by C. C. Payne
The second cook we met was a woman who thought Mom was the one competing against her. When she learned that I was in the contest, she looked me over and said, “Brilliant marketing strategy—a child—what’s next, baby zoo animals?” I didn’t like her either.
But the lady who would be cooking directly across from me, Ms. Marla of Farmville, North Carolina, was really nice. She wore a blue flowery dress and looked scared—like me—which made me want to hug her. But she came out from behind her station to hug me first.
“Thank you,” Ms. Marla said when I hugged her back. “I needed that.”
“Me too,” I said.
We smiled and wished each other luck.
Then it was time to cook. In front of my station stood a huge man in a black suit with a curly cord running up his neck, from under his collar, into his ear. His hair was dark, his eyes were dark, and his skin was so dark, there were traces of purple. He did not move and he did not smile. I looked from him to Mom and back again.
“Hello,” Mom said.
He dipped his head—once—but otherwise didn’t move.
“This is Fizzy Russo,” Mom said, placing a hand on my back as if to usher me forward.
The man extended one massive arm, motioning for me to enter the station.
I smiled at him.
Nothing.
“You already know my name. What’s yours?” I asked, moving behind the table, which was covered with a clean, white tablecloth.
“Smiley,” he said, without a hint of a smile.
I wanted to giggle, but didn’t dare. So, instead, I turned away, slipping into the Southern Living chef’s coat that had been left for me and rolling up the sleeves, because they were too long. Even so, as I smoothed out the fabric and ran my fingers over the sewn-on lettering, I hoped I’d get to keep the coat.
At first, the live audience milling around made me nervous, but then I convinced myself they were no different from my television studio audience, and that helped a lot—because I’d had lots of practice with my studio audience, and they adore me. So after that, it was a snap. My fancy stainless-steel oven was already preheated for me. My ingredients were already prepared and arranged in bowls—yes, the bowls matched and they were clear glass! All I had to do was mix and layer the ingredients and pop the whole thing into the oven. Before I knew it, I was done.
When the judges started coming around and tasting everything, I have to admit I felt a little sick—not homesick but nervous-sick. When they tasted my lasagna, none of them smiled or nodded or gave any indication that they’d just tasted something they liked. They’d take a bite, write something down on their clipboards, and then take another bite. The bald judge even used his fork to peel back each layer and inspect the lasagna, and I just knew he was about to say something like, What did you put in this . . . to ruin it? But he didn’t say a word. “It’s much better the second day,” I assured him. The red-haired lady judge gave me a sympathetic little smile. I was worried, and not altogether sure I liked the folks from Southern Living.
I liked them even less when a voice came booming through the speakers in the ballroom, thanking everyone for coming and inviting us all to come back at six, to see the winners announced. With a loud, dramatic sigh—which involved my shoulders—I began tidying up my station.
“Don’t do that,” Smiley said, as if I’d started tossing food onto the floor instead of into the trash can.
I stopped immediately.
Once again, Smiley held out a beefy arm to indicate that I should come out from my station, which I did.
Mom and I went back to our room, where she thought we both “ought to try to rest some.” She rested, while I lay on my back, clutching the sheets in two tight fists and staring at the ceiling, barely blinking. I wondered if any of the other cook-off contestants really needed to win as badly as I did. Then I tried to imagine what it might feel like if I won, but couldn’t. After that, I tried to imagine what it would feel like if I lost: I figured things would be the same as they were before, only with another layer of disappointment—in me. I couldn’t stand the thought of things being the same, couldn’t stand the thought of being even more disappointing than I already was. Could. Not. Stand. It. So I squeezed my eyes shut and prayed, Help me, help me, help me, pleeeease, until the phone rang with our wake-up call.
• • •
Mom and I stood in the crowded ballroom wearing our best dresses. My heart pounded in my ears. My breathing was too fast. Little dots of color danced in front of my eyes. I thought I might black out. And then I heard my name—I thought. I turned to look at Mom, whose eyes were already on me. She was smiling. “Um, did they just—” I started, but then I heard the announcer say, “Fizzy Russo, where are you?” A big arm cut through the people standing around me, offering itself, and my eyes followed it to the face of its owner: Smiley. I latched on to his arm, and was led through the crowd, up the stairs, and onto the stage. Had I won something? I didn’t know. They’re probably just introducing all the contestants, I told myself.
But then the man in the tuxedo, who was holding the microphone, said, “Congratulations, Fizzy.”
I wanted to say, What for? but didn’t want to sound dumb, so I only smiled.
“Tell us, how old are you?”
“Twelve.”
The audience erupted in applause.
I smiled some more. The lights onstage felt warm on my skin, like sunshine.
The announcer said, “Winning the Family Favorites category is a big accomplishment, but it seems like an even bigger accomplishment for a twelve-year-old.”
I’d won my category! I immediately began searching the crowd for Mom’s face.
“Tell us, how do you feel? What’s going through your mind right now?” the announcer said.
“Um . . . well . . . I don’t see my mom—could she come up here with me?” I asked.
Everybody laughed.
Smiley brought Mom up onstage, where she wrapped a protective arm around my shoulders, stood very straight, and beamed with pride and joy. Mom told the audience how I loved to cook, how I’d worked really hard preparing my entries for the cook-off, and stuff like that. And I knew she loved me way more than she ever did before. I was glad.
I was also glad to be presented with a cardboard check for $10,000 that was almost as big as I was!
I felt bad for Ms. Marla, though. Until she and her Sweet Potato Cake were announced not only as the Southern Desserts winner, but as the Grand Prize winner! Then Ms. Marla joined us onstage and I felt so happy, I could hardly stand still! Honest. I mean, I’d choose cake over lasagna every day and twice on Sunday—who wouldn’t?
Smiley motioned to Mom and me from behind the curtain, off to the side of the stage.
Then, while Ms. Marla was telling the audience how she planned to use part of her winnings to fix a plumbing problem known as “ruts” in her house, Mom and I slipped backstage, where Smiley was waiting.
“What, exactly, is ‘ruts’?” the announcer asked.
Ms. Marla said, “You know . . . tree ruts—in the pipes.”
“Tree roots?” the announcer said.
“That’s what I said,” Ms. Marla told him.
The audience laughed and laughed, while Smiley escorted us from backstage, down some stairs, into the basement, down a long hallway, to an elevator. As we walked, Smiley said, “People don’t mean any harm, but they tend to get a little loud, a little pushy, a little grabby around the winners when it’s all over—she’s so small—you understand?”
“I do,” Mom said. “Thank you.”
We walked the rest of the way in silence. I really wanted to ask Smiley why in the world he was called Smiley, but I knew Mom would think that was rude, so I didn’t.
When we arrived at the door to our room, Mom and I thanked Smiley.
He dipped his head, once,
and then pulled some white fabric out from under his black jacket and handed it to me.
I unfolded it: my Southern Living chef’s coat! I threw my arms around Smiley and squeezed.
When I pulled back from the hug, he offered me the biggest, whitest, most dazzling smile I’d ever seen—it completely took over his face—he was all . . . Smiley. I grinned, thanked him again, and then hurried into our room. After all, Mom and I had a lot of phone calls to make.
Aunt Liz said, once again, that she wasn’t surprised.
Suzanne squealed and dropped the phone when I told her, and I could hear her shouting for Dad to pick up right away.
Miyoko said, “You are a black belt in cooking,” and we giggled.
Zach said, “It was probably that lucky alarm clock I gave you,” and we laughed.
Our last phone call was to Keene and I let Mom make it.
After she told him the news, Mom held the phone out to me and said, “He wants to talk to you, Fizzy.”
I took the phone, sat down on the bed, and said, “Hello?”
“Congratulations, Fizzy,” Keene said.
“Thank you.”
“I have to be honest: I wasn’t sure you could do it.”
“I know,” I said. “That’s part of the reason I won.”
Silence hummed over the telephone line, until Keene said, “What do you mean?”
I took a deep breath and said, “I knew you didn’t think I could do it, so I had to prove you wrong.” I looked over at Mom to see if she was listening.
Mom pretended to be fixing her hair in the gold-framed mirror, but I could tell she was listening.
“Well, I’ve never in my life been happier about being wrong,” Keene said.
“You want to know something?” I said, turning away from Mom, in a small attempt at privacy. “I almost went to bed instead of working on that lasagna. I almost didn’t make it, didn’t send it in. I wouldn’t have, if you hadn’t doubted me.”
It was then that I remembered Mrs. Sloan’s words: Sometimes God blesses us with people we never wanted or asked for—because He knows we need them, even if we don’t. “So, um . . . thanks for that, Keene,” I said, and I meant it.
Keene was quiet for a few seconds. Then he chuckled and said, “Glad I could help.”
When I was off the phone, Mom said, “Was I part, too?”
“Ma’am?” I said.
Mom put a hand on her hip and said, “You said Keene was part of the reason you won. Was I part, too?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said. “I wanted to prove Keene wrong just as much as I wanted to prove you right . . . for believing in me.”
Mom smiled. Then she headed for the door as she said, “I’ll be right back. I have to go downstairs and pick up the normal-size check so we can take it to the bank.”
“We can’t take the big one?” I whined, disappointed because I’d really been looking forward to everyone at the bank knowing I’d won at the Southern Living Cook-Off.
Mom shook her head and laughed on her way out the door.
Maybe I can wear my chef’s coat to the bank, I told myself. And to the grocery store. And to school!
I sat on the bed, thinking things over. For the first time, I understood that sometimes, someone doubting you is as helpful as someone believing in you. I didn’t know that before.
Then I sat there waiting for the change. I mean, I was somebody now. I’d won. My dream had come true and it was a whopper of a dream. That kind of thing had to change a person, didn’t it? Of course it did!
So I sat there, waiting for greatness to descend on me, waiting to become a bigger, better person.
But I was still just me.
Chapter 38
I couldn’t believe it when Mom asked where I wanted to eat dinner to celebrate my win on my last night in the city of Charleston.
“Here,” I said, as if she should’ve known.
“Oh no, Fizzy,” Mom said. “You don’t mean you want to order room service again, do you?”
But I did.
After we’d eaten and I’d had plenty of time to bid farewell to those beautiful silver lids, Mom pushed the room service cart out into the hallway.
I was still just me, I realized again, and I was beginning to feel really sad about it.
When Mom came back into our room, I said, “You love me more, right?”
“More?” she said.
“Yes, you love me more now . . . for winning the cook-off . . . right?”
Mom looked confused, but she answered anyway. “No, Fizzy. I love you just the same. I told you before, there’s nothing that could make me love you any less, and maybe I should’ve told you then, there’s nothing that could make me love you any more either.”
“So nothing’s changed? I’m still just me?” I whined.
“What’s wrong with being you?” Mom asked.
I gave her a dark look.
Mom stopped moving and waited for an answer.
“You know what’s wrong with me,” I said accusingly. “You. Know.”
Mom came and lowered herself onto the edge of the other bed so that she sat across from me. “No, Fizzy, I don’t,” she said softly.
“But you have to!” I shrieked. “Because if you don’t know what’s wrong with me . . . then . . .” How will I ever get fixed? How will I ever be okay? That’s what I was thinking, only I couldn’t say it, because my throat closed; my face crumpled, and tears spouted from my eyes.
Mom rushed to put her arms around me.
“Don’t!” I practically shouted, pushing her arms away. “Don’t touch me! And don’t lie to me!”
“Fizzy, I don’t know what you’re talking about. There’s nothing wrong with you,” Mom said, staring at me through wide, unblinking eyes.
I shot up off the bed. “There is!” I wailed. “There has to be!”
“But . . . why?”
I threw my arms out at my sides and screamed, “Because even my own family doesn’t want me!” I accidently hit the lamp on the nightstand between the two beds. The shade popped off, hit the side of the bed, and bounced onto the floor.
“Calm down, Fizzy. That’s not true,” Mom said, bending and reaching for the lampshade.
I only meant to kick the lampshade out of her reach, but it went flying off, hit the window, and rolled across the floor. “Yes, it is true!” I yelled.
Mom gave up on the lampshade then and, instead, reached up, grabbed both of my hands, and tried to pull me down on the bed beside her. “No,” she started, but I yanked my hands loose, turned my back on her, threw myself facedown on the other bed, and cried and cried.
Mom got up and moved to the other bed, too, where she placed a gentle hand on my back and let me kick and cry and scream—into a pillow—until I’d pretty much worn myself out.
When I finally began to quiet down, Mom got up, went to the bathroom, and came back carrying the tissue box, which she handed to me.
I pushed myself up into a sitting position and mumbled, “Thank you.”
Mom nodded, sat down beside me, and waited.
I wiped my face and blew my nose.
“Now,” Mom said. “May I ask why you think we don’t want you?”
I shrugged. “I guess I’m not pretty enough or smart enough or good enough—or maybe I just make too many mistakes—that’s probably it.”
Mom shook her head. “That’s not what I was asking, but let me just say that you are pretty enough and smart enough and good enough . . . and, Fizzy, everybody makes mistakes.”
“Yeah, except I can’t make them anymore,” I said.
“Why not?” Mom asked.
I felt my chin tremble, so I slapped a hand over it and waited. When it stopped, I said, “Because Keene lets me live in your house even though he doesn’t want to, just like Su
zanne lets me stay at Dad’s house when she doesn’t want to—nobody really wants me, and if I make too many mistakes . . .” My chin started quivering again and more tears sprang to my eyes, so I had to stop talking.
Mom took my hand in hers and asked, “If you make too many mistakes, then what?”
“Then Keene and Suzanne will stop letting me stay . . . and I’ll be homeless!”
“Fizzy, that will never happen.”
“Okay, maybe I won’t be homeless,” I sobbed, “but I could end up in foster care—Zach’s told me about foster care!”
“No, never,” Mom said certainly, squeezing my hand. “Fizzy, it may not feel like we’re a family yet—you and me and Keene—but that doesn’t change the fact that we are a family.”
I sniffed.
Mom continued, “Families don’t keep score. They accept each other, flaws, mistakes, and all. They love and care for each other, not because they’re perfect—nobody’s perfect—but just because they’re family.”
I thought about that while fresh tears slid down my cheeks and dropped onto my shirt.
Mom let go of my hand, plucked two tissues from the box in my lap, and handed them to me. “Is this why you’ve been cleaning and cooking your guts out?”
I buried my face in the tissues and nodded.
“You don’t have to do that anymore. Nobody expects you to be perfect. Do you think Keene’s perfect? Let me tell you, he isn’t, and neither am I.”
“I think Suzanne might be almost perfect,” I said. “I mean, really.”
Mom rolled her eyes. “She isn’t—trust me.”
I knew better than to argue with Mom about Suzanne, so I just sat there forcing myself to breathe deeply and evenly.
A few minutes passed and then Mom said, “What makes you think Keene doesn’t want you? Has he told you that?”
“No,” I said, “but—”
