Paula Stokes - The Art of Lainey

“Why do you give me so much crap about that commercial? There’s nothing wrong with Hazelton Forest.” I pluck a black olive from the salad station. “Half the kids we go to school with will end up there.”

The smile fades from Micah’s face. “I wish my mom worked at a college so I could go for free.”

“Sometimes I wish mine didn’t so I could go someplace else,” I reply. “Hazelton Forest’s soccer team is only Division III. They don’t play anyone good. I want to go to a Division I college but I’d need to land an athletic scholarship to pay for it.”

Micah sighs. “I’ll be lucky to afford community college. I could save all of my pay for ten years and not even come close to paying for where I really want to go.”

I imagine Micah and his mohawk strolling down the ivy-lined paths of Princeton or Harvard, a sorority girl on each arm. I hold back a snide comment. “Where’s that?” I toss the olive up in the air and catch it in my mouth.

“The CIA.”

“With tattoos and a mohawk? Aren’t spies supposed to blend in?”

“Not that CIA, dummy,” Micah says. “The Culinary Institute of America. Their pastry chef program is one of the best in the country.”

I raise an eyebrow. “You want to make pies for a living? Seriously?”

Micah grabs a walnut from the salad station. He flicks it in my direction. Direct hit. It pings right off the blotchy tan spot on my forehead. “Pastry chefs make all kinds of stuff. Sorry, not everybody wants to be a big, badass EMT like your loser ex-boyfriend.”

I pull my bangs down and glance around, considering my options for ammunition. “He is not a loser.”

Micah grins. “Keep telling yourself that.”

My hand reaches out for the nearest thing I can grab and flings it in his direction. It’s a half full measuring cup of flour and it ends up everywhere—the counter, the floor, all up and down Micah’s T-shirt and baggy chef pants.

A white cloud hangs in the air. Micah coughs from the dust. “You little . . .” he starts. But he can’t even finish his sentence because he’s laughing too hard.

I’m laughing too. “Dude, you’re such a cokehead. I’m totally going to tell my dad.”

Micah tosses a raw egg in my direction. I reach out and catch it without it cracking. “Ha. Is that all you got?”

“Actually, no.” He lobs another egg at me. And then another. And then one bounces off me and cracks onto the kitchen floor. Micah advances on me, pantomiming like he’s going to slam an egg onto the top of my head, but I wrap my hand around his wrist and use all my strength to push his arm away from me.

He tries to wriggle free of my grasp but can’t. “Mr. Mitchell,” he hollers at no one in particular. “Tell your daughter to stop groping me.”

“You wish.”

“No I don’t.” Micah points to my arm up against his. “I’m not into girls who are orange.”

I push Micah back away from me. “Shut up. At least I’m not whiter than this flour.”

“At least I don’t look like I was made in a lab,” he says. “Good thing I’m not allergic to yellow number 5.”

“Good thing you’re not allergic to eggs.” I smash one against his pyramid tattoo.

“Oh, you are a dead woman.” Micah grabs me around the neck and bends me into a headlock.

“Stop,” I beg as he starts to drag me across the prep kitchen to where an entire carton of eggs is waiting. My foot lands in a smear of broken egg goo and we both nearly end up on the floor as my leg slides out from under me.

Cal reappears from the dining room. “What the hell are you two doing?” he barks.

His voice draws my dad out of the manager’s office. Micah releases his hold on me. Dad’s jaw drops a little when he sees the mess. Micah and I exchange a look.

And then a curl of smoke wafts from the oven.

My dad sniffs. “Is something burning?”

“Shit.” Micah yanks open the oven and pulls out a pan of three quiche. They’re black. Not brown. Not just burnt. Black. He reaches out to touch the edge of the nearest one and the delicate fluted crust crumbles into ash.

“Ohmygod.” I have to bite back a giggle. I’ve never seen anything so charred in my entire life.

My dad looks from me to Micah. “Please tell me that’s some kind of experiment and those are chocolate.”

Micah deflates a little as he shakes his head and I immediately feel guilty. It’s a well-known fact I can be a slacker, but Micah actually has a reputation around Denali as a hard worker. He might need a recommendation from my dad someday and here I am messing things up for him.

“It’s my fault,” I say. “I’ve been bothering him.”

Both Micah and my dad turn to look at me with surprise.

“I’ll get this place cleaned up and then head back out front.” I walk to the end of the prep line and grab a broom.

Micah brushes the loose flour from his clothes. Then he pulls a rag from his back pocket, wets it in the sink, and then bends down to mop up the broken egg. “Sorry, Mr. Mitchell,” he says. “It won’t happen again.”

“Good.” My dad polishes his glasses on his shirt. “I’ll grab more quiche shells from the freezer.”

“Sorry,” I mumble as soon as my dad disappears into the walk-in cooler.

“Not your fault,” Micah says. “I should have been paying attention.”

I put the broom back in the corner and head back to the counter as Micah and my dad start re-prepping the quiche.

I make drinks and serve pastries for the next few hours. For once, work doesn’t seem so bad. It’s actually kind of fun trying to keep up on all the orders while Bianca works the register and buses tables. A couple times I catch myself smiling for no reason. I guess there’s nothing like an impromptu food fight to take the edge off a busy day.

My dad pokes his head out of the back a couple times, probably to make sure I’m not destroying the dining room too.

“Don’t worry, Dad.” I set a pair of mango-blueberry smoothies on the far end of the counter where people pick up their drinks. “We got this.”

When things slow down a little bit, I fill Bianca in on the baseball date. She’s still working on her end of things with the spying and doesn’t have anything to report yet.

“So you’re feeling better?” she asks, her eyes dark with concern. “And hanging out with Micah is still going okay?”

“He’s actually kind of fun,” I admit. “And yeah, I’m feeling better. But even though our plan has been distracting in a good way, I’m still not any closer to winning back Jason. He hasn’t even called.” I wipe at a smudgy spot on the counter. “Maybe Micah was right. Maybe bringing a date to the baseball game was all kinds of obvious.”

Maybe Jason is laughing at me right now.

“Nah. Jason is pretty dense,” Bianca says. “Just give it time. Wars aren’t fought in a day.”

I don’t run into Micah again until a few minutes after six p.m. when we’re clocking out. “Sorry again about the quiche,” I say, waiting behind him as he punches his ID number into the red-and-silver time clock.

“Don’t flatter yourself.” The machine beeps and he scoots out of the way for me. “You’re not that distracting. I just forgot them is all.”

“I don’t think my dad was too mad.” I key in my numbers and the machine logs me out. Micah and I head toward the exit.

“He actually got me thinking.” Micah pushes open the glass door, holding it behind him for me. “Chocolate quiche might not be a bad idea.”

“Sounds kind of gross.” The summer heats wraps around me like a soggy blanket as I step outside. How can it be so hot this late in the day? A trickle of sweat forms at my hairline and threatens to run down my forehead. I look over at Micah as we head across the parking lot. He’s managed to get his black-on-black wardrobe covered with flour again, all the way down to his studded bracelet. “You’re like this punk-rock baker,” I say, shaking my head.

“What’s wrong with that?”

“A bit of a contradiction, don’t you think?” I wipe the sweat from my forehead, running my hand over my hair to tame the flyaways. I can feel it starting to frizz.

Micah looks hard at me for a moment as we reach our cars. The sun catches his hazel eyes, reflecting ribbons of green and gold through the warm summer air. “Most people are.”

I can’t shake Micah’s words on the drive home. I’m active and sporty. I hang out with active and sporty people. I like active and sporty things. I’m not a contradiction. I run through everyone close to me: my family, Bianca, Kendall, Jason. They all make sense too. What you see is what you get. Most people are not contradictions.

My purse vibrates against my hip as I park the car and head into my house. Just the act of having to fish my phone out from beneath a pack of tissues and a cracked compact feels weird. I used to carry it around everywhere in my hand. That was back when I was always expecting a text from Jay.

It’s Kendall. She hangs up before I can answer. I call her back right away before she can compose a scathing message accusing me of ignoring her. Kendall does not like to be ignored.

“Elaine Mitchell,” she hisses as soon as the phone connects. “What the hell is going on with you?”

I feign innocence. “What do you mean?”

“Were you even going to tell me that you and my brother broke up? What happened?”

This is pretty much the freak-out moment I was expecting. Kendall also does not like change.