Chapter Sixteen

Lia + Salt

 

Caroline points me and Kiev in the direction of the pie contest where we’re going to be judging. I follow to where her wide-set brown eyes are looking. The judging station is some rinky-dink wooden table—not very well put together. I recognize a blonde already there, sitting with her back rod straight and appearing excited—Sophie. I didn’t know she was going to be at our station. At least I’ll know the other person, then.

Kiev nods his head at Caroline, and I furrow my eyebrows but still nod along with him. Caroline’s black ringlets sway, her grin motioning us forward, like we’re her own personal little piglets that she’s trying to get into formation.

“This station doesn’t seem bad,” Kiev whispers.

I adjust my pig ears because the tips of the stupid headband are digging into the sensitive areas behind my ears. “It really doesn’t. We get to eat pie, and choose the winner.” Easy enough.

“Are those bugging you?” Kiev asks.

“What?”

“Your headband.” He taps his own headband for emphasis.

“A little.” Actually, more than a little.

“Here.” Kiev reaches deep into his pocket and pulls out a white napkin, tearing off two medium-size pieces. He then proceeds to fold them into small squares. Stretching his hand out for the edge of my headband, he lifts it and tucks one of the pieces in. I just stare at him.

“Don’t look at me like that.” He laughs.

I shift my gaze to his pocket. “Well, apparently, you just carry napkins around with you.”

He places the other piece on the other side of my head where the slight ache is still twinging. “Not usually, but I grabbed some extra paper towels from the bathroom, because this shit was digging into my skin.”

I grin because he doesn’t seem to be one that usually complains, that would be me. “Thanks,” I say.

“Anytime. Just say the word”—he pats his pant pocket like it’s filled with jewels, which it kind of is since my head’s not throbbing anymore—“and I’ll whip you up a napkin.”

“You’re such a nerd.”

We head over to the wooden table that’s actually plywood put together. Thank goodness the seats aren’t made of the same crap—they’re gray metal fold-up chairs, gleaming with rust.

“Hey, guys.” Sophie’s pig ears are in place as she waves, ecstatically. Eyebrow makeup back on today, but not an over-the-top creation.

I take a seat beside her. “I didn’t know you had this station, too.”

“I personally requested it when I knew Barnabas was going to enter the contest, but now I regret it.” She sighs. “I wasn’t going to rig it or anything. They just hand us pies with numbers, so I wouldn’t know which one is his anyway.”

Honestly, I would have rigged it. But there’s nothing to rig because Barnabas is going to win this.

Kiev leans over the table, and I think it may break under his upper body weight. His index finger scans the area as he counts without any sound coming out of his mouth. “His chances are one in ten.”

“I’m glad I don’t know which pie is his,” she mutters.

I would have replied with bacon apple pie, but there seems to be quite a few of those with that label.

“Look, Sophie, about Friday night, I’m going to let you know—”

A loud crackly clatter interrupts my Barnabas confession that he should be giving her. “Welcome one and all for today’s pie contest at the Fifteenth Annual Piggy Palooza Festival,” a rough growl of a voice booms through the portable speaker. The man’s body is round like a ball, skin red like a tomato, and his hair falls in gray waves to mid-back but balding on top—interesting.

He calls the contestants to come and take a seat, and I see Barnabas saunter forward, wearing his terrible jeans with a tight, black, long-sleeve shirt. His thumbs are pushed through finger holes at the ends of the sleeves that he cuts himself. I don’t know how he’s not burning up in all that gear—the sun is like fire today.

Sophie claps fiercely but suddenly stops, probably remembering she’s mad at him. By the lovelorn look on her face, I’m sure it won’t be long for her to cheer up when she finds out her love may not be a one-way street.

Barnabas tilts his head up to look at me, and I just pretend like I don’t know him, so it doesn’t look too conspicuous that we’re friends. His gaze tilts to Sophie, and he chews the edge of his lip before glancing to the crowd—again, interesting.

The man on the speaker calls out each of the ten contestants’ names, and most seem to be older women. When he gets to Barnabas, there’s a loud ruckus from the crowd with cheers from his younger sisters.

“Barnabas!” Channery yells.

“Barnabas! Barnabas! Barnabas,” Dara chants, both her fists pumping in the air.

Dara doesn’t stop chanting, so Mrs. Lao has to calm her down, or she’ll keep on going. I see Mr. Lao in the audience, and he looks like an older version of Barnabas, just take away all the black clothing.

“You ready for this?” I lean over and ask Kiev.

“I’ve been ready.” He rubs his hands together in anticipation.

“Since we learned about this five minutes ago?”

“Exactly.”

It’s weird how Kiev and I are getting along so well. I can’t help but notice the details of his face. I always knew he looked good, but was never attracted to him. My heart’s steady beat quickens, so I glance back toward Barnabas, who’s watching Sophie again.

The speaker makes a horrendous squeal before the man speaks again. “We are going to start with pie number one now.”

An elderly Hispanic woman with thin gray streaks in her hair cuts three slices and places them each on paper plates. She hurries over to us like her life depends on it. I want to say, let’s calm down here—it’s only pie. Only pie! I believe the winner gets a twenty-five-dollar gift card to Wal-Mart—it isn’t some five-hundred-dollar prize or anything. The people probably spent the same amount of money making the pie.

The first pie is bacon pecan. Sophie seems to think it’s okay after she takes a bite. I don’t like pecans, so I may be biased here, because it has an odd taste. Kiev eats it like a pig, which goes well with the theme.

I hold up the number four out of ten for my score. Kiev raises up a ten, and Sophie has a six. Next pie is a bacon apple pie. When I get the slice, I observe it really well to see if it’s Barnabas’s. Damn, I’m not sure if it’s his.

There’s a little bit too much cinnamon, so I give it a five. Kiev has a ten again. Sophie has an eight.

The next four pies are all right, which consist of two bacon apple pies, a pumpkin which is actually decent, and a bacon cherry pie. My scores are six, six, eight, and seven. Kiev throws up another ten at the bacon cherry pie, as he did for the others.

“Is that the only number card you have?” I whisper at him.

“What? All the pies have been amazing so far.” He grins.

Rolling my eyes, I get prepared for the next bacon apple pie. It appears Barnabas should have been a little more creative in the pie department, but it doesn’t matter because I know his will taste the best. I would have known by the flavor alone if the others had been his.

The Hispanic woman brings us pie number seven with new forks again. Apparently, the forks can be tainted from previous pies. I rolled my eyes when she said that the first time, and she feels the need to repeat it each time, but I just give her a fake happy smile because this really isn’t so bad.

There are two other bacon apple pies at the table after this piece, and one other labeled bacon pie that must be filled with just bacon? Not really sure.

Lifting the white plastic fork, I glance at Sophie who has already taken a bite. She seems to like it at first, but then her chin starts to quiver. As she stands up and tries to run for something, she knocks down the metal chair with a clank.

“Trashcan,” Sophie mumbles as her eyes peer around. She doesn’t make it to one, though. The pie comes hurling up, and my face scrunches in disgust.

“You okay?” Kiev and I ask at the same time.

“No!” she shouts.

I turn back to the pie and examine it. It doesn’t look that bad. Kiev appears skeptical with stiff shoulders but places a bite in his mouth, chewing slowly. His shoulders relax, so maybe Sophie just might have been crazy.

Placing a large bite in my mouth, I taste the sweetness of the apples, like a slice of heaven. But then the bitterness hits me like a blade to the throat—the thing seems to have absorbed all the salt from the ocean and placed it into its hidden layers to deceive the taster. In this case, me.

With a big swallow, I try to force the crap down, but I can’t. I gag a little and try to breathe slowly, but I heave again. Quickly standing, I dart to where Sophie is still panting and spit it out.

“Zero,” I yell.

“You can’t give a zero. It’s against the rules,” the lady with the gray streaks says.

“One, then,” Sophie fumbles through the two words.

I glance over my shoulder when I feel a hand against my back. It’s Kiev’s hand.

I glare at him for deceiving me with his taste buds. “What do you give it?”

“A ten.” He shrugs with a semi-sorry expression.

“You have got to be kidding me,” I exclaim, standing back to full height.

“The saltiness added flavor.”

Shaking my head, I let out an incredulous laugh. “You’re insane.”

We wait a few moments before returning to the table, and I’m about to throw in the towel, but nothing can be that bad unless one of the pies actually contains feces. After watching The Help with my dads, I wouldn’t doubt anything.

I’m thankful, the next few pies are pretty good. I believe number nine is Barnabas’s, which I gave a ten to because it was well deserved.

After adding up the scores, the judge calls out the winner, which is pie number nine that had a perfect score of thirty. I’m waiting for him to call Barnabas Lao, but he says Cynthia Hodges instead.

“What?” I yell, and everyone turns to stare at me. “Sorry, I mean … yay!” I falsely clap happily.

I look out toward Barnabas and give him a confused face, and he just gives an “it’s okay” shrug. Well, what pie was his? Because none of them were that spectacular besides the pumpkin pie one, which I know wasn’t his.

The judge calls the remaining contestants to the stand and lets them know which number pie is theirs. He hands Barnabas his number, and his eyes grow wide, flipping the number at me which reads number seven. How is that even possible?

“Are you sure he knows how to bake?” Sophie asks. She has never tried his stuff, so that question makes sense.

“I thought it was great,” Kiev pipes in.

Ignoring him, I walk up to Barnabas at the pie table. “What the crap?”

“That bad?”

“Hell yes, it was bad. Did you do something wrong?” I observe the pie and just thinking about it makes me want to hurl.

Barnabas walks over to his leftover pie, snatches a plastic fork, and dives in. He brings a small bite to his mouth and sticks the tip of his tongue against an apple. That gives me terrible visions back to when I tasted the pie earlier.

He tosses the fork into the trashcan. “Shit. I must have added salt instead of the brown sugar.”

“How did you do that? Isn’t brown sugar brown?”

“I don’t know—my head was all hurting. I guess I grew colorblind.” He rubs his eyes with sarcasm, as if he’s checking to make sure he can see clearly.

“I’m pretty sure colorblind people see brown and white,” I point out.

One of his black eyebrows shoots up. “Are you sure?”

“Damn. No.” I laugh.

“Yay, Barnabas,” Channery says, giving him a big hug. Dara wraps her gangly arms around his other side, his parents following shortly behind.

“Can’t win them all,” Mr. Lao says. Mrs. Lao shoots him a look.

“This was not for grade.” Mrs. Lao pats Barnabas’s back, and he rolls his eyes.

“It actually was, Ma.”

“What?” she shrieks.

“Kidding.” He grins.

She places her hands on her hips and gives him a stare that says that is no way to joke.

“I’ll see you guys later. We have some more stuff to do,” I say and give them all a wave goodbye.

I find Sophie at the judging table, wiping it down with a napkin and cleaner. “What station do you have next?”

She stops scrubbing to look up at me. “Oh, I have to swap the girl at the piggy petting zoo, so she can go on break.”

“Okay, well, I’ll see you later. Maybe you can go comfort Barnabas.” I tilt my head in his direction.

“Pass.”

But I can tell she wants to. I walk away when I hear Kiev calling my name.

“We have to go to the toothpick station for kid’s crafting.” He hikes a finger in the direction behind him.

“Great,” I say sarcastically.

He lifts my fingers on my right hand and inspects them. “You definitely have nice long fingers for objects.”

I cock an eyebrow. “Is that an innuendo?”

His whole face reddens, and he drops my hand. “No, I uh. Well … just think you have nice fingers.” He starts walking away quickly.

Laughing, I hurry and catch up.

We take over the toothpick station for the rest of the day, and it’s mostly snotty-nosed kids who like to rub their noses and spread the wealth. Apparently, their parents don’t seem to mind the gift of contagion.

Kiev decides to begin a craft of his own to help the time pass, which he carefully and delicately stacks, knits, intertwines, or whatever he’s doing. He has to break some toothpicks into smaller bits, and then glue them together.

“Do you take art?” I ask, infatuated with his skills.

“No.” All his focus is on the wooden toothpick that he’s pristinely positioning.

“A natural, then.”

He glances up at me. “Do you take art?”

“No.” I’ve never really tried it, though, besides taking a photography class for my art credit the year before. I guess that is art but not of the hand-manipulation kind.

“Maybe you’re a natural, too.” He smiles and shifts his gaze to the basket of toothpicks.

I fill the basket up with more toothpicks since it’s getting low, and I know the kids will be asking for more. Then I straighten the stack of paper. Since the kids are so young, they pretty much just glue the toothpicks on a sheet of paper. Kiev over here is going all out with his 3D model.

Giving in to temptation, I say, “Okay, let me give it a try. What are you making, anyway?”

“A pig.”

“Ah, goes splendidly well with the theme of today.”

He tilts his head at me and smiles wryly. “That’s my point. If I have time, I’ll add a piece of bacon.”

Laughing, I grab a handful of toothpicks and start putting some glue on them, unsure of what I’m even doing. I’ll probably try to make a pie for Barnabas to make up for his failure earlier.

I’m in the middle of placing a toothpick with glue on top of the next one, when somehow the pointed tip of the toothpick stabs my finger. “Geez,” I squeak from the prick, and then I see blood. “What are these? Razor blades?”

Kiev looks over. “How did you do that?” He searches around for tissues, napkins, or a bandage that we don’t seem to have.

“I don’t know, but these knife-life objects aren’t meant for children,” I grunt.

Kiev observes the kids. “They all seem to be doing fine.”

Snatching a sheet of paper, I cover my finger. “Zip it. I’ll be right back.” I head in the direction of the restroom. When I get there, I hear voices around the side of the building. I step closer—Barnabas and Sophie. I peer around the side and they are several feet away.

“You have makeup on today,” Barnabas says.

“Is there something wrong with my eyebrow makeup?” Sophie huffs. I can’t really see her expression.

“Not today.”

I shake my head at Barnabas’s honesty. I know I would have been saying it in my head, but he generally speaks the truth.

Sophie’s hand flies up to her forehead. “You know, if I want to draw on eyebrows all the way to the top of my forehead, I’ll do it.”

I snicker softly to myself. Maybe I should quit spying and pop out to say hello. No, this is too good.

Barnabas throws a hand in the air. “Come on, let’s not be irrational here.”

“You’re the one who kissed me and then called me Vienna.” Sophie pokes her finger several times at his chest.

“I should have corrected myself the other night, but I didn’t even know how.” He runs a hand through his hair and tugs at it. “I’m going to be honest here. I did like Vienna before that night, and then after, I liked you, so the whole thing is messed up. But the thing is, I do like you, Sophie.”

“And Vienna?”

“No. She’s cute and all but too much to handle.”

“I don’t know what kind of answer you want me to give you with that response.”

Barnabas takes a step forward. “Can I kiss you again?”

“Seriously?” she scoffs.

He takes another step forward. “Yes.”

“I’ll have to think about it.” Sophie turns her head away from Barnabas, pretending to examine trees or something.

Okay, I need to get out of here before they start making out. I sneak away and shuffle into the women’s restroom.

Throwing away the paper wrapped around my finger, I turn on the faucet and let the stab wound sit under the water for a minute. I’m not even sure how there’s still blood coming out from the small prick.

Finally, the bleeding stops, and I grab a paper towel, dabbing at it until it’s just fine and dandy. I toss it away and walk around the building to talk to Barnabas and Sophie, but they’re already gone. Shrugging my shoulders to myself, I head back to Kiev.

“Do I need to find a first-aid kit?” Kiev grins.

I give him a soft shove. “Quiet.”

After our shift ends, Caroline walks over and tells us we can go ahead and head home. “Just report at the front tomorrow at four o’clock.” She taps at the pretend watch on her wrist.

Kiev and I walk out together toward the front, and pick up our clothes at the Pig Shack. Today actually wasn’t as bad as I thought it was going to be, with the exception of Barnabas’s pie and my poor finger.

“How’s your finger?” Kiev must read minds or something.

“It’s okay, better a toothpick than a dagger.”

“Or a punch in the nose.” Kiev smiles.

I ignore that comment and hold up my battle wound. “It still stings a little.”

“Do you want me to kiss it and make it feel better?”

“Seriously, shut up.”

When we reach the front, we have to head in separate direction because of our parking situations.

“Do you want a ride to your car?” I ask, since I did give him a ride earlier.

“Nah, it’s not that far.”

“Oh, it’s totally far.”

He gazes out to the area where we can practically see tumbleweeds blowing. “Okay, I’ll take the offer.”

“That’s what I thought. You don’t want to go by that mini dust storm out there,” I say, staring at the dirt particles flying around with the wind.

We make it to my Fiesta, hop in, and head for his car.

“Hey, are you driving to school tomorrow, or are you riding with Barnabas?” Kiev asks, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’ve seen you guys sometimes in the mornings in different cars, but always together.”

“I think he’s back on his practice schedule before All-State auditions, so I’ll be riding with him.” Barnabas and I still have an agreement that if he goes in early, he’ll drive us.

“So, do you just want to ride with me after school out here?” Kiev’s eyes seem to be looking anywhere except for my face.

“Okay,” I shoot the word out.

“You know, since we’re going to the same place and all.”

“I did just say okay.” I laugh.

“Okay it is.”

His car is in the very back, and I pull up next to it to let him out. “Don’t dream too much tonight about bacon,” I say as he opens the door.

Kiev smiles. “All right, well, I’ll see you tomorrow, Lia.”

I completely forgot that I would need to drive my car separately for the volunteering stuff. I’m about to roll down the window and tell Kiev that I can just drive my own car to school separately, but for some reason I don’t.