by Chris Negron
Maybe I was wrong about crying in kitchens. I think, maybe, I was wrong about a whole bunch of things.
43
The long stage table turns out to be for us. Us, meaning the Super Five and our families. Now I get why they’d told us we’d be eating brunch. The Super Chef announces there’s no challenge or cooking during this first morning segment. He just wanted to give us a Thanksgiving reunion. Live on TV.
We surf a wave of humanity toward the stage table. Joey’s crew arrives first, snatching up the chairs near the head, where the Super Chef sits. Kiko’s family, all seven of them, take up a bunch of seats next, near Chef Graca in the middle. Then come Pepper and her parents. Bo’s group and mine end up completely opposite from Taylor, on the other end of the table, where Chef Wormwood joins us, seated at the foot.
Paige is still talking a mile a minute, recounting the details of every episode while surveying the arena. “Oh, and over there is where you guys waited in the booths, right? Oh my gosh, there’s the scoreboard, and the pantry, and the—”
She’s the same Paige she’s always been. Almost. Oddly, her hair is stringy, flying all over the place, like she’s been electrically shocked. It makes her look sort of tired.
Immediately I assume it must somehow be my fault. “Paige, I’m so sorry,” I whisper.
Shocked, she clamps her mouth shut. “Sorry? For what?”
“Doing so bad. I’m in last. I have no chance tonight, not with just thirty minutes—”
“Bad? Bad?!?” she cries, and I actually have to check around to see if everyone’s staring, but there are so many loud conversations going on at once, no one seems to notice her raised voice. “Are you kidding? It’s been incredible. They wouldn’t let us say much on those calls, but when you did that pancake, I mean, OH-EM-GEE, and how you guessed three out of the five skills, and—”
“Indoor voice,” Mom reminds Paige, but when I peek at her, she’s not looking at us. Instead she seems fascinated by the fancy place setting in front of her. Watching her rearrange the silverware absently, her guard down, I notice the dark circles under Mom’s eyes, how her head droops slightly to one side. If I saw her at home like this, I’d know it was time to shut down the TV and let her turn the couch into a bed.
Maybe Paige is tired, but my mother? She’s completely exhausted.
It’s been less than fifteen minutes since she’s been here, but it’s like this place, this arena, has already sapped her of all her strength and energy. Maybe it isn’t the place, though. Maybe it’s the person who runs it, who created it, who’s draining her emotions. Come to think of it, I haven’t seen Mom glance Lucas Taylor’s way, not one time. He isn’t looking at her, either.
Seriously? They haven’t seen each other in how long? Years, right? They can’t even acknowledge one another? Does Mom know Dad is sick? Does she care?
And what’re we doing all the way on the other end of this table? Shouldn’t we be right next to him? Or is this just a new way for him to engineer the same distance he’s always wanted to exist between him and us?
Scared together? Wasn’t that our agreement last night? Then why are we so far apart?
Suddenly I see his promise for what it is. Empty. Completely.
“Curtis,” Paige says, pulling my attention back to her again. “You didn’t do bad. You were awesome. Kids in school are asking for my autograph, just because I’m your sister. Oh, and watch parties. There’ve been a ton of those. Plus Tre! You know he’s set up a table at the last couple of Eagles games to sell blown-up, signed photos of you and him from his birthday party last year?” She giggles. “His sign says, ‘Meet Curtis Pith’s Sue Chef!’”
“He spelled it S-U-E, didn’t he?”
Hearing my best friend’s name, I stop glowering at Taylor long enough to glance at Paige. When our eyes meet, her giggling picks up speed. “Totally.”
I should be laughing with her, but I can only stare, openmouthed. It’s like she—and Tre and the rest of North Sloan, apparently—only watched half of each show, the parts I did well in. Didn’t they see all my mistakes?
A bellowing shout and hoot pulls my attention back down to the other end of the table. It’s Joey’s dad, tousling his son’s hair as they laugh together.
Kiko’s family joins in with them, enjoying whatever story Mr. Modestino’s in the middle of telling. Her father pulls her into a tight embrace I’m guessing he’s done hundreds of times back home in Japan.
Meanwhile, my own shoulders feel cold. Empty and alone.
Watch parties. Signed memorabilia. It’s hard to believe all of that’s been going on. There was a time I wondered if anyone in North Sloan besides Mom and Paige was paying attention at all. If my family had even been allowed to keep their apartment. But Mom had already assured me there’d been no issue with that. In fact, she was surprised I even asked. Instead it seems almost everyone back home has been rooting for me. Well, maybe except for Pettynose.
But what about the people here? Did I ever have a chance with them? I look down the table at Taylor again. He glances up. Our eyes meet. His widen; he shifts his gaze away quickly.
I sense Mom watching me. My exchange with Taylor. She looks down at him, then back to me, down at Taylor again. She’s concerned. Of what? Is she afraid I’ll blurt something out with Paige sitting here? Seriously? After I stayed quiet for how many years?
Why does it have to be a secret, anyway? Stay a secret? For weeks I’ve worked my butt off, trying to impress the Super Chef, and it still hasn’t been enough. Because after all that, including last night’s confessions, he’s still making sure to sit very far away from me on Thanksgiving—the “national holiday that’s always been all about food and family and gratitude.”
Maybe for everyone else. But not for me. Not for us. We’re apart, not together. Again.
It’s the same as every other holiday, isn’t it? I love my sister, my mom, I’m so grateful to have them. But why does being Curtis Pith’s father have to be some kind of ugly badge no one wants to be caught wearing?
And hold on . . . is that what I’ve spent my time here doing? Trying to impress Lucas Taylor?
A lot of good that’s done, when he hasn’t lifted a finger this whole time to try to impress me. Sure, maybe he finally let me into his life last night, but was it too little? And way too late?
Look at all these other families. All the moms and dads, together with their children. Heck, some even have extras. Besides her two parents, Kiko has four grandparents here, too. Four! And Joey has his uncle Frank, the big restaurant owner.
I feel tears pushing their way forward from the back of my eyes. I lean my face into Mom’s shoulder to try to keep them at bay.
Last night, after hearing about Taylor’s Parkinson’s, I decided to forgive him, to go back to seeing only the chef who’s helped me learn to cook for all these years, the man who finds himself in so much trouble he’s ending the show he loves. To see only the person he is, just a man with flaws and challenges like everyone else, like me, like Mom.
But seeing Mom looking so defeated by her trip here, defeated by the Super Chef, knowing I’ve already been beaten by the same forces, too, it’s just too much. There’s no possible way for me to forget who Lucas Taylor really is. Chef—that’s only what he does. Father—that’s who he was supposed to be.
Father is who he never was.
“Curtis?” Mom asks, gripping my shoulder, hugging me closer while at the same time prompting me to sit up. “Everything all right?”
Still pressing into her, I look straight up into her eyes. I should answer the same way I’ve always answered that question. I’m fine. But my neck feels red and scratchy under the collar of my suddenly heavy and hot Super Chef jacket.
“He’s tired,” Wormwood says. “I’m afraid all these kids must be.” She reaches over and pats the back of my hand. “Stay strong, Curtis. It’s almost over.”
Almost over? As in, “It won’t be long until you lose officially” over?
Purposely distract myself with menus and measurements. I try to let it happen now, because I know I should.
2 cloves garlic, minced
3 pounds sweet onions, sliced
¼ cup . . . ¼ cup . . .
I should. I should. I should. But I can’t. I can’t. I can’t.
“Why don’t you talk to him?” I ask Mom, quickly pulling away from her.
I point at Lucas Taylor. At the Super Chef. At my father. “He’s right there, but you haven’t even looked at him since you got here.” Now I direct my gaze down the table, raise my voice. “And what about you? Why don’t you say something? Do you hate each other that much?” I gesture toward Paige. “Do you hate us that much?”
I’m not even sure which of my parents I’m more angry at, because I don’t even know why they’re not together. That story’s always been the big secret, hasn’t it? More like the big lie. The biggest one of my life.
The entire table is staring my way now. All the cameras trained on me. But this time I’m not afraid of face sweat. Maybe I’m finally not afraid of anything anymore.
I stand up out of my chair, backing away. The Super Chef’s jaw drops low. Mom hisses at me, “Curtis! What are you . . . ?”
“Did you know he’s sick? That’s why this is all happening. He’s sick, and you come all the way here and don’t even say two words to him. Maybe he needs help.”
I switch my rage to Taylor. “Can’t you see how tired she is? This was my only chance to . . .” Tears sting the corners of my eyes. I swing my arms, pointing to every corner of the sparkling arena. “Look at this place!”
Chef Wormwood inhales sharply. “Chef Pith! Sit down!”
Paige looks up at me like she’s watching the final scene of some scary horror movie. Eyes wide, breath held.
Scared of what? the Super Chef asked me last night. Me?
“You don’t know, Paige,” I try to explain to her. “You just . . . you can’t understand. He’s our father.” I point at the Super Chef again.
“Lucas?” Chef Wormwood. A tense whisper, full of alarm and shock.
At the same time, Mom bolts up from her chair. “Curtis!”
My name leaves my mother’s mouth differently than I’ve ever heard it before. A short, completely shocked bark. She does a double take between me and Taylor. If it’s possible, when she speaks again, her surprise comes out even greater. “What?”
A wave thick with her clear disappointment washes over me. My lips stop working.
She shakes her head vigorously, and now she’s beginning to cry. “Curtis, I . . . I don’t understand where you’re . . . ?”
My heart drops into my stomach at the same time my hand drops to my side. She still won’t admit it? “You told me. In second grade. Don’t you remember? Y-you said . . .”
Mom inhales, fighting tears, panting. “No. Curtis, no, I don’t remember that. Just . . . listen to me. Your dad, he’s someone . . . someone who wasn’t ready to be a dad. He’s still not ready.”
“No . . .” As I try to order my thoughts, the tears I’m unable to hold back any longer start to roll down my cheeks. “When I came home on career day, when I made you tell me who my dad was . . .” I’m heaving heavy sobs now, almost so hard that I can’t speak through them. Backing away one more step with every other word. “You told me he was a great chef. The S-Super Chef was on. You p-pointed at the TV. You pointed . . . at him.” I raise my hand toward the Super Chef a third time. My finger shakes and, stupidly, I tell myself I shouldn’t have used my left hand. Because I’m confused. More confused than I’ve ever been.
“This is all just a misunderstanding,” Mom explains to the room, trying to regain some of her composure even as her face turns as red as boiled beet juice. Even now, she’s worried about what everyone else thinks. What they see. “Can we . . . ?”
The Super Chef finally finds his voice. “Oh my. Of course. Yes.” He glances up. For the first time I realize the usually murmuring audience has fallen completely silent. Taylor points at the nearest camera, the red light seeming brighter than ever. “This is . . . Can someone please?”
All at once, the camera lights blink out. So we can hide from the truth for a little bit longer. But the truth isn’t something you run from. It’s always there, right behind you. Waiting to dive at your feet and drag you down just before you reach the goal line.
“You’re lying!” I shout at Mom. “You just don’t want everyone to know. You’ve never wanted people to know.”
Mom shakes her head. “Curtis.” She comes toward me and grabs both my shoulders, lowering herself to my level. “I don’t know how you . . .” She shakes her head. “That doesn’t matter. Listen. You have to believe me. I swear I’m telling you the truth.” She sniffs. “I’m not . . .” She glances back at Taylor. “We’re not . . . Chef Taylor is not your father.”
Amid the silence, someone else sniffs. It’s Paige, choking back ugly tears. My little sister, the only person in the world who’s always looked up at me with anything close to the admiration I’ve always felt for the Super Chef. Until now. That trust she had in me, that belief I could do no wrong—it was one of the things that allowed me to believe in myself. But the vacant look in her eyes tells me even that’s gone.
I turn back to Mom. Her expression remains flat, her face open and covered in tears. How did we all end up crying?
I’m desperate for her to admit she’s lying, but I can see that she isn’t. And it’s all too much. I can’t even remember why I thought what I thought or how it all started. Five minutes ago seems like a lifetime ago.
The Super Chef is not my father.
Which means . . . I wasn’t born to be a chef. I wasn’t born to be anything. I’m in last because I was meant to be in last. I never had a chance to be anything else. Because if I don’t have Lucas Taylor’s talent running through my veins, then what do I have?
Nothing, that’s what.
I want to run somewhere. Anywhere. I start to wander backward again, directionless. Mom reaches out for me, but I dodge away from her grasp, jumping back quickly, knocking my chair over. It crashes to the floor, the sound echoing throughout the eerily quiet arena.
“Leave me alone!”
The words come out as a scream, and it actually takes me a second to understand that it was me. I screamed. All my feelings poured into a single response, a focused desire. To be alone. To escape all these unblinking eyes.
The Super Chef bursts to his feet, but stumbles before he takes a step, and I don’t know how to feel about his Parkinson’s disease or this whole contest anymore. I just want out.
I race away from the table, heading up the stairs. I hear a bunch of voices call “Curtis!” after me. Paige, Mom. All the chefs. But I don’t stop. I take the steps two at a time until I hit the dorms, then slam the door behind me.
I slam the door on anyone who might’ve followed me.
I slam the door on everything I thought my life was before today.
44
I head for the handler’s room. Because I know from the other day there are no cameras in there, and the last thing I want is for the Super Chef or anyone else to be able to watch me falling to pieces right now.
Someone will follow me, I’m sure of it. Probably Mom, maybe the Super Chef. Could be Paige, or one of the sous chefs. Maybe Mel. No matter who comes, though, there’s another reason to be back here. The second door provides an extra layer of protection. I turn the lock and back away from it, like I’m in a game of hide-and-seek.
I slump to the floor, my back propped up against the bed. I drop my head into my hands.
The Super Chef is not my father.
So who is, then?
It’s hard to remember all the tiny details of a convers
ation that happened when you were seven. I know it was career day. I know Super Chef was on. I remember Mom avoiding the question for a while, until finally my tears got to her.
I swear she pointed at the television, at the Super Chef, when she said my dad loved to cook, that he was really good at it. But maybe she didn’t.
I’m one hundred percent sure the actual words “The Super Chef is your father” left her lips. Or at least eighty-five percent sure. Fifty? Okay, maybe . . . maybe my mind somehow twisted what she really said into something else. Something I wanted to hear.
Something I wanted to believe.
I hear the common room door beep open, and I focus my attention on the doorknob, waiting for it to turn, for Mom or whoever to try to force their way in here with me. I consider propping the desk chair against it, but I don’t want to make noise.
Someone calls out “Curtis?” but I can’t figure out whose voice I’m hearing. There’s a commotion on the boys’ side. More on the girls’. Finally rushing feet stop outside the door I’m staring at. The knob turns, but it stays locked. It must be Mom. Did she bring a key?
But the shadowed feet remain outside. “Curtis? You in there?” Is that Pepper?
“Come on, dude, open up.” Joey?
“Por favor.” Bo. Definitely Bo.
I push off the floor and inch toward the door, pressing my ear against it to make sure I’m not hearing things. That the people who followed me are ones I didn’t even consider in the possible list.
“We can see your feet,” Kiko says, and her voice is low, like she’s dropped to the floor and is looking under the door.
I put my hand on the knob and breathe in. Turn the lock, open it. I wasn’t wrong. The rest of the Super Five are standing there, all four of them, like a team of super-heroes gazing down at the defeated villain, waiting for him to confess his plan. But I had no plan, other than escape.
