Page 37 of White Lights
“That was your warning,” Dr. Lebevre says, and goes back to sharpening his knives. “Can you cook?”
“Yeah. I can cook.”
“Better than her?” Dr. Lebevre points his knife at Esther.
“We just met,” Dez says.
Chef nods. “It’s omakase.”
“It’s what?” Dez says under her breath to Esther.
“Sushi!” Chef says like Dez is an idiot.
“Just do what he tells you,” Esther says.
“Three rules,” Lebevre barks as they come to stand beside him. “No talking. No soy sauce. No breaks. Townsend’s on rice—one tablespoon, a teardrop shape. Rae, you plate. Watch me once, then you do it.”
Dez watches and she learns. Lebevre takes the rice Esther mounds and tops it with a sliver of fish. When the plated sushi is passed to Dez, depending on what color the fish is, she follows his lead and uses tweezers to add a sliver of chili, a paper-thin shiso leaf, or three dots of a sauce labeledyuzu.
She wonders what any of this tastes like.
Just as she’s falling into a rhythm, Dr. Lebevre shouts, “Rae, bring me the kinmedai from the walk-in freezer.”
Dez looks at Esther, who shrugs, wide-eyed; then she heads for the large walk-in freezer at the back of the kitchen. She has no idea what kinmedai is, and no phone to search the word online. But opening the bedroom-sized icebox, overstuffed with ingredients entirely foreign to Dez, she welcomes the moment of solitude.
Earlier, when she got a moment to herself in her room, she thought about stashing the pill bottle with the eye in her drawer, but what she really needs is someplace cold that will keep it from decomposing. Somewhere safe no one will find it. She takes the bottle out of her pocket, gazing up at the paper parcels of flour on the highest shelf.
She tests her boot on the lowest shelf, then one higher, to see if it will bear her weight.
The door swings open. As Dez hops down, the bottle slips from her hand—and into the mouth of a giant fish carcass on the sheet tray beside her.
“I was just looking for the—” She breaks off when she realizes the visitor isn’t Dr. Lebevre. It’s a thin man in his twenties with close-cropped blond hair, fair, beautiful skin, and eyes two different colors—one aquamarine, one black.
“Have I interrogated you yet?” he says.
“About …?” Dez says, putting her body between the man and the fish carcass holding her secret.
“About which clubs you’re joining!” He must be a last-year withthat air of relaxed pretension. “I recommend two to start, unless you’re one of our overachievers.” He pauses, giving Dez a once-over. “You look confused. I’m Jetrel Connelly. You can call me Jet. Perhaps my reputation precedes me?”
Dez slowly shakes her head.
“I’m head of the welcome committee at Acheron! It’s my job to make sure everyone finds their place in our community. So, what are you into? Do you speak Sumerian?”
“No.”
“Play violin?”
“Not really.”
Jet frowns into his tablet. “Our social justice club has some openings. We call itEye for an Eye.”
Dez stiffens.
“Can I sign you up for that one?” Jet asks.
“Um, I don’t—”
“We could really use some fresh points of view in the club,” Jet says. “Our mission is to explore the ethics of our work, to ask the deep questions …”
