Chapter 8 Recap: Jackie reveals the group costume. The trio is going as “unexpectedly sexy” flight attendants, and somehow it works. Liz finally catches onto the weirdness between Charlie and Jackie.

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Of all the times I've heard people talk about how difficult the holidays can be, I don't think anyone was ever talking about Halloween. But, there I was, four days before Andy’s party, still stressing over all the weirdness with Jackie and wondering whether or not I was going to look like an idiot in my costume. And I had no idea how I was going to ask Finn if he was going to Andy’s party without making it seem like I cared too much.

Independent study was first period, and I'd gotten to school so early that it was still dark out when I entered the building. I had woken up at four in the morning and couldn't get back to sleep. Insomnia was, apparently, my new thing. Even the faculty parking lot had been empty for the most part, with only a few tired-looking teachers peeling themselves out of their cars to shuffle toward the entrance. 

The light was already on when I entered the room. Finn's backpack was in the corner and I could hear the tinny, distant clang of his headphones playing, even though he was nowhere in sight. I dropped my bag on the counter and noticed a package of some sort that had been placed by my workstation. It was a tiny plastic bag of candy corn.  I studied it closely without touching it, like it might explode if disturbed. 

“Morning,” Finn said groggily as he stepped out of the storage closet and slammed the door behind him. He was bleary-eyed and sounded half asleep. 

“I can’t believe we’re here at this hour.”

“I know, it's so early. I woke up and couldn't get back to sleep,” he said as he moved to the back of the room. He picked up a long paintbrush and swished it in a cup of water, making a hollow knocking sound. 

“Is this from you?” I said, holding up the bag of candy. 

“Oh, yeah,” he said with half a laugh. “Tis the season. I love that stuff.”

“Thanks,” I said, trying not to sound too excited.

“I bought a bunch at the gas station. Coffee and candy corn – breakfast of champions.”

I smiled as I pulled a mandolin slicer and a sack of potatoes from my bag. I got to work scrubbing each potato and setting it on a kitchen towel to dry. 

“What's on the menu for today?” he shouted from across the room

“Potato gratin,” I answered over my shoulder, deciding at the last minute to use the pronunciation that Riley had taught me. 

She had finally graduated me to a dish that required a heating agent. 

“Grah taan,” he repeated in a mock French accent. I giggled.

“Oui.”

“Eh...fromage,” he added, turning down the corners of his mouth and exaggerating the accent.

“Um...croissant...eh, chocolat?” 

He scratched his chin, pretending to contemplate what I'd said. 

“Monsieur...Quincampoix!”

“Did you seriously just quote Amelie?” I asked, dropping the fake accent. It was my all-time favorite movie. 

“Yeah, I love that movie,” he said with a grin. “I'm pretty sure that one day I'll be like Dufayel. Like, an old hermit painting all day. Bones of glass.” 

“Yeah?”

“Hanging out with hot French chicks half my age.”

I laughed again. 

I turned back to the counter and began to slice my potatoes and assemble the gratin. I was surprised by how much what I put together resembled actual food. I’d finally moved on to real recipes and had actually come up with some decent copy the night before. As long as I stayed on track, the cookbook seemed like it actually might happen. And it might actually be good. It could be A Thing. 

While the timer counted down, I cleaned my workspace and made some notes, or at least pretended to. I was using every last ounce of mental energy to fight the urge to keep looking at Finn. To watch him chew on the end of a paintbrush as he squinted at his canvas. To check if he was looking at me. 

Suddenly struck with a feeling of bravery, I felt myself get up and walk to the side of the room I'd never been to. Finn's territory. 

His headphones were still on, so I was a few steps away from his easel by the time he noticed I was headed his way. A look of surprise flashed across his face as he snatched the buds from his ears. 

“Hey,” he said, sitting back on his stool. 

“Hey. I just figured I'd...come see what you're working on...If that's okay.” My stomach quivered.

“Oh, yeah...okay,” he said, sounding flustered. It was the first time I'd seen him taken off guard. He furiously wiped his palms against the front of his pants and then ran both hands through the front of his hair. 

He was nervous. It was adorable.

“So, it's nowhere near done. I mean, it's still in the really, really early stages. I mean, I don't usually show people anything this early on,” he explained. 

“I totally get it...You don't have to show me if you don't want to,” I said. 

“No, that's okay. It's not that big of a deal,” he said. 

He backed up, allowing me to walk around to the front of the easel. 

I'd been expecting something abstract and had prepared some general “Hmm, that's interesting...” type comments in my head in case I found myself facing a canvas filled with squiggles and paint splatters. Or, like, a giant red circle. 

Instead, the painting was the beginning of a photorealistic portrait of a young girl. A small photograph, his reference, had been taped to the upper corner of the easel. The girl in the picture was about six or seven years old. She had been dressed in a puffy snowsuit and sat in a snowbank, looking somewhat trapped by both her clothing and surroundings. She looked worried instead of happy to be playing in the snow. Without the photograph, I would have never known what the painting was supposed to be. Only a base layer of color had been applied to much of the scene – tones of white and gray for the snow, baby pink brush strokes for her hat and scarf, a peachy yellow for her skin. The rough penciling of Finn’s sketches could still be seen through the light layers. Only the girl's eyes were painted in painstaking detail. Every speckle of the grey-green of her iris, every lash, every wrinkle of her eyelid. They were an exact replica of the eyes in the photograph, but even more alive.  

There was something about the expression in her eyes that was instantly familiar. It took me a moment, but then I realized where I had seen them before.  

“I know it's sort of weird-looking since only the eyes are done...well, mostly done,” he explained. 

“No, it's not weird-looking. The eyes are amazing... They actually remind me of the eyes in this other painting. One of my mother's...” I said, stopping myself. I hardly ever said the word “mother” out loud.

“Your mom's an artist?”

“She used to be. Now she's a…she owns garden center,” I said self-consciously. 

He gave me a thoughtful look and began to say something. Just then, the timer I'd set for the gratin buzzed. 

“Scalloped potato time,” he said, his thoughtful look turning mischievous. 

“Potato gratin,” I corrected. 

“Oh, right. Grah-taaaan.”

“First, I have to take a picture though, for the cookbook.”

I pulled the dish from the oven. The gratin looked perfect, the edges of each little potato half-moon just barely golden brown. 

“Wow,” Finn said, peering over my shoulder. 

“I'm getting better,” I admitted. 

As Finn cleared some of his brushes from the counter, I placed the hot casserole dish on a kitchen towel. After finding my phone in my bag, I snapped a quick photo of my work. It looked pale and flat. 

“That phone actually has a decent camera,” he said as he tossed a crumpled paper towel into the wastebasket.  

“Too bad my gratin looks like a frozen dinner,” I said, handing him the phone. 

He studied the screen. 

“Well, you shouldn't use the flash. Here, let's move the dish closer to the window so we get more natural light,” he said, pointing to a counter by the windows. 

“Do you have anything besides that towel?”

I looked around the room. “My scarf?” I asked doubtfully. 

“Hmm...” he answered, scanning the room. “What about that piece of wood?”

“The cutting board?”

“Yeah, put the dish on that. And let's put one of the potatoes that you didn't cut up in the shot. And that big silver knife,” he said, pointing to each item in my workspace. 

I delivered the items and watched as he quickly arranged them. Standing back, he took a photo and immediately studied the image on the screen. He returned to his arrangement and made a few adjustments, moving each item by no more than half an inch. He stood back and snapped another photo. 

He studied the screen again and handed me the camera. The gratin looked completely different. The photo actually looked like something in a cookbook. 

“Lighting is everything. See, now it has some texture. And I think including the other props make the composition more interesting,” he explained. 

“It looks so much better. Especially without that dish towel,” I said, shaking my head. 

“Well, now you know,” he said, turning his head to look down at me. I was suddenly aware of how close we were standing. 

“So...” he said.

“So...” I repeated. His proximity was making me physically dizzy. 

“So, when do we get to break into this thing?” he said, laughing a little. “Remember, I had candy corn for breakfast.” 

“Oh, right! I totally owe you for helping me with the photo,” I said. “Let me find some forks.”

“I got it,” he said, pulling a fork from the back pocket of his jeans.  

“Nice,” I said and laughed. 

  He dug his fork into the gratin and pulled out a steaming chunk of potatoes. I watched him as he raised the fork to his mouth and blew on the gratin before taking a bite. I nervously waited for his reaction. 

He rolled his eyes and placed his hand on the counter, pretending to be on the verge of fainting. I giggled in spite of myself.

“Oh my god,” he said while chewing. “This is so fucking good.”

“Is it?” I asked, feeling giddy. 

“Yeah, here you have to try it,” he said as he used his fork to dig out another bite of gratin. “Here,” he said, holding the fork up to my face. 

I tried to look relaxed as I opened my mouth to accept the gratin.

Yep, this is totally normal. This is what happens during independent study. Finn and I eat using the same fork, and he feeds me. 

“So, good, right?” he said, searching my face for my reaction. 

I'd somehow managed to chew and swallow without tasting a thing. “Yeah...um, maybe I'll use a bit more pepper next time.”

“I think it's perfect,” he said, digging out another scoop. “I could seriously eat this whole thing.” 

As he hovered over the dish, I remembered Liz's strict orders. And Jackie's sudden interest the moment I'd mentioned Finn. I glanced at the clock. Seven minutes until first period. 

“So, are you doing anything for Halloween?” I blurted out, inwardly cringing at how random it sounded. He looked at me, appearing slightly confused. I'd broken the spell I'd managed to cast with my gratin. 

“Or, do you just observe with candy corn?” I asked with a laugh. 

I was relieved to see him smile. “I think I'm going to that party. The one at Andy’s,” he said, resting his fork on the side of the dish. He crossed his long, gangly arms across his chest and turned to face me. “What about you?”

“I think I'm going...I mean, I am,” I stuttered a little and cleared my throat. “I'm going.”

“You need a ride?”

“Oh,” I said, my heart suddenly beating faster. “I would, but I'm actually going with my friends Jackie and Liz. We have this whole costume thing planned out.”

“Really?” he said, one corner of his mouth turning upward. “What are you guys going as?”

“I'm not supposed to tell anyone. It was Jackie's idea. I think she kind of wants it to be a surprise,” I said. 

“Ah, mysterious...” he said, raising his eyebrows. 

“Well, what's your costume going to be?”

“Uhhh..um...it's a surprise?” he said and laughed. “It will basically be whatever I can pull together 15 minutes before I leave.”

“Should be interesting.”

“Yes,” he said. “It always is.”