Page 75 of Bite Me

I hate the smell. I hate the blood all over my gloves. I hate Luther’s rapid explanations and the way he pesters us every five minutes. He’s undoubtedly talented, but not a teacher. I was hoping for something to change since I’ve been in the club. There must be something wrong with me. Why am I not having any fun? I love cooking. I didn’t expect to be making cookies day in and day out, but I can’t help but feel a little out of place. How can it be that the one place I was sure I would fit, I’m misshapen somehow?

But there are years ahead here, and when I imagine myself close to graduation, white coat on, leading a class, I can’t imagine myself smiling while telling someone to redo their soufflé for the fifteenth time. Where is the fun in that?

I’m tired. That’s why I’m being negative. Everything is going to be fine. I’m letting Dacre’s pessimism get into my head.

He is watching me. I feel it, even if I don’t acknowledge it.

It’s undeniable that we shared something, even if it meant nothing to him. Not that it meant anything to me, either. It was just a moment when my recklessness might have gotten the better of me, and I bent, and he bent, and we landed somewhere in the middle.

I waited for the fallout of what I’d done, but there were no posts, no gossip floating about. The forums are still buzzing about my sister and her fiancé’s plans for holidays that are months away.

How can a child prodigy despise cooking? “Childhood dreams die painfully.”

Surely, there was a time when he did love it. So what changed? And if it changed in him, could it change in me too?

Chapter Twenty-Five

Dacre

When class ends, I work on my end of the room, and she works on hers. I can’t help but be a little curious about everything she’s doing, especially what she spoke to my grandfather about. I didn’t know he was going to be here today. She didn’t look upset afterward, either. More cheerful than anything else.

There’s still something off about her smell, though. It’s a hair’s difference that I can’t place.

Emma brings out the mixer, a few cake pans, some butter . . . So she’s making a cake. For whom? A man? No . . . I haven’t seen her with anyone. Maybe it’s for her family. She’s still working when I’m finished with my prep work, and I pretend not to notice the noise she’s making in my otherwise quiet kitchen.

I linger longer than I should, cleaning my station slowly, until the air is saturated with sweet sugar and butter and her yellow cake is cooling on the rack.

“No party, I see. Or are you waiting for someone?”

“Just me.” She smiles while she whisks her buttercream into submission and motions to my station. “What do you do in here, anyway?”

“Just cook. Prep. Whatever needs to be done.”

“I thought you hated cooking.”

“I do.”

But it’s all I have. The only reason I stay late is because what else am I going to do? So I do all the prep work I’d normally have someone under me do, make lessons, and work. There may not be much enjoyment in it, but there is a certain numbness in the silence and repetitive motions. It makes the day pass quickly and gives me less time to sit alone in my room.

“As usual, I’m riveted by your lack of conversational skills.” She wipes her hand on a towel before retreating to the pantry for something else.

I should probably go. She doesn’t want anything to do with me, and I don’t blame her.

Her phone screen is open and bright next to my hand, and a wall of text piques my curiosity. It’s open to a text thread titled “Mom.”

The cursor blinks behind the sentence: Happy Birthday, Mom. I really miss you.

A lump builds in my throat. The last bit of text I see is, conveniently, Dacre is still an asshole. I’ll fill you in later.

It’s her mom’s birthday. That’s why she’s here baking late. But why alone? Shouldn’t one of her sisters be here with her at least?

When she comes back, she’s surprisingly chipper as she sets out various dyes, mostly blues and greens.

“Who is the cake for?”

“It’s my . . . mom’s birthday, and every year, I bake her a cake. It’s silly.” She averts her gaze, keeping her hands busy with her piping bag.

“It’s not.”