Again, a big, loud sneeze.
Then, I started coughing and couldn’t stop.
“You must be allergic to something up there.”
I closed my eyes and gasped. No. Deep, slow breaths, I told myself. This wasn’t real. No need to panic. When my breath was more regular, I opened my eyes.
Miss Clay stood right in front of me with her eyes narrowed. “Or is it something else?”
I took my time. Deep, slow breaths. “No.” Breathe. “It’s just dust.” Breathe.
“I don’t think so.”
“Yes, dust. Or allergies.” I spoke slowly, trying to sound confident. “That’s all.”
“Maybe I should talk to your mom–”
“No.” It was louder than I meant. “No,” I said quieter. “She’s still so upset after my Dad–After he–. Well, since he’s been gone.”
She nodded; so she’d heard our story somewhere and understood what I was talking about. But she wasn’t totally convinced. “Have you ever done this before?”
“Done what?”
“Run out of a room? Been sort of panicky?”
“That attic was too dirty. You said it yourself.”
“But have you done this before?”
Miss Clay tried to put her fingers on my wrist. Tried to take my pulse!
I pulled away. If Marj found out–I was sure Griff had never told her–it would be just one more reason to send me away.
“No, I’ve never done that before.” I relaxed my face muscles. I lifted my shoulders and let them fall in a casual shrug.
“Okay. I turned off the light and closed the stairs,” Miss Clay said. “And I got the measurements. I’ll just say good-bye to Mrs. Winston and let you have your Saturday back.” She disappeared into the house.
Shaking now from relief, I stumbled to the workbench and collapsed. By the time Miss Clay passed me a few minutes later, I was sharpening the blades of the push mower again. Cranking hard. Trying to zone out again.
ALLI
Walking into the garage of Eliot’s house, I stopped and sniffed. A sort of waxy smell, and maybe oil. Bent over, Eliot didn’t see me at first. He was working on an old-fashioned lawn mower, one without a motor. His face was shadowed. “What are you doing?” I asked.
“Sharpening the blades.” Now, he looked up and grinned, and I guess I had just imagined the shadows. “What’s up?”
“I’m worried about the Bread Project.”
“Why?”
“Sam Patel.”
“He should be okay.”
“No.” I sat on the floor where I could watch Eliot work. Looked like he was cleaning some gunk off each blade. Carefully, because they looked sharp. While he worked, I explained how I’d given Sam his jar of sourdough starter yesterday after school. “Outside Mr. Benton’s office, though, Sam stopped to talk to a friend. Said he wasn’t going to tell his Mom about the project. He shut up when he saw me, but I heard enough. We’ve got to check up on him. Make sure his parents understand how important this project is for the school.”
Taking care of the sourdough all week– feeding it, checking daily to see how it grew, smelling it–it was better than the pet rocks that Mandy told me about when she was in junior high. I had liked the project because of Mrs. Winston’s kindness. Now, I liked the project ‘cause it was fun.
“Are you for real?” Eliot said. “You want to call his parents? That’s really pushing hard.”
“Isn’t that what you want me to do?”
“Yeah, but, well, I’d never call a parent. Too embarrassing.”
“Let’s get a sandwich,” I suggested. “We can talk while we eat.”
Eliot held a rag over the lawn mower blade and stared at me.
“What?” I said. “You asked for my help, remember?”
He threw the rag onto the workbench, swung his leg over and stood. “I’ll fix you lunch. But you don’t have to visit the Patels to earn it.”
“Hey, if I’m helping, we’re doing it right. We’ll check up on Sam. Oh, I’ll eat, ‘cause you owe me. But then we’re going to visit the Patels.”
Eliot rolled his eyes. “Uh. No. We’re not.”
Following him into the kitchen, I said to his back, “Uh. Yes. I already called Mrs. Patel. She expects us. Both of us. In an hour.”
Eliot slapped peanut butter onto bread, then held a banana above the peanut butter and hacked away. Thick slices landed where they would. He slapped another piece of bread on top, handed it to me and started on his own sandwich.
I opened the sandwich and stared. “This is exactly why we have to go over there. I’ve never seen anyone make peanut butter and banana sandwiches like that. You’re supposed to smash the bananas and mix it with the peanut butter.”
“I bet the Patels have never even baked a loaf of bread,” Eliot said.
“Because they are from India?” I said. “Sam was born here, you know, that’s what Mrs. Patel said. He’s a US citizen.”
“You got that chatty with her?” Eliot’s eyes were huge.
“I just talked a few minutes. Unlike you, some people don’t mind telling about their lives.”
“Crazy to ask and crazy for her to tell.” Eliot shrugged, then took a bite of his sandwich.
“Well, we’re still going over there to talk about the project. I didn’t get to explain it all on the phone.”
For the next few minutes, we just ate. Then I made up two more peanut butter and banana sandwiches, this time with smashed up bananas. We ate those and compared the difference in taste.
“Mine’s better,” Eliot said.
I had planned his afternoon for him. And I was forcing him to go to the Patels. So, I let him win this one. “I do like your recipe better.”
He sighed. “How are we getting to the Patels?”
Eliot would never think to check up on Sam, but without this kind of attention, the project would fail. We just had to find out if Mrs. Patel understood what Sam had to do for the project. We didn’t have to stay long.
I grinned. “You’ve got two bikes in the garage.”
ELIOT
After telling Marj that we were going to the Patels, I wheeled my bike out of the garage. Alli jumped on my old bike, and we pedaled away toward the Southside Apartments. The red brick apartment complex was a Zane property. Neat, clean, even prosperous looking. We locked the bikes to a stairway and climbed up to 11-J.
Alli bounded ahead and knocked on the apartment door.
Sam opened the door. “Hello.”
He wore his earpiece in one ear. And like Alli, he wore his school uniform, khaki shorts and school shirt. His surprise was evident.
And now, I was embarrassed. I played on a soccer team with him a couple times. He played goalie, while I played offense. But otherwise, we had barely talked. Now, we were on his doorstep. “Look, we just–”
But from inside, a woman’s voice called, “That’s probably your friends. They called early this morning to say they were coming. Tell them to come in.”
Sam’s dark eyes flashed. “Mother says you must come in and visit.”
Angry, I pushed past Alli. I said low, so just Alli could hear, “Your friends. You told Mrs. Patel that we were Sam’s friends?”
She just tossed her head.
Inside, Sam stopped at a small rug with shoes lined up on it. “We take our shoes off inside. If you please.”
I slipped off my tennis shoes, but winced. Smelly socks.
Looking around the apartment, the first thing I noticed was the smell of bread baking. And it smelled like sourdough bread.
The second thing I noticed was that the apartment looked like a regular American apartment. Well, what had I expected? Bright fabrics, marble floors, strange music, lidded baskets with cobras? Well, something exotic and, well, Indian. Instead there was a big screen TV with a game system, a large fish tank with colorful fish, and comfortable-looking couches and chairs.
Mrs. Patel entered the room, and immediately you had to turn and
watch her. Here was the foreign stuff I had expected: her sari was bright turquoise, and when she walked, her bracelets sounded, clink, clink, clink. After introductions, she turned to Sam. “Now, what is this about the sourdough starter? Alli says it is a school project.”
Before Sam could answer, Alli launched into an explanation, complete with large hand gestures and lots of repetition. I squirmed, listening to her chatter on and on. She could have said it much faster and shorter.
Finally, I interrupted. “We didn’t want to bother you, Mrs. Patel. It’s just an unusual project, and we’re just making sure everyone understands it.”
Mrs. Patel motioned for Sam to sit beside her. When he moved to her side, she hugged him. He grimaced.
“No, Sameer didn’t understand,” Mrs. Patel said. “I’ve used sourdough starter before, of course, but didn’t know this was a school assignment. I just thought someone was being nice and passing out starter, so I baked bread today and used it all.”
“All of it?” This didn’t sound good.
“Yes, I’m sorry.”
From the kitchen, a timer started to ding, ding, ding. “Excuse me, I’ll be right back,” Mrs. Patel said.
As soon as she was gone, Sam whispered, “Why’d you have to ruin everything? I didn’t want to take care of that stuff for weeks and weeks. If I had walked home yesterday, I would have dumped it. But Mother picked me up.”
“But you have to take care of it,” Alli said. “Or, the Bread Project will fail.”
“And that’s bad because?” Sam said.
Mrs. Patel returned and held out a plate with a large bread-like thing–still hot, with steam rising. I took a deep whiff. It was sourdough, but it was an irregular circle that covered the whole plate, so that I couldn’t figure out how it was cooked. It smelled so good.
At my hungry look, Mrs. Patel smiled. “With the sourdough starter, I made naan, like my mother’s mother always did. I haven’t made naan in so long, and my husband was so pleased that I made extra.”
“It’s not a loaf of bread,” I said. Then felt stupid. But Mrs. Patel was nice about it.
“No, it’s a flat bread from northern India. Would you like some? I’ll leave this one here for the three of you to eat.”
Eagerly, Alli and I broke off pieces of the naan and ate.
“Heavenly,” I said, using Griff’s word again. And Alli nodded.
Apparently, Sam wasn’t impressed with the naan. While we ate, he turned on his game system and played. Just when I was thinking it was time to go, he handed me the controller. Then Alli took a turn. We repeated the cycle, and by then, we were cheering for each other.
“Next level, all right!”
It was fun.
After a while, Mrs. Patel appeared with a tray of glasses and set them down on the table for us. Smoothies. I was taking my turn, so I didn’t taste mine yet.
Alli asked, “What flavor is this?”
“Mango yogurt,” Sam said.
“Heavenly,” she said.
When I finally handed off the controller and tasted my smoothie, I agreed.
I was surprised when Sam turned on a lamp. Looking around, it was getting late, almost sunset. Surprised, I rose, stretched and said, “We’d better go. We’ll bring you more starter tomorrow.” It had been a fast afternoon.
“Look, this was fun,” Sam waved at the game and the empty smoothie glasses. “I’m glad you came over. But do you have to bring more sourdough stuff?”
I felt for him. But I needed the Bread Project so I could have time to get through to Marj. Besides, Alli had already called for Mrs. Patel.
She stepped out of the kitchen and said, “Yes?”
The turquoise sari startled me again with its foreignness. The apartment smelled spicy now, too. Curry, I thought, though I didn’t know where I got that word. Never eaten curry. But after that naan and the mango smoothie, I bet it was good.
“We’ll bring you more sourdough starter tomorrow,” Alli said. “Mine has to grow a week, but Eliot can take some out of his jar.”
“Great. So, as long as Sam keeps it alive and has enough to share each Friday, we can cook with it?”
“Yes,” Alli said.
“And his grade is based just on bringing in starter each Friday?”
I nodded. No teacher had actually said they would take off points for not bringing back starter the next week, but I figured it was the right thing to tell Mrs. Patel.
“I’ll make sure he keeps that grade up,” she said.
I sighed in relief. And decided that Sam was okay. Next time I got to choose sides for soccer, I’d pick him right after Toby.
“Thank you,” Alli said. “And, if you don’t mind, could I have the recipe for naan?”
Mrs. Patel beamed. “Yes. Thanks for asking.” She pulled an index card from the hall desk and rummaged in a drawer for a pencil. Then she stopped. “Why not collect bread recipes from other families, too? We could sell a Bread Project Cookbook as an additional fund raiser.” Her dark eyes were shining.
Alli’s smile turned to a grimace. “That sounds like lots of work.”
“Oh, no. We mothers could do it. I’d just put it into a database. It would be easy.”
I lifted an eyebrow. She didn’t look like a computer genius. Not with that sari and bracelets.
Sam pointed to a computer workstation in the corner. “Mother is a computer programmer. She does things like that.” He shrugged. “She’ll probably find some place to upload the recipes and get it printed out, too. For a good price. She does that.”
Mrs. Patel smiled, white teeth flashing in her brown face. “Sameer is right. It sounds like a good project for me. Sometimes, I feel like–” She stopped.
“Like what?” I asked.
Mrs. Patel flapped her hand a couple times. “Oh, nothing. It’s just that, well, sometimes, you know, I don’t feel like we’re a real part of the school community. I’d just like to help.”
“More help would be great,” I said. “I’ll tell Mrs. Lopez and Marj about the cookbook idea, and they’ll call you later.”
Leaving, Alli stomped down the steps and jerked her bike away as soon as the lock was off.
“What?” I demanded.
“It makes me mad. The Patels don’t feel like their family is part of the school. It’s wrong, that’s what.”
It was something Griff would have said. The Bread Project wouldn’t have been a chore for Griff, but a semester-long excuse to visit people. To enjoy listening to each family’s story. To taste their bread recipes. Because I lived with Griff for two years, I understood. But without Griff here, it was hard to do by myself.
“Thanks for making us go over there,” I said. “It was the right thing to do.”
Alli grinned at me. “By the way, the Porters are going out for dinner with friends. What’s for supper?”
BREAD PROJECT:
WEEKS 3, 4, 5, 6
ELIOT
After that rough start, the fall season fell into a pattern. On Fridays, the sourdough starter passed to new students, and on Friday night, Alli called the newest family and set up a time that weekend to explain the project. We tasted a wide variety of breads: pitas at the Zanes, who had a Greek heritage, ekmek at the Vasins, who were Turkish immigrants, ciabatta from the Donatellis, who had Italian heritage. I was amazed at how my family’s humble sourdough starter adapted so easily for each family.
Mrs. Patel enlisted the help of Mrs. Johnson and Mrs. Lopez to talk to parents and gather recipes and stories for the cookbook. Each week was a little easier as the word spread. With so many countries represented, it should be a great cookbook, they all said.
1 - 2 - 4 - 8 - 16. By the time the sourdough starter passed to 32 students, though, things were getting more difficult. Altogether (1 + 2 + 4 + 8 + 16 + 32=63), 63 students would have the sourdough. The next week, right before Halloween, 63 more would receive their jars and we would finally be giving starter to some fifth graders.
After that, it
would go so rapidly that there was no way we could visit every family. Would the project fall apart at that point? Alli and I worried about what to do, but could think of nothing.
Meanwhile, to add to the chaos of the Bread Project, about mid-October our house was turned into an obstacle course. Ladders. Paint drop cloths. Ripped up carpet. Marj had hired Mr. and Mrs. Johnson–Kinesha’s parents–to paint, paper and do repairs. Saw horses rode the range in Griff’s garage. Fat electrical cords slithered around the concrete floor to the power tools.
By the end of October, most of the repair work and papering was done, and only painting was left. One afternoon, I came in from school and found Mrs. Johnson in the breakfast room, looking at paint samples.
When she saw me, she said, “Your mom just called. She’s hung up in road construction and will be a few minutes late.”
Marj had been complaining there were torn-up roads on her way to the office, too many to avoid by using back streets. She had been leaving early in the mornings to get to work on time. “Thanks for telling me,” I said.
Mrs. Johnson nodded, then pulled out paint chips in a range of deep shades.
“What color do you want for your room?” she asked.
I plopped my backpack on a chair and leaned over the table. I ran a finger across a section of the samples. “I like these.”
“Ah, the jewel tones. They would look good in this house,” she agreed.
I studied the colors, pushing them in or out, trying to imagine my sunny room with one of these deep colors. At first I had hated all the work being done, but as it progressed, I realized the house had needed a lot of fixing up. It was looking better all the time. And it pleased me that I could choose my own colors, and I wanted to be careful to get it right. Finally, I pulled out a dark green, “forest glen.” I held it up and said, “This one?”
Just then, Marj stepped into the room. “Sorry I’m late.”
“We were just looking at colors,” Mrs. Johnson said pleasantly.
Marj picked up the strips and pushed the dark colors back into the stack and pulled out the strips of pale colors, mostly whites. “Miss Clay says that plain white walls make a house easier to sell.”
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