Page 2 of The ABCs of You & Me

“Japchae is a Korean noodle dish with vegetables and”—his head tilts, his eyes narrowing as he studies me—“you don’t know what kimchi is?”

“I think I’ve heard of it, but I don’t actually know what it is,” I admit, my face burning with my admission of ignorance.

His face lights up. “Fermented cabbage and some other veggies in a spicy chili paste. It’s not always made with cabbage. There are loads of different kinds, but the one I have…” he trails off when his eyes meet mine. “Information overload, sorry. You may like it, just trust me.”

My eyes narrow in suspicion. “The last time you told me to trust you I ended up with a nose full of cow shi… manure,” I whisper, glancing around. That moment was only marginally more embarrassing than nearly crashing through a vending machine.

“It’s not my fault you could never say no to a dare.” He smirks back. “Come on, Soph, I dare you to try the food. I made it myself.”

“You could be a terrible cook for all I know,” I fire back, pushing off the machine and standing at my full height, which usually makes me seem more intimidating than I am. Foster still towers over me, though, and I’m going to pretend I don’t like it.

He looks down at his bag, then back at me. “Guess you’ll have to try it to be sure. Otherwise you may spend the rest of the day hungry and wondering if I am, in fact, a good cook. Which, spoiler alert,” He leans in conspiratorially. “I am.”

He’s too close now, and there is definitely a little glint in his eye. All the nerves that I’d pushed down bubble back up.

“Fine.” I sigh.

“Mind if we eat in your office? I’d love to catch up before the other teachers pounce.” My stomach flips at the thought of being confined to such a small space with him. But I nod and lead the way.

“Not a lot of real estate, eh?” Foster observes, pulling out the chair across from mine as far as it can go, which isn’t far.

He starts opening containers, and I distract myself by searching for the plastic-wrapped takeout fork I’d seen in a drawer earlier.

“You sure you’re not going to still be hungry if you share?” I ask, taking in the containers that don’t look like enough food for two.

“I’ll be fine. Jessica and I have a stash of snacks in the classroom.”

“What kind of snacks?” I ask, watching him spoon out strange-looking noodles onto the container’s lid.

He glances up, that glint back in his eyes. “Contraband. Packed with sugar and sodium and hundreds of other ingredients we can’t pronounce.” He slides half the food toward me. “Go on, try it.”

I look down skeptically at the mix of things in front of me. It doesn’t look gross, but I’ve never eaten see-through noodles before. I take a tentative forkful and chew thoughtfully, letting the flavors envelop my tastebuds. Sweet and savory notes explode as I chew. It’s unlike anything I’ve had before, but I’m already craving another bite. When I look up, Foster is watching expectantly.

“So?” he asks, one eyebrow cocked.

“It’s really good,” I concede. “Like the best thing I’ve tried in a while.” I take another bite, chew and swallow. “It’s very moreish.”

“Excellent. Now, try the kimchi.”

The minute the cabbage is through my lips I want to spit it out, not because it’s gross but because it feels like I’ve stuck a lit match into my mouth.

“Oh my god,” I gasp, desperately looking around for a tissue while fanning my mouth dramatically.

“Here.” Foster hands over a napkin from his bag.

I grab it and spit the fire cabbage out as delicately as possible before rapidly sucking in air, which only fuels the flames currently destroying my taste buds. “That’s the hottest thing I’ve ever tried,” I exclaim, reaching for my water bottle.

“Really?” he asks, looking genuinely shocked. “It’s not even that hot. This was a mild batch.”

“Nothing about that was mild, Foster,” I sputter between gulps. “Should be called lava cabbage.”

“We’ll have to agree to disagree. Eat more of the noodles, they’ll cool you off.” I follow his direction and am pleased to discover that it helps. “Can you handle any spice?”

“Mild salsa is too hot for me.”

To his credit, he looks apologetic. “I should have asked, I’m sorry.”

“I have the spice tolerance of a slug,” I say through more nervous laughter.

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