Page 48 of Bite Me

And when scary moments did arise, Dad was there standing behind my mother with his hands on her shoulder and his thumb rubbing her arm. He was the support and kindling to her fire. That’s why when she died and Dad changed, I understood, even if I didn’t like it when he shut himself in his room all the time. He was mourning his other half, the loss of all the life they had together, and all their dreams. When he got angry at the Donor Program, I understood that, too.

I reach the bottom of my messages, which display a much more accurate depiction of where my life is at now:

So never mind. He hates me again for some reason.

A few days later:

I just don’t get it. He was so sweet, and it lasted for a night, and then nothing.

The one I sent two minutes ago:

I wish I could call you . . .

I stuff my phone into my pocket as I reach the culinary club lounge. We have our own café, but even the best lavender matcha latte that exists (I’d bet money on it, I swear) isn’t enough to lift my spirits for the day.

Dacre is prepping at his station in an otherwise empty kitchen when I enter. I get in early every morning and still never manage to beat him in or out. There’s a sink full of dirty dishes next to him. He must have been testing recipes or something. But why? If he’s a prodigy, does he even need to practice? He’s an enigma, unfortunately blessed by the stars above with perfect forearms. I don’t say anything as I come in, put on my white coat, and pull back my hair. I can’t stop thinking that those same hands, that were once on my thigh, are the ones that are molding and folding dough. When I fall asleep, that’s the image that loops in my head. His strong fingers, sculpting and pressing. That stoic gaze that calculates the next thing and the next.

He’s the type of person who knows what he wants, and he’s already formulated a plot to get it. I wish I could do that part. I get cooking. I can do just about anything, but the furthest I think ahead is on a week-by-week basis. Once I got into the culinary club, my baseline changed. Now what do I want?

The culinary club isn’t exactly what I thought it would be, either. I imagined days of learning under renowned chefs, and so far, the only person who’s taught a class is Dacre. He’s a decent teacher, but I spend a lot more time perfecting every little thing than actually cooking recipes.

Don’t get me started on the cleaning. I had no idea I’d be spending more than an hour every day making sure the kitchen is spotless. Dacre makes us scrub the tile with a toothbrush, and I don’t think I can mumble the words “Yes, Chef” one more time.

I make no attempt at saying hello as I ready myself for the day. It doesn’t matter whether he likes me or not. I half expected him to kick me out, since I’ve heard nothing about the contract, but the cold shoulder is more unsettling than anything.

What is it about me that Dacre can’t tolerate? I’ve never met a person whom I couldn’t make like me in some way. My sisters and I weren’t exactly popular after being homeschooled for the majority of our lives, only entering a public school in our later years. The school was small, and everyone knew everyone else. But I’m the one who made sure our classmates warmed up to us. It took time and effort to find out what everyone liked, but it was an exciting challenge for me.

It was a crash course in social interaction, and I learned quickly that most people respond well to kindness and being interested in what they’re interested in. It requires sacrifice of time and, occasionally, for me to keep my mouth shut.

But Dacre doesn’t fit into any of those categories.

It’s as if he hates the fact that I exist.

“Look at that. You’re doing so well.” Dacre’s praise snaps me out of my daze.

I check the clock. The early morning disappeared right before my eyes. Today’s lesson is all about making a roux and the different ways to create one. Creating a roux I’ve done many times, but Dacre is teaching us how to add potions to the mix, and my brain is mush.

It’s like math. The measurements are totally different from using metric cups, and some of them cancel each other out. Or if you add too much of one, it creates a completely different flavor, and it ruins the entire thing.

I’ve redone mine five times already.

“Having fun yet?” he asks when I don’t answer.

I’m honestly still shocked he’s speaking to me. That, and I’m too busy staring at the concoction in front of me, trying to judge if the potion I just added heated the mixture up too much. There are too many bubbles.

“Do I get special treatment for kissing your ass and saying yes?” I say.

“What’s wrong, thief? Not all glitter and sunshine?”

I start whisking, just in case.

“There’s no . . . fun, creative day where we cook whatever we want and everyone gets together and tries everyone’s dishes?”

That budges his frown. “Absolutely not. That’s not what makes money. Efficiency. Skill. Precision. Those make you money. If you want to be that big shot pastry chef in the city, it’s a lot more of this.”

“What about Isabella Bronswen? The last time I checked, they were the youngest chef to make their whole restaurant in Vviveren City with their own creations.”

“Daddy’s money. No oversight. Never worked their way up in the system. Word on the street is it’s going to close.”