He heated the milk over the stove and then beat the eggs in a bowl, his wrist moving with an artistic rhythm. When tiny, foamy bubbles formed around the edge of the pan, he smiled in approval. “Now we add the eggs. You try.”
I took the bowl from him, then poured the eggs into the pan. I gasped as globs of curdled egg rose to the surface of the liquid. “Um … oops?”
Lanz mock-glared. “You dumped.”
I sputtered. “I did not!” When he kept glaring, I broke into giggles. “I dumped.”
He took the bowl away from me. “You should stick with dancing.”
I rolled my eyes. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
“Ah ah ah. I’m not letting you give up so easily. We try again, yes?” He tossed the curdled eggs down the drain, mixed fresh ones, and then handed me the bowl. I hesitated.
“Slowly and gently.” He stood behind me. “Like you were performing an adagio.” My breath caught at his use of the dance expression. As soon as he described it, I knew exactly what he wanted. He slipped his hand over mine, and I lost my breath entirely. “Like this.”
Together, we trickled the egg mixture into the pan, slowly and carefully. This time, they didn’t curdle.
“This takes a long time,” I murmured, torn between wanting his hand to stay on mine and feeling like I should move away.
“Great ice cream is like great dancing. It takes patience and hard work. And also …” He flicked a bit of cold milk at me with his spoon. “Fun.”
I splashed some milk back at him with a laugh. “Not everything is about fun.”
“Work should bring you joy,” he went on. “My father says that life is like gelato—flavorful, delightful, surprising. But always gone too soon. So … I try to live la dolce vita.” His eyes studied me. “And for you. Dance makes life sweeter?”
“It does,” I said. “But I’ll probably never have the patience for ice cream that I do for dance. That’s one of the reasons why Mom gets frustrated with me.”
“Maybe search for the sweetness in the process?”
That turned out to be easier than I thought. Drawn out as the process was, the warmth of Lanz’s palm against the back of my hand as he guided me made every second better. Then, guilt stung me. What if I was being disloyal to Ethan? On the other hand, Lanz and I were only making ice cream together. What was wrong with that?
Still, I tried to put a safe distance between us as we waited for the egg-and-milk mixture to cool enough to put it into the ice cream machine. I focused on washing up the pots and cleaning the counters. But after we’d poured the mixture into the ice cream machine to start it churning, adding in a splash of the espresso for flavor, Lanz pulled an edition of The Scarlet Letter from his backpack and sat down next to me.
“We have fifteen minutes before it is done churning,” he said. “Maybe we have our English lesson now?”
“I wasn’t sure you actually wanted a tutoring lesson,” I said.
“Of course I do,” he said, his eyes playful. “I didn’t lie to my mother. I told her half of the truth? And it’s not so much the speaking of English I need help with, but the reading of it. Maybe I should read out loud, and you can help me with the difficult words?”
I nodded, we bent our heads over the text, and soon I was lost again. Not in the words, but in the nearness of him. It was confusing—completely freaking me out. What did it mean? I was terrified what the answer to that question might be.
Just then, the back door opened, and the strange spell was broken. I startled, pulling away from Lanz, and glanced up to see Ethan in the doorway, with Tilly and Andres right behind him.
“Hey—” I began, but that was all I managed to get out before the three of them rushed at me, practically knocking me over with their group hug.
“You did it!” Tilly hollered. “Congrats!”
My mind was still muddled, so it took me a few seconds to remember the text I’d sent them on the walk here, telling them about what had happened with Signora Benucci.
“Thanks, guys,” I stammered.
Ethan put his arm around my waist, kissing my cheek. I was hyperconscious of Lanz watching us together, and of Tilly watching Lanz watching us. I could practically hear Tilly’s internal radar pinging. What was she seeing right now?
The ice cream machine beeped, signaling that the churning was finished. Phew! Thankful to have an excuse, I slid away from Ethan and out from under Lanz’s and Tilly’s gazes. I removed the metal bucket from the machine. Peaks of cappuccino-colored ice cream filled the bucket, the consistency of soft serve. It would only grow firmer after being in the deep freeze for a day.
“Time to add the tiramisu,” Lanz said, “quickly before the ice cream starts to melt.”
I held the Tupperware container as Lanz scooped bits of the tiramisu into the bucket. Then he added the cookie butter. He stirred only just enough to fold the dessert and cookie butter into the ice cream.
As Lanz worked, Ethan smiled at me proudly. “It’s awesome news, Mal. What did your mom say?”
“About what?” Mom asked.
I whirled around to see her standing in her office doorway.
“Oh, well …” I hesitated. Now was my chance to tell her, but one look at her harried face warned me against it. I couldn’t risk her saying no. “Just that Tilly and I have this big English project coming up,” I blurted. “A Google Drive presentation on The Scarlet Letter.” That was true, at least. “And,” I continued, “we’re going to need to work on it after school for the next few weeks. At Tilly’s house. We have to log in our
