First, you should know that Top Chef night was Chef Brinkley’s idea, not mine. I divided the class into two teams and hoisted a sack of onions onto the counter for the “Quick Fire” challenge: a mise en place relay race. Knife skills weren’t Lionel’s strong suit. But Chef Brinkley liked to take risks with his classes, said it increased “student engagement.” Turns out he was right. By the time I got Lionel and his pinkie to the car, I had the boy’s full attention. When I told him to keep his hand elevated, he saluted me like a true soldier. I wrapped my apron around the already soaked dishtowel. The hospital was a few miles from campus, and he wasn’t going to ruin the seat of my Corolla.

I got him settled in the ER waiting room and started on the paperwork. I didn’t know much about Lionel beyond the fact that he was dumping money into his red and black GTI like it was a long term investment. Mirrored rims and tinted windows. He parked it diagonally in the school lot, taking up two spaces. Before class, he’d be reclined in the driver’s seat, rap booming. When I suggested we call his mother, Lionel shrugged his shoulders and said she was at work. When I asked about his father, he mumbled, “Good luck with that” and pulled his hood up over his Mohawk. Discussion over.

But I’m fluent in the language of eighteen-year-old boys. Lionel’s answers were not unlike the ones Sam gave me if I asked when he planned on taking out the garbage. Maybe if his dad had stuck around, I’d get an audible response from my own son once in a while. Maybe Lionel’s mother wondered the same.

I took a deep breath. “Okay. Do you have an insurance card?”  

He started to reach for his back pocket. “It’s in my backpack,” he said, then slumped back in his seat.

I checked the box marked “Dependent” and gave the clipboard to the receptionist. “If anyone asks, you’re my son.”

Lionel took his phone out and worked his Facebook page one-handed. “Hey, how about laying off the updates till we’re out of here?” I said, to which he responded with yet another shrug.

I texted Sam not to wait up. No doubt he was tackling Call of Duty instead of Spanish. He had a test tomorrow, and we were supposed to run through his vocabulary when I got home. Donde estas? Sam wrote back. El hospital con un estudiante. His curiosity ended there. A single Que lastima! and he was back to fighting zombies.            

Lionel looked pale. Blood had seeped through the apron now. I told him there was a good chance they could reattach the pinkie. But that wasn’t what was bothering him.

“It just sucks,” he said. “I had that relay nailed. I’m like a samurai with the blade.” He made a few air chops with his good hand before looking to me for an answer.

“I guess if there’s a finger to lose, that’d be the one,” I offered.

Nervous, he tapped his phone against his knee. This time he didn’t shrug.