Stir Me Up Page 12

  “Of course it’s real. The human brain is phenomenally powerful.”

  “Says the anatomy student.”

  “Do you have enough meds for it?” I ask. “For pain?”

  “Yeah, but they’re narcotics. So...”

  “So you let yourself suffer?”

  “Better than being hooked on drugs.”

  I frown—glad he’s finally talking to me, but worried about what he’s saying. We’re both silent for some time, then his head turns. “You have company.”

  “You’re changing the subject on me.”

  “It’s Luke.”

  I stare at Julian, stunned, and then glance at the driveway. “I don’t see his truck.”

  “He’s behind you, coming up the steps.”

  Shit. I pull my hand away from the back of Julian’s neck—and there he is.

  “Morning,” says Luke, eyeing Julian darkly.

  “Hi,” I yammer—he must have walked here.

  “Am I interrupting something?”

  “No,” I say, sounding guilty.

  “Cami was just giving me some line about how I have to learn to appreciate the beauty of Vermont in autumn,” Julian says, far more calmly.

  “Oh no, not that again. Don’t worry, Julian, I’ll save you.”

  Luke moves in and lifts me off my feet. I yelp—and he smiles a little. “Excuse us.”

  He carries me around to the side patio and down the hill.

  “Where are you taking me?”

  “Away.”

  “I was talking to someone.”

  “You shouldn’t touch him.”

  “Huh?’

  I’m set down on my feet. “I know you feel bad for the guy. But you don’t want to give him the wrong idea.”

  My stomach clenches. Ugh. “True.”

  Luke grins. “You can, however, give me any idea you want.”

  “With my dad still home?”

  He peers up at the house. “You could come over to my place.”

  “I would, but I have so much to do.”

  “What is it with you and blowing me off these days?”

  I touch Luke’s chest. “I’m not.”

  He hugs me. “You can’t spare some time for me?”

  Do I even want to? Yeah, I guess. I probably should. I let him kiss me awhile and then we go back over to his place. The whole thing makes me feel rotten though, and I think Luke can sense it. I’m just not as responsive anymore. Everything I do to him is halfhearted. Everything he does to me does nothing for me for some reason. I stay awhile to make him happy, but it doesn’t make much difference. Nothing about this visit goes well for either of us. So eventually, I think up an excuse and head home.

  Brandon’s there with Julian out on the patio. He waves and I wave back, but then he leaves shortly thereafter, probably so he can get home to Claire.

  Julian doesn’t come out of his room for dinner that evening. I don’t see him at all. Then late that night, when I’m doing homework in the kitchen, I hear a noise and discover it’s Shelby scratching at Julian’s closed door. I open the door just enough to let her into the room. “Damn it! No!” Julian yells.

  I peek into the room. “Yes! She’s twelve years old. She’s slept in here her whole life. You can’t just lock her out.”

  “She sleeps on my bed. She sleeps on my face practically and I’m fucking sick of it!”

  Shelby, meanwhile, has jumped onto the bed and curled right up against Julian. “But she likes you.”

  “She snores. She snores so loud I can’t sleep.”

  “So? You hardly sleep anyway.”

  “Fine. Then you stay in here. And you sleep with her.” He reaches for his wheelchair.

  “No, don’t,” I say.

  “What’s the matter? The idea of seeing the one-legged gimp gross you out?” His tone is bitter.

  “No. I just want you to...” Damn it. “You’re an ass.”

  He puts Shelby on the floor.

  I take his wheelchair and push it into the bathroom—a good distance away from him.

  “Oh, that’s very mature,” he says.

  “It’s not my fault Luke showed up and carried me off.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Bullshit, Julian!”

  “You think I care what you do with your stupid himbo suck-up boyfriend?”

  Damn him. I yank his pillow out from under his head and chuck it across the room.

  “Give me back my pillow.”

  “Get it yourself.” I take my dog and leave.

  * * *

  A few days later, I come home for lunch to find Julian sprawled out on the living room sofa, eyes closed and wincing. There’s a prosthetic leg on the floor beside him. The foot is fitted with a black sneaker, and from this a metal rod extends up to the cup.

  I walk up behind him. “Julian?”

  He startles violently.

  “Sorry,” I say.

  “Jesus.”

  “Sorry.”

  He glances over at me, obviously unsettled and aching with pain. We haven’t talked since our fight the other night.

  “What do you need?” I ask.

  “A large mallet.”

  “I’ll get Estella. Do you want a pill?”

  “No, I...yeah, actually.”

  I find him pillows, the pills he has for pain, and that hand-knitted quilt he likes. Then I slip away to get Estella. She’s upstairs taking a nap. “Stell,” I whisper.

  “What is it?”

  “Sorry to wake you. Julian’s in pain.”

  “Oh, okay.”

  I follow her back downstairs. “He just got his prosthetic leg, I take it?”

  “Yes. He’s only supposed to wear it for half an hour a day now.”

  Estella goes in to him. I hang back, so I don’t seem like I’m intruding. Eventually, I just leave for work. Then that night when I come home, his door is closed.

  The following morning, I see Julian coming out of his room on his brand-new prosthetic leg and crutches. He hobbles forward about six excruciating steps from the doorway to a chair in the living room, and then he collapses into it and closes his eyes.

  “You’re spying on me?” he asks, eyes still closed.

  Crap—I am. I’m hiding behind the sunroom doorway.

  “I wanted to see how you were doing,” I explain.

  “Shitty, thanks. And thanks for the audience.”

  Stupid for me to be worried about him when he’s clearly gone back to being a jerk to me. But I am. I text Estella while I’m at school.

  Is Julian doing all right with his new leg? He seems to be in a lot of pain from it.

  Estella doesn’t check her phone all that much, so it takes her awhile to text back.

  He is. They say it’s b/c he needs to build up his calluses down there. It’ll get easier for him in a few weeks. It’s sweet of you to be concerned! :)

  Hmph. I think about asking her something else, but I don’t want to seem like I’m second-guessing everyone. She obviously has it under control. I finish my work for the night and then eventually go home with Dad.

  “Dad, do you think Julian’s okay with his new leg?”

  “I think so,” he says. “They don’t like him staying in that chair any longer than is necessary... So, you two are fighting less?” he asks, eyeing me.

  “Yeah,” I say hesitantly, not sure how true this actually is.

  “Good. Glad to hear it.”

  We go in the house and I get a text from Luke asking if I’ll sneak out to see him, but I tell him no. I’m just too tired. Julian’s light is on underneath his bedroom door, but I don’t knock on it or anything. I just go upstairs and go to sleep.

  Chapter Sixteen

  That Tuesday morning, Estella comes down and sniffles, blows her nose. I glance at her—eyes and nose red, hair a mess, face sweaty. “You feeling all right?”

  “Actually, no. I think I’m coming down with something.”

 
“Go back upstairs. I’ll bring you tea.”

  “Thanks, honey, but I need to figure out what I’m making tonight.”

  “What tonight?” I ask. “What do you mean?”

  “It’s Tuesday.”

  “Estella, you’re sick. I’ll make dinner.”

  “But Brandon and Claire were going to come over.”

  Brandon and Claire don’t both come over to the house for dinner all that often, so this is a big deal.

  “I’ll make something for all of us.”

  “You’re a doll,” she says, rummaging in her pocket for a tissue. “Are you sure you don’t mind?”

  “No, not a bit. It’ll give me a chance to try something new out on Dad.”

  “I think I’ll take something and go back to sleep,” she says and she heads upstairs.

  Okay, I’m sorry Estella’s not feeling well, but aside from that, this is kind of cool. I get to make everyone anything I want. Hmm... I spend all of statistics thinking about what dishes I’ll serve. Soup, of course—I have to make a new soup. Then halfway through anatomy, a whole new idea strikes me.

  What if I didn’t go with French food?

  What if I went with something completely and utterly different?

  What about Indian food?

  Now that would be cool.

  Okay, I only know a few Indian dishes off the top of my head, but there is an Indian market in town. So, with a little internet research and a stop there after school, it might be possible.

  Here is the menu I come up with, as jotted down in my English notebook:

  Raita and Na’an (cucumber yogurt dip and bread)

  Saag Paneer (spinach with paneer cheese)

  Dal (lentils—which kind?)

  Chicken Tikka Masala (butter chicken)

  Fresh fruit, yogurt, honey

  I find some recipes on my cell. Then, as soon as school’s over, I head to the Indian market, which I’ve never actually been inside of before. I buy whole and ground spices, lentils (I decide on yellow lentils, moong dal), na’an, and paneer cheese. Half the store it feels like. Then I race home to get started.

  The sauce for the chicken comes in three parts. Once most of these elements are ready, I realize I still have to put yet another layer of flavor—a dry rub—on the meat. The thing about trying new types of cuisine is that you really are at the mercy of the recipe because the dishes themselves are so completely unfamiliar. I mean, I’ve eaten these things maybe twice in restaurants in my whole life.

  After a few hours more of work, I feel like it’s going well. But then the spinach dish throws me, because the seeds—cardamom, fennel and clove—are supposedly added whole. Okay. I guess. I toast them up and add them to the pot, crossing my fingers I didn’t just wreck everything.

  Estella comes down close to four. She’s changed into jeans and a sweater and she’s looking much better, though her nose is slightly pink. “Wow, Cami,” she says. “It smells fantastic down here! You made Indian food?”

  “Yep. Trying to make it, anyway.”

  “That’s Brandon’s favorite, you know.”

  “Oh,” I say, worried. “No, I didn’t.”

  “I’m sure he’ll love it.”

  The lentils cook the most quickly so I start them at the last minute. They’re simmering away in the pot when the doorbell rings. Estella answers it.

  “Hey, Ma,” I hear Brandon say.

  “Hi, honey. Claire, come in.”

  “It smells like a fantasy in here. An Indian food fantasy. Hi, Cami.” Brandon grins, coming into the kitchen. It looks like he just got off work, judging from his clothes. “Did you do this?”

  “I did.”

  “Awesome. It smells incredible.”

  “Cami!” Claire exclaims. She’s in work clothes as well. “You made Indian food? That’s Brandon’s favorite.”

  “Hello, everyone.” Dad, who’s been out all afternoon, sets two wine bottles down on the kitchen counter. “Claire, Brandon, how are you? How’s work?” They pour wine and talk and then Julian comes in. On his crutches.

  “Hey, man, look at you,” exclaims Brandon, going over to him. “You made it all the way here from the bedroom?”

  “The laundry room,” Julian says quietly. The bedroom’s at the other end of the house. The laundry room, on the other hand, is around the corner. He must have left his wheelchair there. I glance over at Brandon, interested in his reaction.

  “That’s terrific,” Brandon says. “Seriously. Here, have a seat.”

  “Thanks. Hi, Claire.”

  Brandon fetches Julian a chair. Meanwhile, I’m finishing up the chicken and adding the cheese to the spinach. The cheese is paneer—that’s what it says on the package—but it looks really rubbery. And the spinach sauce it’s floating in, I suddenly realize, isn’t just green—it’s bright, electric green. I don’t remember the dish being so very green in restaurants. Hmm... Other than that everything looks okay. I guess. People start taking seats in the dining room, and Claire hangs back to help me. She’s wearing fantastic shoes—as always.

  “So, how are we serving this?” she asks.

  Good question. I look at the pots before me. One huge pot is swimming in red sauce punctuated by lumpy chicken. The other pot is swimming in bright green sauce dotted with lumpy cheese. The third—lentils—are swimming in yellow. At least I’ve prepared a colorful meal.

  Claire serves up the lentils in little bowls while I plate up the rest. It all goes out to the table.

  “YUM!” Brandon says. He takes a bite of the spinach paneer—and his mouth puckers up on something. His eyes go wide, then he gulps something down.

  Oh my God, he just ate a seed of some kind.

  He glances at Claire. “This is fantastic,” he says, but I can tell he’s lying. “Great job, Cami.”

  My stomach sinks. “Thanks.”

  Claire takes a bite of the spinach paneer. Her face freezes. She stops chewing, picks up her napkin and spits something out into it. Delicately.

  “The recipe said to toast the seeds and add them whole,” I say. “It was very specific about it.”

  Julian is fighting not to smile. Of course he’d find this entertaining.

  “That is how you traditionally make it,” Dad says. But a few minutes later I see him spit a whole clove into his napkin as well.

  I frown, upset. Then I catch Estella folding her napkin up into a tiny square and gulping down half her glass of water. “So, how’s work?” she asks her son.

  “Good,” Brandon says, and he braves the lentils. His face isn’t quite right. I look to my own lentils and see why—they’ve liquefied; they’re about the consistency of water.

  “Do you have a straw?” Julian asks.

  I glare at him. Dad won’t touch the lentil water, of course, and neither will anyone else. How could I not have noticed this screw-up before the dish went out? What did I do wrong? You’re supposed to soak the lentils first, aren’t you?

  “The chicken’s good,” Brandon says feebly.

  “Yes, it is,” says Claire with what seems like an awful lot of enthusiasm.

  It’s not good. It’s bland. How could it be bland after all the spices I put on it?

  Julian sees Shelby and puts his bowl of lentils down on the floor for her. Shelby comes over, sniffs it and then walks away. “Maybe you’re not completely stupid after all,” he calls after her. Immediately, my mind flashes back to our last fight, which was also over the dog.

  “You are a jerk of the first order,” I say to him.

  Julian looks amused. “Jerks have orders?”

  “Sure,” Brandon chimes in. “You could be stuck in the third or fourth order. But no.”

  “Well, I like the food like this,” Claire says, glaring at her husband. “It’s not too overwhelming.”

  Julian barely stifles a laugh.

  Claire’s face reddens. “I meant with all the flavors attacking you. Indian food in restaurants is so spicy.”

  Brandon clears his th
roat. “So, how’s the restaurant business these days, Chris?”

  Okay, the meal sucks. Everyone barely eats dinner and then gobbles up dessert to keep from starving to death.

  “It was a good try, baby,” Dad says.

  Yeah, the last time he called me baby, I was five years old.

  I thank him, sulk around after everyone’s gone, and then pretend to do homework awhile.

  Later that night, I venture back into the kitchen—and see the makings of a peanut butter sandwich on the counter. Peanut butter—jar open. Jelly—jar closed. Knife out. Plate out. Bread sitting there.

  Dad would never eat this. Estella is up in bed. The only person who could be making a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich at this hour is Julian.

  That jerk.

  I ignore my first instinct—which is to put it all away—and instead toast the bread, make the sandwich and bring it into his room. In a fury.

  Julian meets me on his way out of the bathroom. I’m not used to him like this—out of his wheelchair and towering over me on his crutches.

  “Here,” I say. “Here’s your food.” I all but hurl it at him.

  “What?” He looks at me, puzzled—and doesn’t take it.

  “You! You know, I killed myself making dinner tonight and you didn’t eat any of it. You didn’t compliment me or thank me. You laughed at me. You fed my lentils to the dog.”

  “Technically, I tried to feed them to her.”

  “Then as soon as the coast was clear you went in and made yourself this!”

  “Hey, I’m hungry. Sue me for wanting to eat food that won’t choke me to death.”

  “You think I can’t choke you to death with a peanut butter sandwich? I can! I will!” I’m waving it at him.

  “Calm down, for chrissake.”

  “No, you calm down. And apologize.”

  “For what?”

  “For being an arrogant picky eater. Who is judgmental. Who’s been an impossible jerk for days. And who—” Who is looking at me very strangely, actually. “What?” I ask.

  “Nothing,” he says.

  He’s...sort of... It’s not nice to yell at hot wounded war heroes for wanting PB&Js.