bell adds.

  Enrique tousles my hair and says, “At least we know Ollie won’t be breaking the law anytime soon.”

  If they only knew I already kind of did.

  * * *

  Jeremy and I take a bus to Manhattan Beach, where the “songwriter chick” has an office. Most of the way, we don’t talk. Right before we get there, he turns to me with tears in his eyes.

  “You’re right, Ol. All I ever do is screw up. But this meeting, this track, it’s going to pan out. I just know it. My heart’s in it.”

  “Your heart has never been the problem. It’s that pea brain.” But I don’t sound angry when I say it.

  Jeremy laughs a little, wipes at his eyes, then grabs my shoulder.

  “Forgive me?”

  “I’ll work on it,” I say.

  Even though I’ve never been there, the place seems very New York to me. It’s a vast, open, industrial space with offices along the edges, which look more like hip living rooms. The songwriter’s name is Penelope, but, as she tells us, everyone calls her Pen. She doesn’t seem to care about Jeremy standing her up last night, and as he starts to explain the reason, I cut him off. She doesn’t need to know he was in jail, right? Or maybe that would add to his rockstar allure. Jeremy looks at me gratefully, but I can tell he’s kind of embarrassed that I’m saving the day.

  After a few moments Pen tells Jeremy she has a song idea she wants to run by him, and looks at me like, You can leave now. I tell them I’ll be just outside, in the “communal space,” and make my exit. I sit down on a plastic red chair that looks like a giant tooth.

  Through a large rectangular window, I see the ocean in the distance, the sun glistening off it, and a few random surfers riding the waves. After the Stingray Trauma, I’ve always treated the ocean like some sort of moving painting on a wall. Something to glance at. But now I actually contemplate it. I imagine myself on one of those surfers’ boards, riding the curl of the wave. It must feel like flying.

  A woman walks in with her arm around a girl who is obviously her daughter. Their stride is similar, and they have the same nose. The girl, although she’s clearly excited, is acting like her mother is driving her crazy. For some reason, it reminds me of the day when the most popular girl in fifth grade, Jewel Eaton, came up and started talking to me. She even commented on my hand-me-down sweater. She told me we were destined to be friends. At the time, I didn’t even know what destined meant, but I went with it. We hung out during recess, and at the end of the day, when we said goodbye, she said, “I think it’s so cool that you have two dads. Can I come over sometime and meet them?”

  Jewel lost interest in me pretty quickly. Perhaps she found another fad to cling on to. I was merely her project during “Child of Gay Parents” week. Anyway, even though I was sad that my friendship with Jewel was so short-lived, it was the first time I realized that different can be good. It wasn’t until school that I understood having two dads is actually cool. Of course, there were some kids who teased me, and Jeremy—he got the worst of it. But I was lucky to learn at a young age that diversity is something to be celebrated. Even though I’ve never walked around with a rainbow flag or anything, I’ve always been proud of my two dads.

  But now, looking at the girl and her mom waiting for her singing audition or whatever it is, I feel the absence I’ve been noticing lately even more acutely, like some tiny pinprick in my heart. My blood is pumping, but my breath keeps stopping short.

  I can hear Jeremy and Pen working on the song, and it seems like they’re on a roll, so I decide to take the bus back to Hollywood, and call Lola from a pay phone to see if she wants to hang out and can come pick me up. Turns out she’s just glad to get out of the house. I wait on the corner of Hollywood and Vine, where there’s a smattering of tourists, gift shops, and crazy street people. Everyone thinks Hollywood is some glamorous place where all your dreams come true, but the irony is, it’s one of the saddest places in the world. It has a sense of desperation and tackiness that’s almost tangible. The Hollywood Hills are different—besides going to a pool there with Enriq
ue sometimes, I also once went to a party at one of Bell’s friends’ homes, and I stared at the view for hours—the sprawl of city lights and a small triangle of reflective ocean in the distance.

  Lola pulls up and I get in. As we head east on the boulevard, I ask her how she is, but she doesn’t want to talk about it anymore, so I tell her about Jeremy getting out. I look out the window, picturing Rose staring loss, tragedy, and war in the eye. Lola can sense I’m thinking about something.

  “What is it, Livie?”

  “Do you think I take risks?”

  She gives me an odd look but doesn’t say anything, which is a first for Lola.

  “I mean, you’re always the first one to, like, take risks and put yourself out there. But I feel like I’m too passive, you know?”

  Lola presses the gas to get through a yellow light.

  “See? When you see yellow, you speed up. I would have slowed down.”

  “Well, clearly this isn’t about driving techniques. What are you getting at?”

  “You might think I’m crazy, but the notes in the cookbook, they’re coming more and more alive for me. This woman Rose, I think she was sleeping with her friend Eloise while their husbands were at war.”

  “Maybe you have gone a little mad.”

  “Anyway, the thing is, this woman was, like, super courageous, it seems. I keep delaying finding my mother because I want it to be perfect, which I know it probably won’t be.”

  “You’ll do it when you’re ready. You’re right to think it might not be so great. Your mother gave you up, and there was a reason for that. But just remember—even though she carries your genes, she doesn’t define you.”