Free Bad Taste in Boys by Carrie Harris Page A

portable griddle sat in pieces at the end of the room. The caf was a sea of empty putty-colored tables, conspicuously devoid of volunteers.
    Then Kiki walked through the door from the kitchen, and I breathed a sigh of relief. As soon as she saw me, she dropped an entire armful of paper products on the floor and waded through them to hug me.
    “Oh, Kate, I’m so glad you’re here!” she wailed, brushing hair out of her red, sweaty face—and somehow still managing to look good. “The squad was supposed to be here at three-thirty, and none of them showed. I tried to call, but no one’s answering. They all better have darn good reasons for standing me up, or I’ll bench them. I’m so … so … pissed!”
    “It’s okay.” I put a hand on her shoulder. “It’s just pancakes, Kiki. We can handle pancakes.”
    “But this is the big cheer-sponsored homecoming event. How does it look if none of the cheerleaders show up?”
    “I don’t think anyone will mind so long as there’s food to eat. Just point me toward the cook tables and everything will be fine.”
    The griddle went together easily, because I was one of those people who actually followed instruction manuals. Within ten minutes, I was ready to switch it on. I’d never made pancakes before, but I was better than I’d expected after a few practice runs. It was like following a lab protocol, a process requiring impeccable timing and precise measurements. I devised a system to keep the line moving steadily while maintaining food temperature at acceptable levels. When Kiki brought me the batter, I tried to explain it to her, but her eyes glazed over about three words in. People just didn’t appreciate my talent.
    A couple of the cheerleaders finally showed up just in time to serve as cashiers, with some lame excuse about car trouble. Kiki read them the riot act; I probably would have grumped at them too if I hadn’t been having fun despite myself. We opened at five o’clock and were immediately swamped. I fired off pancakes as quickly as I did Quiz Bowl answers, but the line kept growing anyway. People couldn’t wait to fork over eight bucks for my cooking. I could probably have funded my college education with my mad pancake skills, but this money would be used to buy the cheerleaders new go-go boots. We all had our priorities.
    I was so busy that the only time I saw my players was when I was filling their plates. None of them seemed sick, nor did anyone loom over me like Count Chocula on crack. I saw a lot of chalky gray skin tones, but it was mid-October in the Midwest, so I wasn’t sure whether to blame their complexions on the mystery disease or our sucky weather. Mike didn’t show.
    I flipped pancakes at precisely timed intervals, and the line marched on. I took two paces to the left, squirted out six puddles of batter in row one, flipped row three, served row five, squirted out six more puddles, and so on. I had pancake making down to an art form.
    Then I heard an improper sizzle.
    My technique was so refined that I knew something was wrong. It was too early for row two to be sizzling, too late for row four. I didn’t have any sausages cooking right now.
    I did, however, have a hand on my griddle.
    It belonged to a woman with a mom bob, a vacant stare, and an athletic booster pin. She leaned across the griddle to offer me her plate, bracing herself with one hand. Palm down. Next to a bubbling pancake. I figured she must be an amputee, but I didn’t smell burning plastic. It smelled kinda like bacon, actually.
    I looked around to see if anyone else had noticed, but people were remarkably unobservant. A couple of guys from the offensive line stood behind her; they were busy discussing farts in great detail. Talk about offensive.
    “Kate, you better take those sausages off the grill,” Kiki said from the toast and juice station. “I think they’re burning.”
    I didn’t want to tell her it was the scent of fried hand. And I really didn’t