My Parents Begged for My Execution on Live TV novel · Chapter 2 of 24

Chapter 2: Handmade

Shut out of Dominic's door, Nina is forced by the dean to attend the charity dinner, asks who made the dough, and swallows a plate handed to her in front of a hall.

On Monday morning I stood outside Dominic's apartment door with my hand in a splint.

I knocked until my good knuckles hurt.

He lived four floors above a laundromat, ten minutes from my dorm.

I had a key. I did not use it.

"Dominic, I'm not leaving until you tell me what I did."

A chair scraped inside.

His footsteps stopped on the other side of the wood.

"Stop pretending you're innocent."

"Pretending what? Open the door and look at me."

"I'm not looking at you ever again."

His footsteps went away.

A neighbor opened her door, looked at my splint, and shut it again.

I got his ring off in the stairwell with soap from the laundromat.

That afternoon I locked it in my desk drawer and went to class.

I had a model due, and I did not know what else to do.

On Tuesday I tried Maeve's number from three different phones.

Each time it went straight to a recording.

On Wednesday the dean of students stopped me outside the design studio and handed me a flyer.

"The charity dinner is Friday. Handmade Pasta to Support Our Community. You're on the donor table."

The picture on the flyer showed a row of ravioli on a red and green tablecloth.

My mouth went dry.

"Could someone else take my seat? I'm not feeling well."

The dean had written my recommendation letter by hand.

She had told me my designs were the most original in the department.

She did not smile now.

"The donors fund your grant, Nina. They come to meet the students they help. You are the student ambassador."

"I know."

"Then I'll find another ambassador. And I won't be able to recommend you for next year's funding."

That grant paid for my room and my last year.

My mother's treatment had already used up everything my family had saved.

"I'll be there," I said.

I made one rule for myself.

I would sit down, carry my plate around, and not put a single bite in my mouth.

*****

I came early to help set up.

I folded napkins and carried crates of bread until my splint was gray with flour.

The kitchen smelled of butter and nutmeg.

Three volunteers were rolling dough at a long steel counter.

I stopped at the pass and asked a question I had never asked about food in my life.

"Who made the dough?"

"The trustee, over there," a volunteer said. "He insists on doing it himself every year."

She laughed. "He says store-bought pasta is a sin."

The trustee looked up from the counter with flour to his elbows.

He was a big, gentle man with reading glasses pushed up on his forehead.

He had shaken my hand at the scholarship luncheon and told me to call him if I ever needed anything.

"Made with my own two hands, my dear," he said. "Wait until you taste the pumpkin ones."

"I'm sure they're wonderful."

I carried a tray of bread out to the hall.

I told myself nothing could happen if I didn't eat.

At seven the donors sat down.

At a quarter past, the volunteers carried out the plates.

I held my water glass with both hands and smiled when people talked to me.

When the ravioli reached our table, I stood up and said I was going to the restroom.

Brooke Tillman stepped into my path.

We had both applied for the same summer internship.

She had gotten her rejection letter in October, and she had been very polite to me ever since.

"Nina, you haven't touched anything. Do you think we're serving you something dirty?"

"I can't have cheese."

"Oh, that's fine." She smiled. "The trustee made a pumpkin batch. No cheese at all. He said he'd make them just for you."

She was already holding a plate.

A hush spread out from our table.

"Go on," said a woman behind me. "It won't kill you."

The trustee had come out of the kitchen, wiping his hands.

"Have just one, my dear. A lot of people worked on this."

The dean stood behind him with her arms folded.

I looked at the doors.

Then I looked at forty people looking at me.

The first time, I had picked up the fork myself and nothing had warned me.

This time every person in the room had watched them hand me the plate.

I took the fork.

I cut a pumpkin ravioli in half and put it in my mouth.

It was sweet and warm.

Brooke was smiling at me, and my shoulders came down.

The second I swallowed, her smile was gone.

Chairs scraped back across the hall.

Every voice stopped.

My roommate, three seats away, put her hand over her mouth.

"Oh my God," she said. "Nina. How could you ever do that?"

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