Death by Eggplant

by Susan Heyboer O'Keefe

  “My father? Cool?” Had she been in the same class as me yesterday?

  “Yeah, all that stuff he said about weird stories and taking chances on whether or not they’ll happen. And working with people like Head Cracker. His job sounded sooo interesting.”

  I shrugged. “Maybe. He never really explained it like that before,” I admitted.

  “And I really liked what you did yesterday. But I’m not surprised. I always knew you were nice,” she said from behind me.

  My father was “cool.” I was “nice.” I had used the same word thanking my Great Aunt Ethel for my birthday socks.

  “What do you mean, ‘nice’?” I asked. Maybe details would help.

  “You know, nice for you and your father to distract the kids. So they wouldn’t look at Mrs. Menendez while she was upset.”

  “While she was crying,” I corrected.

  “You are so wrong! Mrs. M. was not crying!” Indra yanked my knapsack zipper shut. “She was just emotional. It made her nose run.”

  My score on the nice-meter was dropping.

  “If I got that emotional, I’d never hear the end of it,” I said. “‘Cry-baby.’ ‘Sissy boy.’ ‘Weepy peepy.’”

  “Weepy peepy?”

  I shrugged. “It’s a family expression.”

  “Weepy peepy?”

  “Because my nose squeaks when I cry, all right? I mean, cried. When I was little. Real little.”

  “Squeaks?”

  “A little peeping noise, according to my mother. I’d cry and squeak, then she’d say, ‘Weepy peepy’ and get me to laugh.”

  “That is sooo cute, Bertie.”

  I turned on her. “If you ever tell Dekker, I swear I’ll—”

  She put a finger on my mouth. It was supposed to shush me. It nearly stopped my heart.

  “Your secret’s safe,” she said.

  “Is it?” I started to walk, just to get my heart pumping again. “Now you tell me a secret. So I’ll know I can trust you.” Then maybe, I thought, maybe I would tell her a real secret. Fixing my books, she had been inches from the chef’s hat hidden in my knapsack. And I realized that, even though I had held my breath, I hadn’t been afraid. I almost wanted her to discover it.

  “All right, a secret,” she said. “But not a word to anyone, promise?” Braid flying, she quickly looked over her shoulder, then back at me. She lowered her voice. “I’m engaged.”

  “What?!”

  “Shhhh! Since I was six and my fiancé was one. One! I was engaged to a baby!” She clapped her hands over her giggle. “He’s eight now. He’s getting older. That’s not good.”

  “Where is this guy?”

  “He’s in India. My mother arranged it. She is so old-fashioned. She still wears a bindhi—you know, that colored dot on her forehead—plus she dresses in a sari. And not just on holidays. She’s a blood-work technician, and she wears a sari to the lab. She wears a sari just to get pizza! It is so embarrassing to be seen with her.”

  “My mother wears a sari, too, sometimes,” I offered. “It is embarrassing. What does your father say?”

  “I can go to college here, while we wait for my fiancé to grow up. Then it’s back to India. How can they do this to me?” She kicked at a stone in her path. “If I have kids, I will never, ever, ever be this mean to them.”

  “Maybe it’s not that bad,” I suggested.

  Indra looked at me as if I had grown horns.

  “You don’t have to worry about who likes you or not,” I explained. “Hey, you don’t even have to worry about having a date for the senior prom.”

  Indra was about to explode, but then kids from another grade crossed the street right in front of us. Though her face was twelve shades of purple, she poked me to be quiet.

  At the classroom door, Dekker shoved past me, muttering, “Move it, Bertha,” then sat down. He pulled his flour sack out and dropped it on the floor. The sack bore a smudge, as if he had managed to kick it without splitting open the paper. At my own desk, I turned Cleo to face me, so she wouldn’t be frightened by the bruise.

  For a few moments, I fantasized that Mrs. M. wouldn’t show up, Mrs. M. who supposedly hadn’t missed a day in, like, a hundred and thirty-eight years. I imagined that she had fled the country, or maybe even was in a loony bin for cracked-up teachers. Dekker had broken her yesterday. Dekker had made her cry.

  But no, she was right on time for homeroom and was her usual brisk self, which made me think that maybe Indra had been right and yesterday’s tissue was only for a runny nose.

  When we went back to Spanish right before lunch, we found another guest parent waiting, a short man with Brillo-pad eyebrows, a huge clown smile, and such a strong accent he needed dubbing. I missed his name. Then I saw Juliska Lovass-Nagy sitting so low in her desk all I could see was the part in her hair. Just another victim of embarrassing parents.

  Both in homeroom and now, before and after Mr. Lovass-Nagy’s visit, Mrs. M. never said a word about yesterday or about “special consequences.” It was as if it had never happened. She also never said a word to Dekker about his dirty flour sack. She stared at the smudge, stared at Dekker, stared back at the smudge, and made a note in her book. Then she looked at Cleo and me and walked to the back of the class to my seat.

  I had always hated throwing out pencil stubs. It seemed such a waste, even when they were too itty-bitty for my fingers. Now at last I had a use for them. They were the perfect flour-sack-baby size. So I had sharpened a bunch of two-inch stubs and lined them up in front of Cleo. I had even given her my homework pad. Mrs. Menendez looked at us, Cleo and me, little pencils and big pencils, little pad and big pad.

  “Your enthusiasm makes things rather crowded, Mr. Hooks.”

  “You’re right,” I agreed. “I know it’s very late in the year, but do you think Cleo could get her own desk? I’m a righty and she’s a lefty and we keep banging elbows.”

  Mrs. M. didn’t answer. She simply made another note in her book and returned to the front of the room.

  When school was finally over, I tucked Cleo into my knapsack, ran out the back door, and hopped into the waiting car.

  My mother must have rushed out at the last minute to get me, because she wasn’t dressed up in her usual scarves, fringes, and turban. Instead, she wore plain leggings and a T-shirt that read “Having an out-of-body experience. Back in ten minutes.” It was supposed to be a joke, but sometimes I wondered if Mom was trying to give the rest of the world an actual warning.

  “There’s a snack for you in the bag,” she said, pointing. This was almost as much of a shock as her making me lunch. I pulled out a juice box and a granola bar for myself and a cracker for Cleo. I strapped Cleo into the car seat, stuck the cracker in between the seat belt and her drawn-on face, then settled down and buckled myself in.

  After a long silence, my mother said, “It’s Cleo, isn’t it? I think you’ve been visualizing much too hard, Bertie. You’ve projected genuine feelings onto your school project, feelings you really shouldn’t be feeling, like jealousy. That’s why you want to run away and become a spy, isn’t it?”

  “I’m not going to become a spy, Mom,” I said. “Really, I’m not.”

  “Well, what about the letter, Bertie? Or are you going to tell me there’s no letter, either?”

  I looked out the window. The drive to the doctor’s office was taking forever.

  “There was a letter,” I admitted.

  “And what does ‘CIA’ stand for, if not the ‘Cruel Interruption of Affection’ between a mother and her son?”

  This was my chance. Could I say it?

  “‘CIA’ stands for the ‘Culinary Institute of America,’ Mom.” I swallowed. My throat was dry. “The letter was from the Culinary Institute of America. I want to go to the Culinary Institute of America.”

  “Culinary? That has to do with food, right?”

  “Right,” I said, sagging with relief.

  “You want to be a farmer?”

  The
re was a sharp crack, the sound of my hopes breaking.

  I felt as if I had dared everything, put the deepest, most meaningful part of my life out there for her, and she had completely misunderstood. It had taken everything I had to say “Culinary Institute of America.” I couldn’t talk about it anymore.

  “Look, a parking spot!” I pointed, glad to be at Dr. Zimmerman’s. When my mother stopped the car, I unbuckled Cleo, tucked her under my arm, and ran up to the office.

  Dr. Zimmerman beamed as he opened the door. “So, so, so,” he said happily. The pointy ends of his mustache almost twirled on their own. Then he saw Cleo, and the mustache tips drooped. “Sooo. I see we have regressed since Saturday.” He shook his head. “I knew it was too much too soon. Come in, and tell me why you have done this thing.”

  “Done what?” I said, sitting down and balancing Cleo on my knee.

  “Made this, this dummy as a substitute for your sister, no?”

  “No, this is my sister. I mean, this is what Cleo has always been. I thought that once you saw her, you’d understand.”

  His eyebrows lifted with an idea. “Do you pinch this little flour bag? Poke it? Punch it?”

  I thought of the bruise on Dekker’s bag. “Of course not! Does she look like she’s been punched?”

  He leaned over and pointed. On Cleo’s head was a Band-Aid, which I had put on her tear to replace the tape.

  “What is this, then, that you did to her?”

  “This isn’t a her, this is a flour sack!”

  “True, but in the moist and murky mud of your subconscious, this is your little sister. Don’t you see how you’re regressing? First, you would bake her into cupcakes and serve her as a ritual meal to your mother. Now your hostility has snowballed into explicit violence.”

  “What does that mean?” I asked.

  “It means you may want to hurt Cleo.”

  “Never!” I pulled Cleo closer. “I shouldn’t have brought her here.”

  “Then why did you?” he asked, steepling his fingers.

  “I don’t know. So you’d see. Plus, I think you’re confusing my mother. She’s way too deep into this project.”

  “Ah, your mother.” The doctor put the box of tissues in front of me. “So, Bertram, what about your mother? What do you want to tell me?”

  The words tumbled out: “How can a woman who knows Middle English and hieroglyphics not know the word ‘culinary’?”

  “Hmm?” His eyebrows rose.

  “This is a flour sack,” I said. “My mother can remember to bring it a cracker and can run out and buy it a baby car seat, but she can’t recognize when I tell her the most important thing in my life!”

  “Are you asking your mother to make a choice?” Dr. Zimmerman’s eyebrows shot up so far they disappeared into his hair.

  “There is no choice. I mean, how can there be?”

  “You sound worried. Don’t you think she will choose you?”

  “I don’t know—Yes!” I said quickly, then weakened, “but . . . ”

  “But what?” he asked, his voice suddenly gentle. “You can say it, Bertram. You can say anything here.”

  “It’s just that a flour sack may be . . . less disappointing than a real kid. Cleo isn’t getting beat up by bullies because she can’t stand up for herself. Of course, she can’t stand up at all, but you know what I mean.” My brief victory over Dekker evaporated. All I could remember were the years of being pounded. “And Cleo isn’t going to shock anyone by failing math, though I did try to explain I was having trouble. No one seemed to hear me.”

  Dr. Zimmerman nodded over and over.

  “You cry for help, but no one listens, no?”

  “Yes. I mean, no, no one listens. And Cleo is really small and cute and cuddly, while I’m . . . ”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m . . . I’m me.”

  “Yes, yes, a very serious fault,” he agreed, still nodding. “I can see now why your mother might have difficulty choosing.”

  “What?” I sat up straight. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”

  “Why should I be? Cleo sounds so much more likable, capable even, for one so young.”

  “I’m capable!”

  “Of what?” He pointed at Cleo’s face. “Even your artwork is lacking.”

  “I don’t have to be an artist. I . . . I can cook,” I said, my face burning. “I love to cook.” How strange, how wonderful the words felt!

  “You mean, it’s easier to take home economics than a harder math course. Cooking, there’s no future in it,” Dr. Zimmerman said.

  “No future?” I yelled. “Tell that to Emeril, Jacques Pépin, Wolfgang Puck—”

  “Pfffft.”

  “—Todd English, Masaharu Morimata, and, and—What if somebody way back had told that to James Beard?” My voice dropped reverently and I said, “Father of American cooking.”

  “Double pfffft.” The doctor shrugged to dismiss me. “You mean, you will be saying, ‘Would you like fries with that?’”

  “This is exactly why I don’t tell anyone!” I said, jumping to my feet. “I’m going to be a great chef! I’m going to go to the Culinary Institute of America. I’m going to have a prime-time cooking show, and a four-star restaurant, and a best-selling cookbook. I’m also going to have a bed-and-breakfast to fall back on, because I know you shouldn’t put all your eggs in one basket!”

  I collapsed into my chair, panting. I had never said so much about cooking out loud before, and certainly not with so many “I’s” stuck in.

  “So much ambition, so much passion,” Dr. Zimmerman said softly. “Tch, tch, who would have suspected it? Your mother thinks you’re going to be a famous psychoanalyst.”

  “What? When did she say this?”

  “Our last session. Something about your being a master of dream interpretation. Who else interprets dreams but psychoanalysts?” The doctor’s eyebrows rose. “So, you would take my job, too, yes?”

  “I don’t want your job. I’m going to be a chef!”

  “I should believe this of a boy who’s failing math? No, no, no.”

  “Yes, yes, yes!” How had this gotten so far from whether I had a sister or a flour sack? “It makes perfect sense. I’m too busy cooking to waste time on algebra homework.”

  “But a chef? A restaurant owner? A television star? Pffft,” said Dr. Zimmerman, leaning back. “These hopes are so much in the future. You will be old then. Cleo, too, will be old and able to take care of herself. It is now that you cannot deal with her, now that you concoct all these fantasies.” He stroked the tip of his beard. “Tell me, Bertram Hooks, what is your heart’s desire right now? What do you really and truly want this very minute from all the people around you?”

  “I want my mother to remember she’s my mother. I want my father to accept me for who I am. I want Nick Dekker to be kidnapped by aliens. I want Indra Sahir to kiss me. And I want Mrs. M. to promote me to ninth grade.”

  “Mmm,” the doctor said. “And Cleo?”

  “I don’t want anything from Cleo. She can’t give me anything.”

  “She can love you, Bertram. And maybe, because it isn’t complicated with these other problems, maybe hers is the clearest, truest love.”

  Sighing, I turned Cleo’s sweet cross-eyed face toward mine.

  “Maybe you’re right.”

  DAY NINE

  “It’s Thursday,” I said, talking to my sleepy-eyed face in the bathroom mirror. “Just today and tomorrow left. You can do it!”

  Gee, that sounded convincing. And if I couldn’t believe in myself, how were other people supposed to take me seriously?

  I needed to be older. Then when I explained my dreams—no, my goals—people would listen. They wouldn’t stroke their beards and say, “Pfffft!”

  A beard.

  I squirted foam from my father’s can of shaving cream and made myself a full white beard. It looked pretty good. In fact, it made me look like a recent competitor on Iron Chef, my favorite
program. I loved everything about the Japanese TV show, down to the bad dubbing that made the episodes seem like a cross between Godzilla, the WWF, and Julia Child. But the Japanese understood. It was all about mastering the food.

  I growled at my bearded reflection in the bathroom mirror.

  “Arrrh! Iron Chef French—you are going down! Aarrrrh, arrrrrh!”

  Plain white toques weren’t dramatic enough for TV, so many of the competitors wore colorful costumes. I wrapped a long red bath towel around my shoulders as a cape and a smaller red hand towel straight up around my head like a chef’s hat. That was better.

  I pointed to my chest. “Iron Chef Italian takes no prisoners!”

  I didn’t really have enough specialties to claim a country. But I had already made puttanesca sauce this week and planned risotto for dinner. So today I would be Italian. Maybe I should add being Iron Chef to my list of goals. “Arrrh!” Now when I spoke to my reflection, I believed it. “Just today and tomorrow left. You can do it! Aarrrh!!”

  “Do what, Bert?” My father stopped at the open door.

  I yanked the hand towel off my head and wiped my face, all in one movement.

  “Survive the week,” I said, knocked back to being plain old Bertie Hooks.

  “Survive? What do you mean, champ?” Dad asked, punching a number into his phone.

  Maybe I had finally been brain damaged by secondhand cell-phone radiation. Or maybe I was just embarrassed, having been caught growling at myself while wearing a red cape and a shaving-cream beard.

  “I’m not your champ!” I snapped at my father’s reflection.

  “Hi, no, wait a minute,” he said into the phone. He held it down at his side. “Are you okay?”

  “What if I said no?”

  Without another word, he ended the call.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  Where should I begin? Last week, when he let Mom become mother to a flour-sack baby? Years ago, when he let the office become more important than his family? Or how about when I was first born and he let me be named “Beorhthramm” instead of “John?”

  His cell phone rang, probably the person he had just called calling him back. This was my chance, my maybe once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to spill everything.