“So how much did you have to pay when your son was born?”
“Mr. Dekker,” Mrs. M. said. “I’ll remind you that Mr. Hooks is a parent.”
“Oh, and that reminds me that Mrs. Hooks is a parent, too. I guess to get your son, you had to cross Mrs. Hooks with a—”
“Mr. Dekker, report to the principal’s office at once!”
“What? What did I say?” He gave an exaggerated shrug.
She fixed him with a stare.
My father shifted uncomfortably from one foot to another.
“It’s okay, Mrs. Menendez.” He gave a nervous wave. “Really.”
“No, Mr. Hooks. I have been unforgivably lax of late. As a result, the class has come to believe that the foolishness that goes on among themselves is acceptable elsewhere. It is not. I am so very sorry.” She turned to Dekker. “Go.”
For a very long moment, they stared at each other. Then Dekker stood up, shoved the flour bag off his desk, and stamped out of the room. The bag landed with an oof and a cloud of white dust.
Mrs. M. sat down.
“I apologize again, Mr. Hooks,” she said. Her voice had a strange little hiccup to it. “Please, go on.”
My father didn’t answer, but only looked at her.
I raised my hand and waved it furiously.
“Dad! Dad!”
“Hmmm?” He turned to me.
“Dad, you said something about how important the decimal is.”
He nodded.
“So why don’t you tell us the story about the guy whose pen leaked? And there were decimal points everywhere?”
“That’s right!” Relief made him look all rubbery. “That’s a good one.”
Instantly understanding, my father moved inch by inch to the left as he talked. This just happened to be farther and farther away from Mrs. M.’s desk at the right. When he had all the kids laughing, Mrs. Menendez took out a tissue and quietly blew her nose.
Despite the weakness betrayed by that soggy Kleenex, she recovered quickly. At the end of the story, she stood up, slam-dunked Dekker’s flour sack into his knapsack, and picked up the bag. Then, in her sternest voice, she said, “Class, I’m escorting Mr. Hooks out. Not a word from any of you. Judy Boynton, you’re in charge.”
Mrs. M. and my father left. All of us stared at the open door.
For those last ten minutes, the class was perfect. No spitballs, no notes, not even whispers. Every so often, some frowning face would sneak a glance at me. No doubt people were wondering what Mrs. Menendez would say and do tomorrow, after today’s disastrous parent visit.
Meanwhile, I was wondering how much Dekker’s trip to the principal’s office was going to cost me.
DAY SEVEN, NIGHT
Sometimes, life is simple, and it’s easy to figure people out. Are you a cat person or a dog person? Do you like deep-dish pizza or thin crust? Are you trustworthy, loyal, helpful, friendly, courteous, kind, obedient, cheerful, thrifty, brave, clean, and reverent—or Nick Dekker?
Almost as clear a division: Do you like your puttanesca sauce with anchovies or without?
Since I was making puttanesca for supper, the topic occurred naturally. Besides, it was easier and less stressful to think about cooking than about what had happened at school today. So I wondered, what is it about anchovies that is so divisive?
I minced the garlic that every recipe for puttanesca began with. Then I chopped up a good-sized onion, which was called for in some, though not all, recipes. But no one fought over onions.
When the garlic-onion mixture was sautéed nicely, I stirred in both sun-dried and plum tomatoes. Many chefs used only plums. But no one fought over tomatoes.
Next, I threw in a half cup each of sliced green olives and sliced black olives. Some chefs insisted on only black olives in their puttanesca—Kalamata olives at that—yet no one really fought over olives.
But anchovies—that’s where the line is drawn.
My father hated them. But anchovy-less puttanesca was a favorite of his, so it was no coincidence that I was making it tonight. I had a zillion questions to ask him when he came home from work.
What had happened after my father left class today? He had had to go back to the principal’s office to get his cell phone. Did he get to hear Mrs. M. yell at Dekker? Was she going to suspend Dekker, maybe even expel him? And what about the rest of us? Had she said anything about there being consequences for the class? Did it involve terrible things like gym floors and toothbrushes?
And even these things were easier to wonder about than what the kids had thought of my dad today. Maybe that was the real reason I was making one of his favorite dishes. It was a guilt offering.
I pushed the thought away and measured out two tablespoons of capers, at last an ingredient that all recipes had in common. I tasted the puttanesca, adjusted the herbs, then put water on to boil for pasta. Fusilli, not spaghetti. The little curves hold the sauce better.
But all my chopping, slicing, and stirring were for nothing. My father didn’t come home for dinner. He was working late, Mom explained, because of the time he had taken off that afternoon.
“I would have gone in his place, if Mrs. Menendez had only asked,” Mom said. “Maybe she didn’t think of it when we saw her on Sunday. Or maybe working in an insurance office is just more interesting than what I do. You know how some people are. It’s the surface glamour that appeals to them.”
Surface glamour? I almost choked on my fusilli, which, if you think about it, is pretty hard to do because it’s so soft. Dad more interesting than Mom? Statistics more glamorous than astral projection? Good thing Mrs. M. hadn’t asked her; Mom would have taught the kids bilocation. Then they could cut class without ever leaving the room.
“You know how much I love you, don’t you, Bertie?” my mother asked without warning, staring down at her plate. Now I really was going to choke on my fusilli.
Was she a mind reader, too? Did she know how I had betrayed her yesterday in the schoolyard? Maybe her astral body had been there, hidden behind the angry French ghosts, hearing me deny both cooking and her. All of a sudden, my guilt about my father doubled and included her. When was my next appointment with Dr. Zimmerman?
“Uh, yeah,” I said, starting to push my fusilli around.
“Well, um . . . uh, good,” she said, imitating my movements. “What I mean is, you’re very . . . very young, you know, and it’s easy to make mistakes at that age, um . . . Ooops!” Some olives slid off her plate.
My ears must have been the color of the sauce.
“But sometimes we can catch our mistakes before we make them,” my mother added hurriedly, wiping up the spill, still studying her plate. “And then everything’s all right. Because the mistakes were never made. It’s like erasing the past, except that particular past never happened, you see? It’s almost like psychic time travel.”
My embarrassment turned to confusion, which at least felt more familiar.
“Huh?”
She looked up at me and smiled widely. “I’m so relieved we had this little talk.”
After dinner, I moped around for a bit, wondering about what she had said and why. Then I started thinking about Dekker’s next attack. I had temporarily flustered him by calling him “Shorty” yesterday and again today in class. He got back at me through my father. But that backfired and Dekker had gotten in trouble, which meant his next attack would be direct. I had to take preventive action now.
It was eight o’clock. With the time difference between here and the West Coast, I just might catch someone still in the mill office. I brought Cleo to the living room and turned her bottom-side up. “Sorry,” I whispered, hoping the blood didn’t rush to her head, and then dialed the long-distance phone number stamped on her fanny.
“Granny Greta’s Merry Mill,” answered a man’s gruff voice.
“Uh, hello? Can I talk to Granny Greta?”
“Who is this?”
“You don’t know me. But I’ve got a sack of flour
from back when you were Dutch’s Old-Time Oregon Mill.”
“This is a completely different company. I’ve told you bill collectors that a thousand times.”
“I’m not a bill collector,” I said. While I talked, I laid Cleo on a sofa pillow. “I thought maybe Granny Greta might know how to get in touch with Dutch. It’s an emergency.”
“That’s what they all say.”
“It really is,” I tried to explain. “Please, I need to get an extra bag of Dutch’s Old-Time Oregon Mill flour.” Mrs. M. had said I couldn’t do it, but I just had to try.
“You need a bag of flour?” asked the voice.
“Maybe two. It looks like it’s going to be a very bad week. I’m expecting a terrible accident to happen at any minute.”
“Accident? Are you getting wise with me? That warehouse fire was an accident. Is this the insurance company? Where’s my money? I mean, Dutch’s money?”
“What fire? No, don’t tell me, I don’t care,” I said. “I just need a couple of sacks of flour, you know, the ones that read, ‘Dutch’s Old-Time Oregon Mill.’”
“Everything’s in ashes. A complete tax write-off. Hey, are you the IRS? I don’t—I mean, Dutch doesn’t owe you guys a dime. Or, well, that’s what he told me before he left town.”
“Dutch is gone?” It was the first part of this conversation I had understood. “Did he take all his flour bags with him?”
“There was nothing left to take. Listen up! I repeat: warehouse fire. It’s toast. Got it? Crispy critters.”
Instinctively I backed away from Cleo. Had she heard the loud voice over the receiver? She was the only one left. Did that make her an orphan? I had read about orphans in books, of course. It seemed you couldn’t even be in a kid’s book unless you were an orphan. But I had never known one myself.
“Do you have to shout?” I said. “So . . . there’s nothing left?”
“Not a thing.”
“Not even a few empty sacks?”
“Not a single one.”
All at once I got an idea.
“You know how new businesses frame their first dollar bill?” I said. “Did Dutch frame his first sack of flour, just the bag? If he did, could you mail it to me overnight? Then it would all work out. I could put plain flour in it myself, see, and draw a face on it. Then I would have a fake Cleo to bring to school and when this terrible accident that’s going to happen happens, the real Cleo will be safe.”
“Cleo?”
“Yeah, Cleo, my flour-sack baby.”
“You have a baby? And she’s a flour sack?”
I sighed. “It’s a very long story.”
“You must think you’re pretty clever, trying to convince me that you’re crazy so I’ll admit something. Well, it won’t work.”
“I’m not crazy. I’m just a desperate eighth grader. Please,” I insisted. “Just let me talk to Granny Greta.”
“This is Granny Greta. Now get lost, and take your flour-sack baby with you.”
Click.
I shook my head. Granny Greta’s Merry Mill needed better customer service.
As I hung up, I heard the front door open. I ran out into the hall and almost knocked my father down.
“Whoa!” he said, holding me back by the shoulders. “What’s wrong, Bert?”
I felt all mushy inside, as if someone had tied me to a chair and made me watch Bambi three times in a row. I guess it was having my mother tell me she loved me. Or maybe it was hearing that Cleo was an orphan.
Suddenly I imagined one lonely little patch of white in a field of smoking ashes.
I was a traitor a dozen times over.
“Ready to talk yet, champ?”
I hated to be called that, especially when I knew I would never make it to Friday. I pulled back and shoved my hands in my pockets.
“What’s going on?” my father asked.
“Nothing.”
“Really?” He ducked his head till it was level with mine. “Your mother thinks you’re going to run away. Bertie, that would break your mother’s heart. Mine, too.”
“What?” Is that why she had told me she loved me, and what she meant about making mistakes at my age? “What do you mean, ‘run away’?”
“Well, that’s what you intend to do, isn’t it? Run away and become a spy?”
“A spy?”
“I had such different plans for you, son. I really wanted you to join me at the company. But a . . . a . . . ”
“A spy?” I repeated, still not believing what I had heard. This was too weird, even for my family.
“It’s okay,” my father said. “Your mother told me all about the letter. She called at the office this afternoon.”
“Letter? What letter?” My heart started to thump a bit quicker.
“The letter from the CIA. Bert, that kind of life is so dangerous, no insurance company in the world would give you a policy!”
The letter! The letter that for months I had been waiting for, dying for, praying for. The letter I had pushed out of my mind entirely just so I wouldn’t spend every second of every minute of every hour thinking about it—the letter from the CIA!
I ran up to my parents’ bedroom.
“Mo-o-o-om!”
I found her sitting cross-legged on the bed, half a dozen books opened before her.
“Where is it?” I demanded.
“Oh, honey, why? And why did they have to answer you through the regular mail?” she asked. “Just getting a letter from the CIA could put you in danger. There could be counterspies everywhere!”
“Where is it? Where is it?”
She slid her hand under her pillow and pulled out a business-size envelope.
I snatched it, ran into my room, and slammed the door behind me. For long minutes, I was afraid to do more than stare at the return address—CIA, the Culinary Institute of America.
The Culinary Institute. How had I dared to even write the school, much less apply there? Me—traitorous Bertie Hooks, who hadn’t even told my own parents I wanted to be a chef? I didn’t deserve to get in. I didn’t deserve to wear white.
I opened the envelope. The CIA agreed.
“Application denied.”
DAY EIGHT
“You have Dr. Zimmerman after school,” my mother said, pouring a bowl of cereal. “I’m skipping yoga and will come pick you up after class.”
“Dr. Zimmerman? I didn’t know I had him on a Wednesday.”
“I saw him yesterday. Yesterday before I . . . got home.”
Yesterday before I got the mail, her face said, full of motherly hints. I refused to talk about the letter from the CIA.
“He was very eager that you come in, Bertie, something about your being on the verge of a breakthrough.”
Breakdown was more like it. Yesterday’s rejection had topped it off, though I tried to tell myself things weren’t too bad. Once I pulled my eyes from that horrible word “denied,” I found out I was being turned down because I was too young. While my application had been exemplary, they said, applicants to the Culinary Institute had to be high school graduates. They also needed six months of kitchen experience in a “non-fast-food environment,” plus a letter of recommendation from an industry professional. Cooking at home didn’t count.
I had been so sure I’d get in. My application essay was about my goal of being a Certified Master Chef. There were only a few dozen CMCs in the whole country, which made sense, since the exam alone took ten days. Plus, even though original recipes weren’t required, I had included my best: Death by Eggplant. The dish was a cross between baba ghanouj and eggplant parmigiana, with a few twists of my own. A single spoonful of it could bring tears to my eyes and banish any doubts I had about my abilities as a chef. And the admissions committee tried it! I knew because there had been a telltale smudge of garlic on the letter.
With all this, admitting me should have been a nobrainer. Never mind the nice words about looking forward to hearing from me in four more years. If this were France,
I would already be packing my bag. But it wasn’t France. I needed a high school diploma, which meant I first needed to pass eighth grade.
Sighing, I set a bowl of Oatie-O’s and milk in front of Cleo. She had no teeth, but the cereal would get mushy enough if I let it sit. While I did this, part of me was saying, “How silly, flour sacks don’t eat.” Another part said that if I didn’t feed Cleo something, she would get cranky by gym. When Mrs. M. found out why, family services would be called in, and I would be found guilty of flour-sack abuse. Not the path to a passing grade.
I began to pack my knapsack. Last night, I erased all the marks in my books so I could turn them in.
“When you pick me up after school, why don’t you wait around back,” I suggested to my mother. “Less traffic.” And less of a crowd to see her in a turban.
“Okay,” she said. “Three o’clock, around back, then off to Dr. Zimmerman. Maybe . . . maybe you’ll talk to him about . . . ”
“See you later, Mom,” I said quickly.
Indra was waiting for me on my porch.
“I’m still mad at you for calling Nicky ‘Shorty’ and shoving him,” she said at once, playing with the end of her braid. Then she dropped it and looked up. “But I’m so furious with Nicky. I couldn’t believe how mean he was to your father yesterday.”
And I couldn’t believe Indra Sahir had come over this early just to tell me that. Maybe my life wasn’t ruined after all.
Hiding my grin, I jumped from the porch and ran to the sidewalk.
“Where’s the baby?” Indra called.
“In my knapsack.”
“Isn’t that stuffy?”
“It’s better than sunburn,” I answered.
“Oh.” She hurried after me for a while, then gave up. “Bertie, stop running! We’ve got plenty of time.” She stood still, hands on her hips. I slowed down, then slowed even more. She caught up.
When she was at my side, she said, “Oops, your books are falling out.” She walked in back of me and fussed with my knapsack. I held my breath, waiting to hear the zip of the inner pocket being opened.
“I really liked your father yesterday,” Indra said. “He was pretty cool.”
Death by Eggplant Page 6
