Started With a Lie

Chapter Ten

       “Give me something to eat,” Lee orders, taking a seat at the island. Already, I hate his tone. He’s in my house and yet he’s ordering me around.

       Just because he’s a guest and because Mom says to always be nice to guests (and try not to strangle them) I smile and say, “What would you like to eat?”

       “Nothing you give me will delight my taste buds. Cheap food just doesn’t do for me,” he says, faking a yawn. My eyebrow twitches in anger. Stay calm; stay calm, I repeat in my head. He’s just mad because you rejected his sorry ass.

       “Oh yeah?” I challenge, squinting my eyes.

        “I’m certain.”

       He asked for it. I still remember a dish Granny taught me before she moved out of New York and to Boston. Lee’s going to wish he never challenged me on my cooking skills. “You want to bet?”

        Lee arches his eyebrow, clearly amused. “Sure. What’s the deal?” His arms are crossed now—probably trying to look more superior—but all it’s doing are making my eyes wander to his flexing muscles. Focus, I scold myself.

          “Whoever makes the greatest dinner wins,” I say, crossing my own arms. “The other person will taste it and we both have to be honest and tell each other if our meals taste good.” I rest my hands on the granite counter of the island. “Deal?”

    “Deal,” Lee smirks. I smirk back.

        I show Lee all the food and materials he needs to know. I bet he’s never touched a pan in his life. He was born into richness—probably never cooked. That’s why I feel so confident about this bet. I grin to myself just thinking about winning—earning a strange look from Lee. I am so going to win this bet.

         While I’m boiling my pasta and Lee is making some sort of soup, he suddenly asks, “Wait, what’s the reward? If one of us wins, what do we get?”

         “Hm,” I say, my wooden spoon in mid-air. “Whatever the other person wants, I guess. Is that okay with you?”

       “Fine by me,” Lee smirks. He continues his recipe after that and I continue my recipe. Granny had taught me this delicious pasta recipe. Every family gathering over holidays, she would make it. My mouth waters from even thinking about it.

       I scoop up the strings of the pasta and rinse them before adding pepper and spices. I pull out the meat sauce I had been working on while my pasta was boiling and spread it over the dish. For the final touch, I add some mint leaves for good breath. It’d be so embarrassing if Lee points out I have bad breath.

     “Done!” Lee announces. I hear him place his dish on the island counter. I bring mine over, too. Peaking at his dish, I realize it’s soup. So average, I think while smirking. But it smells pretty good.

      “I’m done, too,” I say.

     We place our dishes side by side. Both look so extravagant together—unlike Lee and I. Lee hands me a spoon and I hand him a fork. We switch places and I take a sip of his. There’s bread next to his soup so I bite down on the soft bread and sip more of his creamy soup.

       To say it’s delicious would be an understatement of the century.

       It’s so delicious that I’m scarfing everything down in a matter of seconds. How did Lee learn how to cook? It’s so scrumptious. I underestimated that boy. Looks like a dumb snotty kid but cooks like a pro.