by C. C. Payne
Someone tapped me on the shoulder. I turned.
“Hi,” Zach said.
“Oh, hi.” I felt fluttery feelings in my stomach, but not like sickness—like something else. Then I realized Mom was staring at us. “Mom, this is my friend Zach Mabry. Zach, this is my mom.”
“A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Russo,” Zach said. “I can see where Fizzy gets her good looks.”
My mouth fell open. Good looks? He thinks I have good looks?
Mom must’ve been thinking the same thing because she raised one—very suspicious—eyebrow at Zach.
He showed her his teeth.
“Well, we’d better get going,” Mom said to me, and then she said to Zach, “It was very . . . interesting meeting you.”
“You too,” Zach said to Mom’s back.
• • •
It had turned dark outside and the wind stung my face with cold. Mom and I ducked our heads and hurried to the car.
As soon as we were inside with the doors shut, I said, “I don’t want to take piano lessons.”
Mom ignored me and turned the heat on full blast. As she backed out of the parking space, she said, “Mrs. Gita is thinking of advertising piano lessons with us, so we’re thinking of taking piano lessons with her—that’s the way the world works.”
“Well, I was thinking of taking karate lessons,” I said, feeling very . . . kicky.
No answer.
Just to be clear, I added, “I definitely want to learn karate.”
Chapter 12
Mom and I stopped for dinner at Lush Valley Bistro. When we entered the restaurant, the hostess looked us up and down and seemed unimpressed, probably by our lack of designer stuff, but she gave us a table—in the back. After the server brought our drinks, took our orders and our menus, Mom and I were quiet for a few minutes.
Then Mom said, “What are you thinking about, Fizzy?”
I was thinking that Keene must’ve bought a lot of advertising from Mom because she was never trying to sell to him the way she was always trying to sell to other people. But I knew Keene bought a lot of advertising. I’d seen the ads for his hardware store—they were in the newspaper every day and they were big and colorful. That’s how Mom met Keene to begin with: He bought advertising from her.
“Fizzy?” Mom said, growing impatient.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “What did you say?”
Mom shook her head and smiled. “Nothing. Never mind. So. Zach Mabry.”
“What about him?”
“He’s a little slick, don’t you think?” The way Mom said “slick” was the way she might’ve said “slimy.” So I knew it wasn’t a compliment.
I shrugged.
“Is he your boyfriend?”
“No, ma’am, just a friend.”
Mom didn’t look like she believed me.
“He’s just a friend,” I said emphatically, but what I thought was, You don’t like my friend Zach? Well, I don’t like your friend Keene. So we’re even.
“All right, all right,” Mom said, showing me her palms. “Listen, I want to talk to you about the wedding.”
The wedding? There was still going to be a wedding? “Um . . . okay.”
“Keene and I want to involve you, honey, because our wedding isn’t just the usual joining of two people, you know.”
“It isn’t?”
“No,” Mom said. “It’s the joining of a family, one that includes you.”
The queasy feeling I got told me that wasn’t true, but even so, I said, “Okay.”
Mom smiled brightly. “I want you to be my maid of honor, Fizzy. I want you to stand up in the front of the church with me.”
“Ummm . . . okay . . . I guess.”
“And I was thinking maybe we could go shopping for dresses on Saturday morning.”
I nodded.
“I want you to choose your own dress and help me choose mine,” Mom said. “Oh, and I was thinking you might like to have your own cake.”
“Cake?” I sat up a little straighter in the booth. There was nothing wrong with cake. I mean, cake is always good, right?
Our dinner arrived, and after the server set our plates down and disappeared, Mom announced, “There will be wedding cake and groom’s cake and Fizzy’s cake.”
I took a bite of a French fry. “Okay,” I said. “I know exactly the cake I want.”
Mom clapped her hands together merrily and said, “Wonderful! Tell me.”
“I saw a picture of this cake in Southern Living. It has three square tiers and pale purple icing, with tiny deep-purple violets all over it, and . . . well, it’s just the prettiest cake I’ve ever seen.”
Mom frowned. “Purple? You want a purple cake?”
I nodded and popped another French fry into my mouth.
“But my colors are peach and cream,” Mom said. “Everything for the wedding is going to be done in shades of peach and cream.”
I didn’t really see how that was a problem myself. I mean, we were talking about cake, not curtains.
“A purple cake won’t match anything, Fizzy,” Mom said, still not touching her salad.
“Qui se soucie?” I said, which is French for “Who cares?”
Mom stiffened. “Fizzy, you know I think it’s rude when you speak French.”
“Then maybe you shouldn’t have moved me to Lush Valley—they didn’t teach French at my old school.”
“No, I’m glad you’re learning French; I just think it’s rude to speak it to someone you know doesn’t understand—it’s like whispering in front of someone you know can’t hear you.”
I didn’t respond.
“As for the cake, I don’t know what to think of a purple cake,” Mom said. “And no one else will know what to think either.”
Suddenly I was mad. I’d had enough and I was just plain mad. I sighed loudly and said, “They’ll think you did something nice for your daughter. They’ll think you let her choose. For once!”
Mom’s eyes narrowed. “For once? For once?”
Now, if I was really as smart as Mom thought I was, I would’ve stopped talking. But I was mad, so I didn’t. Instead I said, “Yes, for once, Cecily.” (My mom hates it when I call her by her name—it’s way worse than speaking French.)
Cecily crossed her arms over her chest and her cheeks turned pink.
I continued, “I never get to choose, never! I didn’t choose you and I didn’t choose Dad. I didn’t choose for you to get divorced. I didn’t choose who I was going to live with. I didn’t choose Lush Valley or our town house or my school, or even piano lessons, and I surely didn’t choose Keene Adams to be my new stepfather!”
Our server appeared out of nowhere to ask how everything tasted. Mom smiled easily and said that everything was fine. I almost believed her, but when our server walked away, she took Mom’s smile with her.
Then, through clenched teeth, Mom said, “Close your mouth and eat your dinner, Fizzy.”
Now, just how was I supposed to do that?
• • •
I should’ve been sleeping, but I was still up doing my homework when Mom came into my bedroom that night, wearing pajamas with a cardigan sweater. “You’ve been up late every night this week, Fizzy.”
It was true. Since I’d been cooking with Aunt Liz all afternoon every day, it had been late when I started my homework each night. And I had a lot of homework—like I said, there’s more of everything in Lush Valley, even homework.
“My book report’s due tomorrow,” I said, without looking up from my paper.
Mom sat down on my bed. “You know, Fizzy, pretty soon, you’re going to be all grown up and you’re going to go off to college.”
“Culinary school,” I corrected.
Mom smiled a sad little half smile. “The point is that one day you
’re going to be gone, and I don’t want to be alone for the rest of my life. I want a family.”
Me too. I want a family, too, I thought, but I didn’t say it. Instead I put my pencil down, got up from my desk, and went to sit beside Mom. “I’m your . . . it—I’m it.”
“Yes, and you’ll always be my family,” Mom said. “But one day, you’re going to grow up and set out into the world to create your own life, your own home, your own family.”
I stared into my lap and stammered, “So you want Keene to be your . . . f-family.”
“Yes,” Mom said, but the way she said it was like, Yes and . . . I’d heard the and even though she hadn’t said it.
I tried to think. “Do you want more children?” I asked.
“I think I do,” Mom said, taking my hand in hers.
“So I’m not enough,” I whispered as tears burned behind my eyes.
“You are wonderful,” Mom said. “You are what makes me want more children—I’d like to have three more just like you.”
“Three?” I felt sick.
Mom smiled. “Yes, but I’ll take just one. One doesn’t sound so bad, does it?”
“I guess not,” I said, even though it all sounded pretty bad to me.
“Fizzy, look at me,” Mom said.
I lifted my head and met her soft green eyes.
“Can you imagine giving up on your dream of becoming a chef?”
I swallowed. “No, ma’am.”
Mom nodded. “I can’t give up on my dream of having a family either.” She stood.
I just sat there.
Mom placed a gentle hand under my chin and bent to kiss my cheek. “Good night, sweet pea—oh, and I promise to think about the cake.”
When she was almost to the door, I said, “A very wise woman once told me that things don’t matter, and what other people think about our things certainly doesn’t matter. People are what matter.”
Mom stopped moving but didn’t turn around. She sighed. “Fine. You’ll have your purple cake.”
Chapter 13
On Friday morning, I found Zach waiting for me on his front porch again. “Your mom doesn’t like me,” he said as soon as he met me on the sidewalk.
I turned away, watching my breath crystallize on the air like smoke. “C’mon,” I said. “It’s too cold to stand around.” We started walking.
“What’d she say?” Zach asked.
I thought about what Mom had said and felt myself smile. Zach would probably take it as a compliment—black leather and all. “She called you ‘slick.’”
Zach laughed. And laughed. And laughed.
So I did, too.
We were almost to school by the time we settled down. As we stepped off the sidewalk, into the grass, Zach said, “Your mom’s right, though. When you’re on your own, you learn real quick that it’s best for everybody if you just say whatever the adults want to hear, you know?” And then he pulled the door open for me.
I nodded as I passed, like I completely understood, even though I wasn’t sure what Zach was talking about. All I really knew was that maybe he didn’t think I had good looks after all—he’d just said what he thought Mom wanted to hear—right?
“Later,” Zach said.
“No hot chocolate?” I half whined, coming to a dead stop in the hallway, causing the boy behind me to bump my backpack.
“Can’t do it every day—wouldn’t want to take advantage.” Zach smiled and winked, then headed for his homeroom.
I thought about what Zach had said all through science class. And even though I didn’t fully understand where he was coming from, I was pretty sure I understood part of it: It really was easier on everybody to just say whatever the adults wanted to hear, or, in my case, it was easier on everybody if I didn’t say whatever the adults didn’t want to hear—like how Mom doesn’t want to hear about Dad, and Dad doesn’t want to hear about Mom. Would I become “slick”? I tried to imagine myself dressed in black leather from head to toe, maybe with silver, spiky bracelets around my wrists, which caused me to giggle.
“Something you’d like to share, Miss Russo?” Mr. Moss said.
I sat up straight. “No, sir.” Not if my life depended on it. After that, I stayed focused on my work.
• • •
By Friday night, I realized there was a lot about Zach that I didn’t know—and probably couldn’t even guess. But I did know three very important things: 1) I knew that no one at school was going to laugh at Miyoko again—or me either probably—because there was a rumor that Miyoko could kill a person just as fast as she could look at them; 2) I knew four out of the five recipes I was going to send to Southern Living on Monday; and 3) I knew another reason why I didn’t want my mom to marry Keene, on top of all the other reasons. If Mom married Keene, then she’d be starting fresh on her dream of having a family. If you ask me, that’s an awful lot like starting fresh on dinner. And if Mom was starting fresh, then that made me a kind of leftover, didn’t it? Yes, I was a leftover from her previous attempt at marriage and family.
Here’s the thing about leftovers: Nobody is ever excited about them; they’re just something you have to deal with, like Keene has to deal with me. No matter how hard you try, leftovers are never exactly what they used to be—and I’m not either. If you ignore them or forget about them, they start to stink, and if you try to serve them alongside a freshly made meal, they never fit in quite right—do you want leftover spaghetti with your fajitas? Ugh! Leftover spaghetti is the worst! See, when you reheat spaghetti noodles, they overcook and turn to mush. And no matter what you do with them, leftover spaghetti noodles stick together in clumps. They get hard in some spots and soggy in others. If you want my opinion, it’s best to just throw leftover spaghetti away. And I was leftover spaghetti! No, I was worse than leftover spaghetti, and a lot more trouble—does a visit from the fire department ring any bells?—and I couldn’t be thrown away.
I’d wanted to talk to Aunt Liz about all of this as it was taking shape in my mind that afternoon, but I didn’t think I could do it yet without crying. Somewhere between the cooking and the homework, Parents’ Night, and all the upset over Keene and my purple cake, I’d gotten tired. Too tired. And when I get too tired, I get sort of wilty and weepy and turn to mush. Like leftover spaghetti. Yuck.
So, there I was, standing in my kitchen at 9:08 on Friday night with tired-tears in my eyes, trying to decide whether to go to bed or try out Great-Grandma Russo’s recipe for lasagna. I really was tired. And we didn’t have the exact ingredients the recipe called for. And Mom and I had already eaten dinner. And I already had four recipes to send to Southern Living, and really, four was enough, wasn’t it? I decided to go to bed.
But before I reached the bottom step, I heard Keene’s voice somewhere in the back of my mind: Cecily, you don’t really believe she can win the contest, do you? Then I heard my mother’s voice: Of course I believe she can win. Two things carried me back to the kitchen that night, when I really wanted to go to bed: 1) I really wanted to prove Keene wrong; and 2) I really wanted to prove Mom right.
I filled our biggest pot with water, added a dash of salt, and set the pot on the stove to boil. Then I began preparing all my ingredients in bowls—mise en place style. Since we didn’t have some of the ingredients, I had to get creative and come up with substitutions, but I like being creative. Soon I didn’t feel tired anymore. I was having fun.
I was having so much fun that I became television star Fizzy Russo, of Fabulous Foods and Feasts with Fizzy Russo. I smiled for the cameras and pretended my mismatched bowls matched. For a few seconds, I was tempted to put on my mom’s engagement ring for when the cameras zoomed in on my hands. I mean, the ring was right there on the windowsill above the kitchen sink—where she leaves it whenever she cooks or cleans. But I figured if I could pretend glass bowls, then I could pretend rings on my fingers, too, and
I left Mom’s ring where it was.
“Now, if you don’t have Italian sausage,” I told my pretend audience, “then you can use any kind of sausage or hamburger if you like.” I smiled sweetly.
“Fizzy?” Mom said, coming up behind me.
I jumped, let out a spastic aaaah! and then turned.
“Fizzy, what are you doing? It’s almost ten o’clock,” Mom said, pulling her cardigan closed tight over her pajamas.
“I’m making lasagna,” I said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Mom gave me a serious look of disapproval and I thought it was a good thing that I wasn’t wearing her engagement ring.
“It’s for the contest,” I said. “We can eat it all weekend . . . I bet Keene will like it, too.” I thought that was a nice touch.
And it worked. “All right,” Mom said, softening, “but straight to bed as soon as you’re finished. We have a lot of shopping to do tomorrow.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said as Zach’s words echoed through my mind: It’s best for everybody if you just say whatever the adults want to hear.
Chapter 14
Mom stood in the three-way department store mirror wearing a long, shimmery, whipped-cream-colored gown.
Tired from the late-night lasagna and this morning’s parade of bridal gowns, I sat on the floor cross-legged in front of her.
“What do you think, Fizzy?” Mom asked.
At that moment, I thought she was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. And it gave me hope—because Mom has the same kind of hair and eyes as I do—she even has a few freckles sprinkled across her nose, like sugar on a cookie.
“Fizzy?” Mom said, uncertain. “What’s the matter? You don’t like it, do you?”
“No, ma’am,” I said. “I love it. It’s beautiful. You’re beautiful.”
Tears of happiness glittered in Mom’s green eyes and I knew then that I could never tell her about feeling like leftover spaghetti. Never, because I loved her and I really did want her to be happy. I really did want her dreams to come true. I really did.
