by Laura Burton
“Ms. Jackson?”
I looked up and smiled at Mr. Banner, the principal, standing in the doorway. He hesitated a moment before he continued into the room.
“You don’t need to get up,” he said as I pushed away from my desk.
“Is everything okay?” I was starting to worry. It was rare to see my boss in my classroom. He walked the halls of this wing, but the most I’d see was the side of his head.
“Oh, yes.” He waved his hand as if he could dismiss all of my worries. “How is everything going?”
I looked at my stack of papers I needed to grade. “There are going to be a lot of upset parents if I don’t get some students to turn their grades around.”
Mr. Banner chuckled and nodded his head. “Learning to sew has never been popular.”
“Sewing is only a few weeks of my class,” I reminded him.
“I know,” he responded. “Your curriculum is top notch and that’s why most students want to take your class. They might not like that home ec is a required class, but you at least try to make it interesting.”
I shrugged. “Kids can only be shown how to iron so many times before they get bored out of their minds and start to riot.”
Mr. Banner laughed.
“So…” I paused, bit my lower lip and looked down at my grade book. “What can I do for you?” It wasn’t that I was itching to get through a stack of papers on how to fix a clogged sink. His sudden presence had me a little unnerved.
“I’m here on a somewhat personal matter.”
The words weren’t what I expected and sent my nerves through the roof. There wasn’t anything I could do to help Mr. Banner. He was in a happy marriage, had three kids, a two-story house, and the most adorable yellow lab. I had nothing to offer him unless...I looked over his shirt. No stains. My eyes went back up to his face. He was studying me and it forced a smile to spread instantly on my face.
“Sure. Of course. What is it?” I swallowed hard.
“My wife works at the community center,” he stated.
I nodded.
“The instructor for the next round of cooking classes has taken ill and had to be hospitalized,” he went on.
“I hope it wasn’t because of their cooking,” I countered.
Mr. Banner laughed. It wasn’t meant to be funny, but I could see how it was taken that way. I brushed my hair behind my ear and waited for him to continue.
“She was wondering if you’d be interested in teaching the eight-week course. The curriculum is already set up. They purchase everything. All you need to do is show up and show the adults how it’s done,” Mr. Banner finished.
I took a deep breath. “What are the hours?”
“Six in the evening until eight. They’ll pay you, of course. You could negotiate your wage if you want to, but I believe it’s more per hour than what you earn here.”
“So you’re tempting me to leave my job to teach adults?” I asked with a chuckle.
“Oh no, no, no. Not that at all. I would hate to lose you. I hoped that the incentive would be enough to encourage you to take on this side project.” Mr. Banner smiled, leaning back on his heels for a moment.
“I was only teasing Mr. Banner.” I thought about his proposal a moment longer and then nodded. “Tell your wife I’ll do it. When does it start?”
The moment I asked, his cheeks turned red. “Tonight.”
I took another deep breath and slowly nodded my head. “I can start tonight. Is the class already in session then?”
Mr. Banner shook his head. “Tonight is the first class.”
“Oh,” I stammered. “That’s probably better. I’m not thrown in with high expectations to follow in their previous teacher’s footsteps.”
“I suppose…”
Mr. Banner’s voice was silenced by the bell ringing. The hallway filled with the voices of students leaving their classes and rushing off to the next one. It was only a few seconds before a couple of students entered my class. They greeted the principal, and I looked to the older man with a smile.
“Thank you. I’ll leave you to your students,” Mr. Banner said before he took his leave.
I watched him walk out the door before I looked at the other students who had entered. Teaching teenagers was difficult. I could only hope that teaching adults was easier, or else the next eight weeks was going to really be a pain in the neck.
Chapter 2
Charles
The congratulations I received came from every corner of the city. I never expected to get the promotion. It was more of a joke, my application. I thought I’d get the day off to do an interview and they’d realize that I was not fit to be part of the writing staff of the biggest newspaper in the city. Thousands of people picked it up every day.
To my surprise, they liked my resume and my interview. Everything I wrote was true, but I might have stretched the truth during the interview. The many years of kitchen experience were not at high end restaurants in college. They were in my childhood home as a teenager.
I thought for sure they would want someone with restaurant experience and would ask for references from the top chefs I assumed they’d think I worked for. I’d be cut from the applicant pool.
None of that happened.
As a nobody, it amazed me they gave me a column in the daily newspaper. They only expected me to write an article a week. It was very doable. In college, I was writing articles daily.
This time, they hired me to write stuff I had no business writing about. I was not a foodie. I could barely make things out of a box, and now I was expected to develop recipes from scratch. Readers were looking for the latest dish to serve on a busy Tuesday night to their families or what to take to the weekend block party.
I was in over my head and knew I should call up the newspaper to let them know I couldn’t take it. It would be the most responsible thing to do. Then again, they somehow thought I was qualified enough to do the job. Technically, I didn’t lie, so I was beginning to wonder if I should give this opportunity a second thought.
I wanted the job and the paycheck that came along with it. Ever since moving to the city, it had been slim pickings. Careers in journalism were hard to find, especially with everyone starting blogs. Not that I was hurting for money, but I needed to get my foot in the door—any door.
“You will have to figure out something,” I told myself as I sat down on my futon with my laptop in hand.
It wasn’t going to be as simple as finding generic recipes online. People would search around and find out I’m a fraud.
Maybe I can watch some videos and get the gist of it. I quickly typed in a search for chicken dishes and clicked on the first video I could find.
As it loaded, I got up and walked to the kitchen on the other side of the room. The fridge was humming, reminding me to talk to the landlord about getting it serviced. I had a feeling nobody had lived in this apartment for several months.
The person on the video listed off ingredients, and I tried to gather everything. There were a few I knew I didn’t have and hoped it wouldn’t make much of a difference in the overall taste.
Even though the person was going slow, I still had to pause the video now and then to chop something up or rewind a few minutes because I missed something. It took me fifteen minutes past the suggested time for me to put the chicken on a plate and give it a taste.
“Woah!” I groaned. Something was definitely wrong. It tasted bitter, and the chicken was rubber.
I’d need another plan if I thought I could make it past a week. I slid onto the stool at the island and pulled my laptop closer. I went back to Google and searched for kits that would teach me how to cook.
Each article looked encouraging, but they were asking for a small fortune for the home kit. I didn’t have time to wait for the DVDs to arrive.
An ad caught my attention. It was for an in-person class and it started later on in the evening. I read over the details and it sounded perfect. The teacher was a world class
chef, traveling to nearly every continent, and planned on sharing tips from every cuisine. It was exactly what I needed.
Mary
I felt more nervous walking up to the community center than I did walking into my first class more than five years ago. These were my peers. Some were probably older than me. Some had more experience. I wasn’t sure I was ready for all the comments and potential challenges.
As I walked up the steps, I took a deep breath and went in through the front door. I could only hope that if someone signed up for the class, it wasn’t to heckle me.
“Be positive,” I scolded myself.
The center was lit up and I was able to find the kitchen classroom set up with ease. There were already several people waiting outside, and I gave them a smile as I approached.
With the key in hand, I unlocked the door and waited until everyone was inside before I joined them.
“I hope everyone had a good day,” I greeted. “My name is Mary Jackson, I will be your teacher. I hope everyone received an email about the change.”
Most everyone nodded their head, and I felt relieved that I wouldn’t have to deal with explaining why they were getting a high school teacher instead of a personal chef with several accolades.
I put my things down on the table at the front and looked at the time. There were still twenty minutes until the class started.
“I’m stepping out for a minute to get a drink. I’ll be right back,” I announced to the class. I grabbed my purse and walked out the door.
There were footsteps behind me when I hit the tile, and I glanced over my shoulder. A taller man about my age was behind me.
“Needing a drink too?” I asked.
“No, I needed to talk to you,” he replied.
I stopped walking and turned to him, wondering what was wrong. I had hoped to avoid any confrontations, but I could handle one or two, I suppose, if it meant they were out of the way.
“How can I help you?”
“You’re not a chef, are you?” He stepped closer to me as he spoke.
I looked up at him and shook my head. “I’m a home economics teacher at the high school. Why? If there is a problem, the community center will give you a refund.”
“I don’t want a refund.” He sounded frustrated. “I need to learn how to cook.”
“I can teach you,” I said confidently.
“But you aren’t formally trained. You don’t know how to create recipes,” he argued.
“Because I teach high school students?” I took a step back. “I have been formally trained at a top culinary school and have created many recipes.”
He looked shocked. “Are you going to teach us that?”
“I have to look at the curriculum. I didn’t design it and didn’t get the chance to look at it. I was asked to take this job this afternoon,” I explained, but added. “I would like to.”
“And if it’s not on the schedule? Can I pay you to teach me?”
I lifted an eyebrow. I had so many questions but didn’t have time to ask them all and get answers.
“Let me look at the schedule and where the class is skill-wise. If I don’t think we can get to it or if it’s not there, then you and I can talk about extra lessons. I will warn you though, it won’t come cheap.” I didn’t know when I would fit him in with my schedule, but if he was willing to pay for my time, I’d figure it out.
“I can pay. That isn’t a problem. I need to learn though, as much as possible as soon as I can,” he explained, sounding a bit desperate.
“Why don’t you sign up for the culinary program at the community college?” I asked. It wasn’t top of the line, but it’d get his foot in the door.
“I don’t have that kind of time.”
I didn’t have the chance to ask him what the rush was when I heard more voices walking into the class. I needed to get my drink and get back.
“We’ll talk about it later,” I promised.
He gave me a nod, and I turned to finish walking to the bank of vending machines. I pulled out some change and waited for my bottle of cola to drop to the bottom. As I pulled it out of the opening, I glanced down the hallway to see him standing there watching me.
The look on his face gave me butterflies and I didn’t know why. He was attractive and out of my league. Something about him screamed lawyer, and he wanted high maintenance girls only.
I took a sip of my cola as I walked back and scolded myself for thinking about a student like that.
Chapter 3
Mary
All day I thought about my first night at the community center. It had been very informal. A lot of questions about the teacher they expected and what qualifications I had. It was a lot of talking and not so much learning. I should have expected it, and in the end, I was okay with it. If we were going to be together for three times a week for the next eight weeks, I wanted everyone to know who I am, what kind of information they’ll receive, and not have any lingering doubts.
I’m sure there are a few who held the tongue and will blame me for all of their failings, but that is expected in any teaching environment.
The drive from the school to the community center wasn’t terrible. Both were on opposite ends of town, but thankfully for me, there was a major road that connected the two. Every kind of food establishment was present on that street. It was my savior last night as I hadn’t planned on not going home. Drive thru wasn’t always my first choice but sometimes, it couldn’t be helped.
I was prepared tonight with my turkey sandwich, bag of chips and an apple. Arriving several hours early meant I could eat when I wanted, grade papers and get a bunch done before the students arrived.
When I turned the corner and entered the hall that led to the classroom set up I could see him—the guy from the night before—standing near the door.
“You’re several hours early.” My voice echoed a bit down the hall. My footsteps followed as I grew closer to him.
“We didn’t get the chance to talk last night,” he said.
I nodded as I made it to the door and looked up at him. He never gave his name, not even during class. I thought it was strange, but everyone had signed in next to their name on the sign-in sheet. The mystery was figuring out which one was him.
Without a word, I pulled the keys out of my pocket. I tried to balance my stuff in one hand while the other attempted to unlock the door.
“Here. Let me.” He took my bag and the stack of books.
“Thanks,” I said, flashing a brief smile. My attention went back to the door, and I easily got it unlocked now that both hands were free.
After pushing the door open, I took my things from him and walked inside with him right on my heels.
“You want to talk about the possibility of getting private lessons,” I stated as I dropped my things on the small table.
“Yes.” He shoved his hands into his pockets after stopping in front of the desk.
The look on his face was unrecognizable. I couldn’t tell if he was nervous or hopeful. Perhaps he was both.
“Well, first off,” I said, smiling at him, “you can tell me your name. I never work with anyone if I don’t know their name.”
He laughed. “Charles but please call me Charlie.”
“Nice to meet you, Charlie. Now tell me why it’s so important that you learn to cook? Big family function coming up? A hot date?” I crossed my arms as I studied him, hoping I got an honest answer.
“Well…” His hand went to the back of his head and rubbed his short brown hair. It was a tell if I had ever seen one.
“Be straight with me.”
Charlie looked back and forth between me and the whiteboard behind me. His expression softened, and he took a step closer to the desk.
“You have to promise to keep it between us,” he whispered.
My heart raced a little with the possibilities why this was a big secret. I put my hands on the desk and leaned forward.
“Whatever you say won’t leave this r
oom,” I promised.
Our faces were getting a little too close for comfort, so I leaned back and let my hands slip off of the desk. I crossed them again and waited for him to explain.
“I got a new job and…”
I laughed.
“I’m sorry,” I said immediately. “I was expecting something else.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. You have a mob hit on you and the only way out was to deliver them the perfect souffle,” I said with a chuckle and a shrug.
He lifted an eyebrow at me and I waved it off.
“Keep going,” I encouraged.
“My job is creating recipes and sharing it with thousands of people. I found out this morning that I will also need to make videos to be posted on the company’s website,” he explained.
“And you don’t know how to cook?”
He shook his head.
“You got yourself in a real pickle.”
“Did you just make a food joke?”
I shrugged. “I suppose I did, but that’s besides the point. You have a lot to learn and no time to learn it. I don’t know how I will teach you enough in eight weeks.”
“Please. I’m desperate. It doesn’t have to be everything. The basics are fine with me. This col…I mean, my job needs a recipe every week,” Charlie pleaded.
The look on his face tugged on me and I sighed. “It will take at least a couple of hours every night.”
“That’s perfect.”
“And you’ll have homework that you’ll need to do.”
“I can do homework.”
I studied him again and wondered if it was worth taking on. When I rubbed my forehead, Charlie spoke again.
“I will pay you,” he reminded.
I opened my mouth to speak, not even sure how much to charge him. My mind tried to go back to what the private chefs were getting paid in culinary school, but that had been a long time ago. Long before I went back to get my teaching degree.
