Stir Me Up

I creep down the stairs—old house, steep stairs and lots of them squeak so this is tricky. I then sneak to Julian’s new room, my ex-room and, without knocking, open the door. It’s perfectly quiet. Julian must be asleep. So I tiptoe like a criminal, heart hammering in my chest, to the window with the broken lock. The things you do for love, let me tell you. Then of course I realize I’ve left the door open, so I tiptoe back over to shut it and my phone buzzes. Loud as hell in the otherwise silent room. Terror seizes me. I’m the worst criminal in the history of the planet and his damned wheelchair’s in the way. I push it aside. I’ve got one leg through the window when I hear a voice say, “I’ll lock you out.”

My heart slams against my chest—for a freak moment I think it’s Dad, and then I realize it’s just our charming new houseguest. “I’ll spit on your food,” I tell him and head out to Luke.

* * *

Six o’clock the next morning, my thankfully still-virgin self is climbing back in the window. Julian’s there, in my former bed, whimpering and grimacing like he’s either in pain or else having a nightmare. Maybe it’s both. Should I wake him, I wonder, offer him a pain pill or heating pad or something, or just let him sleep? My God, this poor guy. What horrors are revisiting him? Probably ones I can’t even imagine. He’s so young, just a few years older than me and look what he’s been through already. As much as I don’t want him here, I feel bad for him. “Coop,” he whimpers, no idea why, and suddenly, I feel like I’m violating his privacy.

I leave the room, thinking about what an utter bitch I was to him. I mean, he deserved something but I think I went overboard. Ugh. I wish I hadn’t antagonized him back. We’re living in the same house after all, and he’s really hurt. I go into the kitchen and make myself an omelet, toast, juice. Then instead of eating it, I sigh and load it all on a tray with a fork and napkin.

I knock lightly on the door.

No answer.

I go on in, figuring I’ll leave it on his night table.

“Estella?” he says.

Oh great. He’s awake. “No, it’s me. I have your breakfast.”

He winces. “I don’t want it.”

“I think you should try to eat it.”

“I don’t give a shit what you think.”

“Come on, it’s good.”

“Just bring me my wheelchair.”

“You forgot the magic word.”

“Fuck you.”

Love how he ups the swearing sans-Estella. “That’s not it.”

He looks at the food and at me, and frowns. “I’m not eating that dainty little herb-speckled piece of crap.”

Huh. He’s insulting the food now? “Don’t tell me the big tough Marine is afraid of a little spit.”

“Why, are you offering to swap some with me? Because I’ve got something right here you can spit on if that guy last night wasn’t enough for you.”

I flee the room, face burning. I meant my threat to spit on his food, of course. I never even thought of the other way it could be taken. I hurry off to school. Later that morning, I get a call from Dad. My first thought: Julian ratted me out about spending the night at Luke’s house. I answer, heart pounding. “Hey, Dad. What’s up?”

“Are you in class yet?”

“No, not yet.”

“I wanted to check and see if you were okay in the alcove. And with Julian being so suddenly in our lives.”

“Yeah, I guess,” I say, because neither of us have much choice in the matter. “Are you?”

“He needs a place to recover. I don’t mind giving him one if he can’t take the hospital.”

“He’s a bit of a jerk.”

“He’s dealing with a lot now, Cami. A few months ago, he was fighting in a war zone. Let’s you and I both just be nice to him and give him his space.”

“Okay, sure,” I say. “Works for me.”

“Good. Incidentally, I’ve decided to let you make your crab soup this Saturday,” Dad says. Dropping a bombshell on me.

“Really?”

“Yes, really.”

I thank him and stare at my phone in amazement after the call ends. Did Dad just say he’s letting me go with one of my soups on his busiest night of the week? Is this to make up for me suddenly losing my room and having to deal with Julian in our lives? That works. I’m not proud; if it’s a gift, I’ll accept it gladly. This is huge. I mean, who cares about what happened this morning with the stupid breakfast. I’m making my crab soup this Saturday—yay!

Chapter Seven

We’re all sent to check out copies of Hamlet at the start of English class. Joy.

“Good morning,” says Mr. Hague once we have our books and have taken our seats. “What you have before you is arguably the finest play ever written. Now, how many of you have seen Hamlet, either onstage or in a film?”

I raise my hand a little while I secretly text Taryn:

Julian moved in last night. That’s the Marine. He’s an even bigger A-hole than I remembered.

I HAVE TO SEE THIS GUY! Taryn texts back.

Why? I type in.

“How about you, Broussard?” asks Mr. Hague.

Shit. I hide the phone. What did he just ask?

“What it’s about,” the boy next to me whispers.

Oh, okay. “Uhh...It’s about a prince who finds out his father, the king, has been murdered by his uncle.”

“Excellent,” Mr. Hague says. “Hamlet is a play about a young man who believes his father has told him to commit murder. He spends most of the play, as you’ll soon see, wrestling with this request. The theme of parental pressure is still very relevant today. Have any of you ever been compelled by a parent to do something extremely difficult—not murder, I hope, but something else you wouldn’t have done otherwise? Let’s see a show of hands from any of you who’ve faced a difficult parental demand—and no, I don’t mean stuff like being forced to take out the trash.”

A few people laugh. I think, of course, of how Dad wants me to go to college. We’ve only talked about it once since I was in Bethesda, and then he just said he wanted to make sure I had my application done on time for the University of Vermont. I told him I would. Even though I don’t see the point of an expensive four-year interruption to my culinary career. I mean, why on earth would he of all people not understand this? For him, cooking schools are a waste. Okay, I get that, no cooking school. But why college? So I can sit behind a desk and stare at a computer all day? What if I want more than just to earn money to pay the rent and make sure I get home at a reasonable hour? Besides, I hate school. I’m sick of it. All I want to do is cook and maybe come up with a culinary style of my own someday.

I raise my hand in response to Mr. Hague’s question about parental pressure. Most of the class does as well. We start going through the play and it kind of builds on me, this idea of kids throughout history being forced to do things because of a parent. Stay. Go. Do this. Do that. Guess they even had pushy fathers back in Shakespeare’s time.

“You still with us, Broussard?”

“Yes.” I snap out of my daydream and try to focus on the first scene of Act I until the bell rings. English is my last class, so after it I’m free to leave for the day. But instead of heading straight to Luke’s, I have to stop at home first to pick up a clean uniform. I’m constantly washing my chef’s coats, because I’m a bit of a slob, truth be told. It drives Dad crazy, but he’s given up trying to get me to be neater as I work.

LUNCH TODAY! Taryn texts. DON’T SAY NO!

Sorry, can’t today—but soon! I text back.

I head inside, throw my backpack on the floor―and see Julian there in his wheelchair, staring up at the kitchen cabinetry and frowning. It’s the first time I’ve seen him out of his room, so this is a bit of a surprise. “Hi,” I say. “Do you need help getting something? A glass?”

He scowls and turns away from the cabinet. “No.”

I watch him wheel to the door.

“Wait, my backpack’s in...”

“Goddamn it,” he says.

“...your way.”

“Can you pick up the damned thing?”

I go to move it, and my copy of Hamlet falls out. I bend to get it, and find myself at eye-level with Julian’s legs.

He’s in sweats, the right leg of which has been cut off just below the knee. There’s a white cotton sock-type covering on his half leg.

“Stop it,” he says.

“Stop what?”

“Staring.”

I feel my face start to burn. “Sorry. Are you in a lot of pain from it?”

“From what, having to deal with you?”

I sigh and set my bag on a kitchen chair. “Must you always be such an asshole?”

“Must you always leave your crap all over the place—your bag and wussy play...”

“What wussy play?” I ask.

“Hamlet,” he says with a grimace. “Total wuss. Once he received the order to kill his uncle he shouldn’t have hesitated.”

Wait, hold on. Is Julian trying to make actual conversation with me here? “Maybe it wasn’t that simple for him,” I suggest, having seen the movie.

Julian gives me a hard look. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

And we’re back to arguing. “It just means maybe he didn’t find the prospect of killing someone so easy.”

“You think I find killing easy?”

I stare at him in shock. “I never thought anything even remotely like that, Julian. Look, I know you like picking fights with me. But this one’s ridiculous.”

“You’re saying I’m ridiculous?”

Before I can think of an answer, we’re interrupted. “Oh, Cami, you’re home for lunch. How fantastic.”

Enter Estella—the Broussard family’s very own UN peacekeeper.

“Did you take your noon meds?” she asks Julian.

“I’m not a child,” he snaps. “I don’t need you checking up on me.”

Estella is quiet. Shelby comes in behind her and wags her tail at me. I reach down to pet her. “Hey, baby.”

“And by the way, that ‘baby’ of yours needs to stay off my bed,” Julian says.

Hah. Good job, Shelby. Way to annoy him. “She thinks it’s my bed still. That’s why.”

“While I’m in there, she needs to stay off it.”

I glance at Estella, who gives him a scolding look. “What?” he says. “She wipes her ass all over my pillow.”

“She does not.”

“She does, too. She snores and drools and makes a hundred disgusting noises.”

“Cat person,” I say, petting Shelby still.

“I’m not a cat person. I love dogs. Normal dogs who aren’t annoying and disgusting.”

“I’ll have you know Cavalier King Charles spaniels are a highly desirable breed.”

“Yeah, sure they are,” he says.

“Don’t worry. Shelby’s mostly deaf, but she’s not blind or stupid. I’m sure she’ll start avoiding you soon enough.”

“Good, because I’m kicking her to the carpet from now on, I don’t care how old she is.”

“Yes, let’s pick on the old and infirmed,” I say, glaring at him. In his wheelchair.

Julian’s face clouds over, and suddenly, I feel slightly guilty.

“Okay, that’s enough,” Estella says. “Let’s just try to survive lunch, all right? Julian, we’ll do our best to keep the dog out of your room.”

Julian turns his back on both of us and heads for the door. “Good.”

Chapter Eight

The one night a week we have dinner as a family at home is always Tuesday, because on Tuesdays the restaurant is closed. Now, Estella is a lovely person in many ways. I’m pretty much glad Dad married her. He seems very happy with her. But the woman can’t cook. And living with a French chef husband and his chef-trainee daughter, this can make for some pretty amusing meals.

Me, I’m cool with eating just about anything. I mean, I like good food but I’m not a picky eater. I’m fine with normal stuff. Dad, though, is extremely picky. Like, if there’s a grill mark that’s a bit too dark on the meat he won’t touch it. If the crust is cut off the sandwich but a tiny bit remains, he’ll have to cut that bit off as well or he won’t eat it. And Dad is not only ridiculously selective about food, he’s also snooty about it. He only buys and brings home the freshest and best ingredients. Estella, on the other hand, is fine with bottled salad dressing and mayonnaise from a jar, for example. She thinks it’s kind of silly to bother making things like that from scratch.

Oh yeah, one last thing noteworthy about all this: Dad’s an utter power monger and it takes an unparalleled degree of restraint for him not to “help” Estella with dinner. When he does, he takes over. And Estella insists she can do it herself. So, sorry, this is mean of me, but when she pulls her tuna casserole out and I notice it has a topping of crunched-up potato chips on it, I have to bite my lips to keep from laughing. Not at the food—damn, it’s probably the best-looking thing I’ve seen her make. No, I’m laughing because Dad hasn’t come downstairs and seen this yet.

Estella’s made tuna casserole, I text Taryn. Dad will DIE.

IF HE PASSES OUT, she texts back, I VOLUNTEER TO GIVE MOUTH-TO-MOUTH.

Yes, she thinks Dad’s hot. She thinks everyone’s hot.

Gag! I text back. Ugh. Major gag.

WHERE’S HOT WAR VET?

Here he comes now. Should I tell him you say hi?

THAT DEPENDS. IS HE COMING OR IS HE...coming?

I force myself not to imagine this. Then I text back:

Hmm... I’ll ask ;)

WHY? CAN’T YOU TELL?? she replies.

I blush and fight not to smile.

Julian wheels in while I’m still bright-faced. He’s in a Semper Fi T-shirt and cutoff sweats. “What’s wrong with you?” he asks.

I hide the phone. “Nothing, just happened to see your face there.”

“Ha, ha. So amusing.”

Estella’s made a salad—a bagged salad with iceberg lettuce, the kind Dad has repeatedly told her he dislikes. “Are you and Dad having a fight?”

“No,” she says, plunking down ranch dressing—in a bottle—which he also can’t stand and has kind of an irrational campaign against. “Why?”

I look at Julian. This is our first Tuesday dinner together, so he has no idea what my problem is. Sorry, but this is too funny.

The thing that’s not funny at all is Estella must know where this is headed. Is it a test? Maybe I should warn Dad before he comes down. I mean, if they’re in a fight, I’m supposed to be on Dad’s team, aren’t I?

Suddenly the doorbell rings. “Are we expecting company?” I ask with a frown.

“Yes, it’s Brandon.” Estella hurries to answer it.

Brandon has his mother’s dark hair and eyes, but he’s a big guy, like maybe six foot two, and he’s built like a linebacker. He’s also super-cool.

“Hi, Bran!” I say.

“Hi, kiddo. Where’s Jules?”

Estella moves out of her son’s line of vision. “Here he is.”

“Hey, you rebel.” Brandon gives Julian a light shoulder punch. “So you broke out and left early?”

“Yeah.”

“Fuck them, eh?”

“Something like that. Where’s your wife?” Julian asks, clearly wanting a subject change.

“Had to work late. What’s cooking, Ma?”

They head into the kitchen.

“Tuna casserole,” Estella tells them. “You two used to love it.”

“What do you mean, used to?” says Brandon. “Get me a fork.”

“Let me serve it first.”

“I’ll just check it.”

“Wait ’til it’s cooled off at least,” she chides.

Okay, the dish is a family favorite. Yeah, I have to forewarn Dad not to be too snooty about it. “Excuse me a minute,” I say. I run into him halfway up the stairs.

“What’s your hurry?”

“Dad,” I whisper.

“Hmm?”

“Brandon’s here.”

“Yes, I know.”

“And Estella’s made tuna casserole.”

He wrinkles his nose. “Tuna what?”

“Casserole. It’s Brandon and Julian’s favorite dinner from when they were little. They think the recipe’s perfect and doesn’t need fixing or improving.”

“Right,” he says with a slight wince.

We head back down together, and I see Estella serving up a huge square of casserole and plating it. I think it’s going to be for Brandon or Julian—but she passes the plate to Dad. Dad’s eyes get wide for a fraction of a second. “Wow. Looks good.”

“Thanks.” She serves even bigger squares to her son and nephew, and a pretty big one to me.

Actually, I can see why Brandon and Julian like this. She uses cream of mushroom soup, and the good tuna and frozen peas and chopped mushrooms. The potato chip crust is pretty damned fine. Better than breadcrumbs would be. This dish is fun.

“This is good, Estella,” I say.

“Yeah, delicious as usual, Ma.”

“Yeah, thanks,” says Julian softly.

“Sure, thank you for thanking me.” She seems happy. Then she spots Dad. Who, unfortunately, is picking at the ingredients with the tines of his fork and probably hoping the whole plate will somehow manage to vaporize into thin air when Estella’s not looking.

Dad sees his new wife’s obvious anger. And eats a bite.

Okay—this could just be because I know him really well, but if Estella had served Dad roadkill, I don’t think his reaction would be much different. Same pathetic attempt to look fine with it in his mouth. I’ve seen him wear this expression before. Most Tuesday nights for the past few months, in fact. “Mmm,” he says.

Yeah, right. Dad’s Adam’s apple’s about to come jumping out of his mouth waving a white flag of surrender. But I have to give him some credit—he’s doing his best to pretend this isn’t happening.

“Oh look,” Estella says. “You didn’t die.”

“Why would I die?” he asks, taking another tiny bite. “I can eat American food. This dish is excellent.”

“Great. Then I’ll have to make it more often.”

Dad pales. “So, what did you do in school today, Cami?”

Poor Dad. So much for me trying to warn him. I try to think of something entertaining to talk about from my day, and then realize I have just the thing. “We played body part hokey-pokey in human anatomy.”

“You played what?” Dad asks.

“Body part hokey pokey. You know, put your ante brachium in, put your ante brachium out, put your ante brachium in and shake it all about.”

“What’s an ante brachium?”

“Don’t remember.”

“Wonderful.” Dad frowns.

“It’s a forearm,” Brandon says with a grin. “How many times did the guys tell you to put your glutes in?”

I smile. “Nope. Butts and such weren’t allowed.”

“Lumbar then,” he says.

“Lower back was a favorite, but most girls just stopped doing it.”

“This is what you go to school for?” Dad asks.

“Then we used play dough to make pretend people. We had to make a pledge not to do anything perverted with our play dough people and then we were able to divide them into cross-sections.”

“You made a pledge?” Estella asks.

“Yes, it was hilarious, actually. The teacher said it and then we all had to repeat it after her.” I decide to recite it for them to help lighten the mood. “I will not make a play dough penis. I will not make a male and female body and then smush them together. I will not put my play dough person in any compromising positions. I will not take two males or two females and put them together.”

This works—Dad’s fighting not to laugh. Estella’s hiding her mouth behind her hand. Brandon’s laughing outright.

Only Julian remains unamused. “Let’s see, the last time I played hokey pokey and used play dough, I was in what grade, Estella?” he asks, deflating everyone’s good mood a little.

“It was just one day of fun,” she chides.

I turn to Julian. “You do remember what that is, right? Fun?”

He looks coldly at me. “I can think of some things I’d like to do to your dog that’d be fun.”

“Why, can’t you even control a little dog?”

“I yell at her but she doesn’t listen.”

“She’s deaf. Of course she won’t listen. Just kick her very gently on the rear and she’ll scoot away.”

“Kick her? Do your eyes work for anything except cooking and using play dough?”

Great, what was I thinking telling the guy with the amputated leg to kick something? Dad gives Julian a sharp look. He doesn’t say anything aloud, but then he doesn’t have to. Julian catches the silent warning and seems a little surprised by it. I’m not. Dad doesn’t like other people giving me shit—just him, and maybe Georges, if it’s related to cooking.

Brandon is watching all this with interest. Dad and Julian mostly seem to avoid each other. Dad works such long hours, they rarely see each other, and I don’t think they’ve actually spoken more than a few words to each other since Julian got here. But then, until tonight, Julian hasn’t really made himself part of the family.

“Pass the salad,” Dad says to me.

Um. Okay. I hand it to him. He peers into the bowl. Sees the bagged iceberg lettuce with the pre-shredded carrots and red cabbage, makes a face, takes a miniscule amount and hands it back to me.

Estella passes him the ranch dressing—ranch dressing...from a bottle.

“Thanks,” Dad says, taking it hesitantly from her.

“This is a perfectly normal meal, Chris. Every other person who lives in America would be fine with it.”

“I am fine with it,” Dad lies.

“Bullshit.”

Brandon makes strained conversation with Dad about downtown Northampton, because he lives there and Dad works there. Then, as I’m taking my plate to the sink, Julian’s wheelchair rolls up behind me.

“Move,” he says.

Okay, wait—Dad and Estella asked me to be nice to him. But does this mean I have to put up with whatever rudeness he dishes out? I decide no. “Hold on, wait your turn.”

“Just take this for me.”

“Why, can’t you do it yourself?”

“It’s a dirty plate and I’m in a wheelchair.”

“So? You can put your own plate in the sink. It’s an easy reach.”

“Not with you in the way. Oh, no. Here comes your animal.”

I take Julian’s plate from him and set it on the floor for Shelby. She’s thrilled.

“I’m not getting that now,” he says. “No, Bran, don’t you get it either.”

I leave.

“We’re not getting that!” he yells.

Suddenly I realize what Dad will do if this keeps up—he’ll open the restaurant on Tuesdays. Next Tuesday, I decide, I’d better offer to lend Estella a hand. Make the salad for her at least. I get my backpack and pass Julian and Brandon in the hall. “The plate’s still there,” Julian growls at me.

“And your point is?” I walk around them and head up to do my homework.

Dad and Estella are still arguing in the kitchen. Man, I wish my upstairs alcove had a door.

* * *

Despite all the fighting over dinner—or maybe because of it—ugh—I’m awakened late that night to the unmistakable sounds of Dad and Estella, particularly Estella, having sex. My face burns and I take my pillow and blanket with me to the downstairs sofa—the sofa that’s like maybe ten feet from Julian’s door. The door is ajar. I don’t hear anything.

Dad and Estella are upstairs, thankfully way out of earshot. The house has its creaks and things but it’s fairly quiet. I’m trying to arrange the blanket in a way that’s comfortable and trying not to think of what drove me down here in the first place when I hear a noise from Julian’s room. A crash that sounds like breaking glass. I hesitate for a second, and then hurry over.

“Julian?”

There’s no answer.

I poke my head in and try it louder. “Julian?”

Still nothing. Crap. I flip on the light, and my eyes take in several things at once. First, my water carafe is now a mess of broken glass on the floor that’s not supposed to get wet. Second, the arm he’s currently using to shield his eyes is streaked with blood. And third, he’s having what seems to me to be the tail end of a panic attack: his breathing is short and fast. I’m thinking hyperventilation, paper bag. “Shut it.”

“You’re bleeding,” I say, ignoring him.

“I said shut the light. And get out.”

“And I said you’re bleeding.”

He glances at his hand. His face looks strained and is covered in sweat.

“I’ll get you a towel.”

“No, don’t. Just go.”