Johnathon's Arc

Chapter 8 of 31

Thirty minutes. Johnathon stood at his station and could not move. He had already given the judges his whole life on a plate. Now they wanted more, and his mind held nothing. His hands shook over the empty board. He looked up at the ceiling lights and breathed. "Dad," he said, so quiet no one heard. "What do I make now?" He thought of his father sliding chicken from the oven. Then he thought of Lexi, and something clicked. Weeks ago, at the balcony rail, she had told him her favorite dish. A simple lemon pasta her mother made. Bright, sharp, a little sweet. She had said it plain, then looked away, like it mattered more than she wanted him to know. Johnathon grabbed his pen. He drew fast. A nest of pasta, thin ribbons of lemon peel curled on top, a scatter of pink and white petals for color. He would cook the dish she loved, but plate it like a painting made for her. At the rail stood Lexi. She had followed him across the city with a dead phone and never left his side. Since ninth grade, when his mother was in the hospital, she had trusted him more than anyone. Now she watched him move, her pink purse at her hip, her cat eye glasses catching the light. She saw the petals in his hand and went still. He worked. He boiled the pasta and pulled it early, firm. He melted butter and pressed lemon into it until the smell filled the station. He tossed the ribbons through the sauce, then twisted them high in the center of the plate. He laid three pink and white lily petals along the edge, spotted and bright, like a small garden set beside the food. It looked like her. The timer rang. Johnathon carried the plate to the judges. His heart pounded. The head judge lifted a forkful and tasted. She stopped. "This one isn't about you," she said. "This is for someone." She looked past him, to the rail. "You can taste that too." Johnathon nodded. "It's her favorite," he said. The judges bent over their cards. Then the head judge raised her hand. "First place," she said. "You've earned your spot in the national final." The hall clapped. Johnathon turned to Lexi. Her eyes were wet. She pushed off the rail and came to him, ignoring the crowd. "You remembered," she said. Her voice dropped low and plain. "The thing I told you. I didn't think you were listening." "I was," he said. She opened her purse and pulled out the notebook she let no one read. She held it against her chest, then held it out to him. "There's something in here I've been scared to say," she said. "After the final. Not now." She stopped. "That's all I'm saying right now." Johnathon took the notebook. It felt heavy in his hands. He had won his place in the final. Now he held a page he had not yet earned the right to read.