Hungry for More

CHAPTER 27



Troy and James didn’t look at each other as they chopped shallots in the basement prep kitchen. Asking the boy to help him chop was a ruse to get him alone, away from his mother. He wanted to know what Troy thought of Madame Weirdo and the channeling.

“You want another five pounds, J?” Troy asked, pushing the shallots into a pile on the edge of his board.

James glanced at Troy’s shallots. Thin enough to melt with the first blast of heat. The kid was good, but he should be out on the playground, having fun. Or at least doing homework. James shuddered at the memories. “How’s school?”

“What are you, my dad? It sucks. It’s boring shit. What do you think?”

“That it’s boring shit. I wish I could have said that to my dad when I was a kid. How’s school? A disaster. How was your day, Pops?”

“So why didn’t you? If I had a dad, I’d tell him what was what.”

No, you wouldn’t, James thought. You’d do anything in your power to make him love you, and you’d be devastated when you failed. He fought back the pain stabbing through his gut. “You wanna make the stock tonight?”

Troy stopped chopping. “No shit?”

James put down his knife. “Definitely no shit. Shit would ruin the flavor of the broth.”

“Veal, chicken, or beef?” Troy asked.

“Start with chicken, then you won’t cost me so much when you screw it up.” He looked at Troy, who was so excited his eyes were shining. He’d talk to the kid about his mother and Amy later. Why kill his buzz? After all, this was between him and Amy. He shouldn’t involve the kid. “I’ll be back in an hour to check on it.”

“No prob, boss.” Troy had already pulled down the stockpot and set it under the faucet. “You can count on me.”



Troy squeezed his eyes shut, trying to concentrate on the stock.

Damn, he hadn’t been able to keep his head on straight ever since that channeling.

Chicken parts, bones, celery, onions, carrots, leeks, fresh parsley, and thyme. He searched the walk-in for the ingredients, stacking the containers in his arms.

It was the damn pendant around his neck. The one Amy had given him.

He went back to the prep kitchen and dumped the containers on the counter. He checked his water, then started adding chicken bones and pieces to the pot.

He wished he could take the pendant off and toss it in the pot, too. That would get that baby boiling. Sometimes he half expected to see the circle of the pendant branded into his flesh. After they had left Madame Disgusto’s trailer, he actually checked. The thing had practically been on fire.

He studded the peeled onions with clove and added them whole.

He should rip the necklace off. After all, he hadn’t agreed to wear it.

But since he had been wearing it, luck had come his way. Scary good luck. Like Andrea Pruis winking at him in third-period bio. And his mom being so happy about meeting Amy. And now, not only getting into James’s prep kitchen, but also getting to make the stock.

He cleaned the celery stalks and dumped them into the boiling water.

Of course, it probably had nothing to do with the necklace.

He scrubbed the carrots, then put them in, one by one, letting them slide below the surface like divers.

A flash of heat from the pendant scorched him.

He should rip off this crazy necklace and pawn it. He wondered if it would get him through the culinary institute. He had tried to leave it in his drawer at home, but it had felt so wrong, as if it were calling to him, that he had slung it back onto his neck. His chain-link collar. He was starting to wonder if Amy had cast some sort of spell on the thing.


It was definitely, somehow, getting into his head.

He stirred the stock clockwise, adding the herbs.

A hand gripped his shoulder. He glanced out of the corner of his eyes. James. “Should’ve known you wouldn’t trust me with the stock,” Troy muttered.

James leaned in close and inhaled, his hand still on Troy’s shoulder. “Just checking. Nice start. Too much thyme.”

Troy smirked at him. Any dishwasher could take it this far.

James looked over the array of ingredients. “Clean the leek at least three times. And remember, don’t add salt until the end.”

He put his hand on James’s arm to push him away. “Back off. I need room to create here, Chef.”

But then he heard it clear as day.

A voice.

A woman’s voice.

In his head.

“Amy Abigail Lester Burns,” it said.

“You okay?” James took a step back. “You look like you just saw a ghost.”

Troy’s hand flew to the pendant. One True Love. Hearing names. When you touch someone, you hear the name of their One True Love.

Troy stared at James, his blood cold with dismay. Amy is James’s One True Love. I touched him and I heard her name.

I have the voice. I have the power.

James asked, “You sure you’re okay? You look pale. Kinda sick.”

Troy stirred the liquid in the pot. What was it again? Right, chicken stock. Focus. “Get lost. I’m fine.” He hoped his voice wasn’t too shaky. He hoped he wouldn’t throw up. This was wrong. It was bad. It was everything he never wanted. He was a kid—what did he care about True Love? He had a good ten years of True Lust still ahead of him.

Worse, what did he care about the spirit world? He hated all his mother’s Gypsy mumbo jumbo. And yet, he knew without having to be told that the voice was a calling—a destiny that needed to be fulfilled and respected. And how could you fulfill a spiritual destiny when what you really wanted to do was cook? Really cook. The kind of cooking that took all your time and dedication.

If my destiny is to have this voice, maybe I’m not meant to cook. Troy bit his lip hard, fighting back anger. Why couldn’t his mother just keep the voice? Why’d it have to come to him? He had plans.

James’s eyes narrowed. “If the stock’s too much responsibility, I understand. I didn’t mean to spook you. I can get Denny down here to help.”

Too much responsibility. That was what this voice was. He understood why his mother hated it. Troy felt weak with dismay.

Well at least she didn’t have it now, which should make her happy. But why did he feel so nervous and sick, like he thought she’d be mad as hell?

The terror gripping him was making him dizzy. He wished there was somewhere to sit down. But a chef never sat. Chairs were for the customers, he’d heard James tell a second-rate garde manger one night after a hellish night on the line just before he fired him.

Amy and James.

Who cared about those two? That was the least of his problems.

James was watching him closely. “I’m nervous leaving you here, Troy. You look like you’re ready to do something awful.”

“Like add salt?” His voice came out weak and shaky.

Manuel called down the stairs. “Chef! The sauces are done. Ahora. ”

James looked uneasily at Troy. “I gotta check the sauces. I’m sending Denny down.” James withdrew with a last look back. “Don’t demo the place before he gets here.” He disappeared up the basement stairs.

As soon as James was gone, Troy leaned his elbows on the counter, dropping his head to its cool surface so he could breathe. He squeezed his eyes shut and counted to ten. Easy. Work to do. The stock, concentrate on the stock.

He picked up his spoon angrily and stirred the stock, clockwise, unable to smell or taste or even see. Anger at his mother—he felt like this was her fault, for not being strong enough to keep the voice herself—clouded all his senses with bitter, smoky hatred. I wish I had a normal family.

Normal. He’d never be normal again.

He smashed a head of garlic against the counter, and its cloves flew across the kitchen.

I’m one of them. I have a power. A stupid Gypsy power.

What now? Was he really expected to go forth and spread True Love throughout the land?

James was Amy’s One True Love.

Why did that bother him, too? After all, what did he care about who James shacked up with?

But Troy knew the answer to that as clearly as he knew it was a stupid, baby-ass wish: He had hoped that somehow, James and his mom would get together. Which would—stupid, stupid, stupid-ass baby —make James his dad.

Oh, who gave a flying f*ck? What about me? What about my dream of being a chef? He could imagine it now: The Love Café. Folks would line up around the block to have dinner and learn the name of their soul mate. Only no one would give a shit about the food; all they’d care about was the name.

He needed air. He’d take a quick pace in the alley. Kick in a few walls. Tear the town down.

He ripped off his apron, then stopped.

This was his life. He was making the decisions. Not some stupid spirit. If he didn’t want her, he’d just get rid of her. Amy would know how to do that.

Amy. She was strong, unlike his mother. He could count on her.

He took a deep breath, then retied his apron and ripped off the necklace instead, breaking the clasp with a snap. He thrust it into the nearest drawer and slammed it shut.

Troy felt like dumping the entire pot of water on the floor.

He felt like tearing out all his hair.

He felt like disappearing and never coming back.

Troy was glad James was gone. He’d freak if he could see Troy’s tears disappearing into the steaming pot. All that salt, added way too soon.

He had to find Amy.



Amy charged down the basement stairs just as Troy charged up them. They almost collided.

“Where’s your mom?” Amy demanded. “I’ve been looking for her everywhere.”

“Amy. Oh, thank God. We have to talk.” His eyes were wild, darting around, as if he were being chased.

“Your mother lied to me, Troy. We need to all talk. You weren’t in on this, were you?” Amy was rigid with hope that Troy hadn’t known about his mother’s lie.

“I am now.” Troy sat on the stairs.

Amy’s heart sank with him.

“Amy, I have the voice.”

“That’s funny; I thought you just said that you had the voice.” She must really be losing it if she was hearing things.

“I do. It came to me. Just now. Downstairs. And you’re James’s One True Love.”

That stopped Amy cold. She sank onto the stair beside him. “What? Wait. You? How?” She wanted to back up the stairs, start this conversation all over again. Or better yet, go back up the stairs and run.

“Just now. In the prep kitchen.” He reached out and touched her. “Oh. Hell. I never knew James’s middle name was Daniel.”

Amy’s eyes grew wide. “Are you screwing with me, Troy? Because I don’t think I can handle any more lies today.” James was her One True Love. She had known it all along, and yet to hear it spoken still knocked the air out of her. Unless Troy’s lying now, too. The look on his face was too confused and pained to be an act—the boy wore his heart on his sleeve. But Troy with the voice? Why? What had happened?

James. She wanted to run to him and from him in equal measure.

“Amy, I think you gave me the voice. By giving me the pendant. It’s been like a spell, getting all hot, and I’ve been feeling so weird. What am I going to do? I don’t want it, and now you can’t take it back. Right? ’Cause you love James? So I’m stuck with it?” He bit his lower lip.


Denny pushed past with a tray of raw meat, giving Amy time to think. As Denny brushed Troy’s leg, the boy squeezed his eyes shut hard, as if trying to block the voice.

Had she given it to him with the pendant? Did Maddie see that as a changing of the guard? Had Maddie been waiting for her to choose her successor?

Or had Maddie led her here because Troy was destined to be her successor? Was that the connection to James? They all were meant to meet?

And did any of that matter? She had to keep her focus: Don’t trust Troy. Don’t trust anyone. He and his mother might be in on this together. She had felt Maddie at the channeling, which meant that maybe the channeling was real and that she still had a shot to help Troy and get Maddie back. After service tonight, she’d call Jasmine; if she and Josh were in New York, she’d go right there and beg for money for Troy.

Or was it all a lie? Was it all over, and now she was a waitress/buser/nobody for the rest of her life?

Maddie gone forever? Like her mother?

Stu appeared at the top of the stairs. “Showtime, boys and girls. First tables are filling. Quit yapping and start smiling!”

Amy looked to Troy. “Okay. The show must go on. After service, we’ll all sit down and talk.”

Dan yelled down the stairs, “Yo, let’s move it. Full house.”

Troy pushed back his hair. “Okay. I’ll try. But I feel really weird. Everyone I touch, I hear her voice. It’s creepy. I don’t like it. This is gonna be a long night.”

For me, too, Amy thought. The first one of the rest of my life.





Tarte aux Noix de Pecan

Pecan tarte with crème anglaise and French vanilla ice cream

—JAMES LACHANCE, Meal of a Lifetime,

THE MENU: DESSERT