Georgia Boys

03. in which we have the barbecue

At times, I cannot decipher whether I am a baker or a mad scientist. 

The kitchen is my lab, and I spend hours locked into it, with no desire to leave. I may don an apron instead of a lab coat, but the experience remains eerily similar. I spread out my ingredients along the back counter. 

I have my familiar ingredients lined up at the back, but my mind tosses over the possibilities. What if I used soy milk instead of homogenized milk? Molasses instead of powdered sugar? Ground flaxseed or mashed bananas instead of eggs?

The kitchen is mine, and currently, I am completely in control of the ingredients I use, how I use them. Mom and Dad are making their way down to the mill— a good four hour drive from here— to get their hands on some more flour, leaving me completely isolated.

Pulling out a silver bowl, I begin my experimental banana bread. Some ingredients were god-awful, and on days like that, I might make my way to Micah Hill's house where his Labrador, Everest, would inhale that shit with zero qualms. 

One way or another, someone would consume my baking. If I thought it too sweet, I might drop it off at Maxine De Leon's house, given the fact that the entire household ran on the principle that nothing could ever be to sweet. It seemed fitting then, that they ran a bee farm and consumed honey on a daily basis. If they want to eat pancakes? Honey instead of maple syrup? Oats? Honey instead of sugar. Tea? Honey.

There's a sort of peace in this— in dancing about the glistening floor, in refusing to follow the set guidelines and go by rhythm or gut as I created my baked goods. There's an ease in it, the type of ease I would only attribute to someone like Quincy Denton who rides skateboards across streets and breaks into country clubs and throws himself into lakes. 

I'm no Quincy Denton, but perhaps, when I'm in the bakery— the differences between us become less vast. 

It's early in the morning. I'd been out at the crack of dawn. The sky is an image of melted pinks and oranges and a rising sun. The store doesn't open for an hour, which the entire town is aware of, so when I hear the sound of knocks on our front door, a sigh is drawn from my mouth.

"We're closed!" I call out, eyes on the sweet mixture I'd concocted in front of me. The knocking ceases to stop. For fuck's sake.

My eyes flick over to the door and sure enough, that dumbass Quincy Denton is here. My eyes transform into daggers but his grin does not fade. I rinse my hands, drying it on my apron and make my way over to the rascal. 

Pushing the door open, I am now face to face with him. His t-shirt is black with some band I am unfamiliar with which is to be expected with Quincy and he's wearing the same oversized jeans he always does, skateboard in hand.

"What do you want?" I wade back into the kitchen and back to my beloved batter, my eyes rolling on instinct because there is no way I cleaned up solely to let Quincy in. I should've left him outside. It's not even extremely chilly, so I wouldn't feel any sort of guilt nor could I be held accountable if he were to get a cold. 

"The barbecue's today," Quincy leans across the counter from where I bake, reaching over to taste some batter which I artfully maneuver out of his reach. His lips quirk upward but he leans back in his seat.

"I'm aware," I reply, pouring a few droplets of vanilla into the bowl. There's no need for him to inform me of this. The town has an annual barbecue to kick off the summer. It's tradition, one of those things that is just a fact of this town and a fact of the way this town operates.

"Well," Quincy is unfazed, "I'm gonna try and get my parents to chill a bit. You do the same?"

Of course, the annual barbecue would be incomplete without the Barnes and the Dentons coming for each other's throats. Whatever saltiness Quincy and I have between us is nothing compared to the antagonism our parents have between themselves.