Chapter 3

The next day, I went to the store. Just buying the bags of crawfish made my skin itch.

I spent hours in the kitchen. I wore thick rubber gloves, but I could still feel the toxic essence of the shellfish seeping through. My hands started to burn, turning red and blotchy. A painful rash was already blooming across my wrists.

I chopped vegetables, stirred the pot, and breathed in the spicy, sickening steam. Every minute was a small act of self-torture. But I finished it. A huge, steaming pot of Cajun crawfish boil sat on the stove, a monument to my desperation.

I went to the dining room to set the table. One, two, three, four, five... I counted the plates. My father, Andrew, Maria, Ethan, and... Ethan's parents, the Scotts. They were here too.

There was no seat for me.

I stood in the doorway, invisible. The smell of the food I'd made filled the house, but no one seemed to notice I was the one who cooked it.

They were all in the living room, gathered around Maria. She was perched on the sofa, looking pale and lovely, recounting some story from her play. My father was laughing, a sound I hadn't heard directed at me in years. Andrew watched her with open adoration. Ethan was on the floor at her feet, looking up at her like she was the sun.

Mrs. Scott, Ethan's mother, was the first to see me.

"Jocelyn, dear! You cooked! It smells wonderful."

Her kindness was almost more painful than their neglect.

The group finally turned to look at me. My father' s expression was neutral, Andrew' s was impatient.

"Dinner's ready," I said, my voice barely a whisper.

They all got up and moved to the dining room, chattering and laughing, leaving me behind. I watched them take their seats, my seat, at my table.

I ended up in the kitchen, eating a cold sandwich over the sink while they feasted on the meal that was blistering my skin. I could hear their laughter, the clinking of forks, Maria' s soft voice holding them all captive.

After a while, Mrs. Scott came into the kitchen. Her face was full of concern.

"Jocelyn, why aren't you eating with us? There's plenty of food."

She didn't understand. She couldn't.

"I'm not hungry," I lied.

"Nonsense," she said, taking my arm gently. "Come on. You can't just hide in here."

She led me back to the dining room. There was an awkward shuffle as Ethan was forced to pull up a spare chair from the corner, squeezing it in between him and his father. I sat down, my hands hidden under the table, my face burning with shame.

I hadn't been at the table for more than a minute when Maria suddenly gasped. She clutched her throat, her eyes wide with panic.

"I... I can't breathe," she choked out, her voice raspy. "My throat... it's closing up."

Chaos erupted.

Andrew jumped up, knocking over his chair. "What's wrong? Maria!"

My father rushed to her side. "An allergic reaction! Someone call 911!"

But they didn't need to. Everyone's eyes, full of accusation and horror, landed on me.

"You," my father snarled, his face contorted with rage. "You did this. You knew she was sensitive to something in the spices."

"What? No! I just made her favorite dish!" I stammered, my mind reeling.

"You tried to poison her!" Andrew yelled, his hands clenched into fists. "You couldn't stand seeing her happy!"

I looked at Ethan, pleading for him to see the truth. He just shook his head slowly, a look of profound disappointment on his face. He turned to his mother, who was staring at me in shock.

"Now you see," Ethan said to her, his voice cold and final. "Now you see why I can't be with her."