Saint Anything(22)

“Regular bim fry,” she told the guy. “Actually, make it two orders. No sauce. Just extra ketchup packets.”

“You got it.”

Moments later, he handed over a white bag that smelled heavenly and was already sprouting grease stains. Layla smiled, satisfied. “Perfect. Come on.”

Back at the benches, she nudged Eric off his seat—“Move, I need to set up!”—then sat down, opening the bag and putting her face over the opening. As we all watched, she took a deep breath, eyes closed. Then silence.

“Are we waiting for something?” I whispered to Irv, who was gnawing on a turkey leg.

“The verdict,” he replied, voice equally low.

Finally, Layla opened her eyes. “Okay. These will do.”

What followed was an intricate multistep process that began with the flattening and placement of the bag to turn it into a proper eating surface and ended with three identically sized pools of ketchup, each on its own napkin. To one, she added pepper. The next, salt. And the third, some unidentified substance she pulled from her purse, housed in a test tube.

“I know just what you’re thinking,” Irv said to me. “This has all been a little intense, but now it’s getting weird. I felt the same way my first time.”

“That’s because it is weird to carry your own personalized spice blend around,” Mac said, his eyes still on his history textbook. He was always studying at lunch, I’d noticed, but still listening to everything as well.

Layla ignored them, picking up a fry and dipping an end in one of the ketchups. She took a bite, chewing thoughtfully, then repeated the process with the other two options. When the fry was gone, she wiped her fingers on a napkin, then looked at me.

“Okay. Try one.”

“Me?” I had assumed this was an individual sport.

She nodded, gesturing for me to come over. I did, taking a seat next to one of the ketchup stations, and she pushed the bag/plate toward me. “Take one from the middle. Those are the best. I always eat from the inside out.”

I did as I was told, selecting a thick-but-not-overly-so one. Then I realized that, although I’d been eating fries since before I could talk, this was the first time I’d not been sure how to do it. This was made more awkward by the fact I had an audience.

“One, two, three,” Layla said, pointing at each of the ketchups. “Triple dunk. Then eat half, flip it over, and repeat with other side. That way you avoid the double dip.”

“What’s in that last one?” I asked, still hesitant.

“My own creation. Don’t worry, it’s not spicy or gross. I promise.”

In every friendship, at some point comes a test. Never before in my experience, however, had it involved food. First time for everything, I thought, and followed directions.

I’m not sure what I’d been anticipating. A good fry? Some tangy sauce? It was not, however, the perfection that subsequently unfolded inside my mouth. Considering the intricacy of preparation, maybe this is what I should have been expecting. But the crispness of the outer shell, the mushy, hot softness of the potato within, suddenly tinged with the sweetness of the ketchup mix, was a total surprise. Wow.

“See?” Layla said, smiling at me. “Great, right?”

“It’s amazing,” I said, already turning it over and prepping the next bite.

She clapped her hands, clearly thrilled. “I love a new convert to my process.”

“Welcome to the illness,” Mac said.

“Oh, don’t listen to him, he used to eat his weight in these things. And he was barbaric about it. Just dumped them out, covered them in ketchup, and dove in.” She shuddered. “Ugh.”

I glanced over at Mac, who was eating an apple. He saw me and rolled his eyes, and I quickly looked away. In the next beat, like always, I regretted this, but there was something about him that made me so nervous. From someone that good-looking, even the smallest bit of attention was like the brightest of lights focused on me.

I knew this reaction well, because I’d seen it from the other side in girls when they were around my brother. He and Mac had the same dark, intense looks, that identical way of drawing attention just by existing. But while Peyton had long been aware of it, I had the feeling Mac wasn’t. He didn’t carry himself like he knew he was attractive. And sometimes, when he did catch me watching him, he seemed surprised.

But I shouldn’t have even been thinking like this, and not just because Mac would never be interested in me in the first place. I’d only been hanging out with Layla for a week or so, but certain rules, spoken and unsaid, were already clear. You weren’t barbaric with fries. You didn’t take the bubble gum or cotton candy YumYums. And you never even thought about dating her brother. Just ask Kimmie Crandall.

I’d first heard this name during a typical fast-paced lunch conversation. It began with a discussion about milk and how people either really liked it or really didn’t: there was no in between. Then it shifted to other things that people hated, which segued into a speed round during which Layla, Eric, and Irv tried to come up with the most awful combination ever.

“Someone you truly dislike eating with their mouth open,” Eric offered. “And something gross. Like egg salad.”

“What’s wrong with egg salad?” Irv asked.

“Just play the game,” Layla told him.