by Joan Holub
This attention-avoiding strategy had worked surprisingly well for her in the four years she’d been at MOA. Especially since there was never any shortage of other, more eager-to-talk students for teachers to pick from.
Her invisibility strategy might have worked today too, if she hadn’t blown her cover. It was nearly the end of the period when muscle-bound Atlas, MOA’s champion weight lifter, held up his symbol. He’d drawn two horizontal parallel lines, except the top line had a bump in the middle. Everyone squinted at it.
“Is it a hill beside a road?” Pandora asked.
“Or a snake who’s swallowed a mouse?” Dionysus guessed.
Atlas frowned. “No and no,” he said, sounding frustrated. “Can’t you tell?” He held the picture out toward them.
Hestia felt sorry for him. The poor guy was an even worse artist than she considered herself to be! But still, knowing that Atlas’s great claim to fame was his strength, she could guess what he’d been trying to draw. When no one else spoke up, she summoned enough courage to blurt out, “It’s a muscled arm.”
Atlas beamed at her. “Right! Muscles. Because of the time I held up the sky so that it wouldn’t fall on mortals and crush them. And skies are not exactly lightweight, ya know.”
No one contradicted his version of that event, even though most of them knew that “holding up the sky” had only been a joke Heracles had played on the big guy. The sky couldn’t really fall down, after all. Atlas might have been mega-strong, but he wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer. Still, no one wanted to hurt his feelings with the truth, so they all played along.
Because there were only a few minutes left in the period, Hestia had begun to relax. She’d figured she was off the hook for sharing. Unfortunately, her blurt-out had drawn Mr. Phintias’s attention. His eyes fastened on her as Atlas retook his seat. Her clasped hands tightened as she sat there, dreading what she knew in her heart was coming.
And then her teacher did in fact do the unthinkable. “Hestia,” he said, “would you please share your symbol with the class?”
Hestia froze in her chair. Her mouth went dry. “I . . . um . . . I . . . ” she mumbled softly.
“Huh?” “What did she say?” students murmured. They cupped their ears and strained toward her.
“Give her a second,” advised a godboy named Ascalabus (Asca for short) who sat one table over. He had black hair with a natural green stripe through it that matched his lizard tail.
All the attention only made Hestia tug her hood farther over her face and slide lower in her seat in embarrassment.
“Please stand and speak out. That way we can all hear you,” Mr. Phintias told her. His voice was firm but not unkind.
Wishing she could sink into the floor, Hestia nevertheless did as instructed. She got to her feet. She hoped the end-of-class lyrebell would ring before she could speak, but no such luck.
Slowly, she held up her drawing of what looked like a big bowl with a lid and a semicircular handle on top. “It’s a . . . a kettle.”
A ripple of surprised laughter ran through the classroom. “You mean like a cooking pot?” Pandora asked, peering closely at Hestia’s drawing.
Hestia flushed deeply. Mortified, she nodded. What was wrong with her choice of symbol? Cooking was what she liked to do, and it was also what she was best at. She usually didn’t try anything too exotic but mostly stuck to plain, hearty fare using simple tools—like a kettle. Admittedly, however, not many students knew she liked to cook. She’d always been way too shy to share her enthusiasm with them. So their current confusion was sort of understandable.
“It’s a fitting symbol since you’re goddessgirl of the hearth,” Mr. Phintias said gently. “But do you think it has enough pizzazz? Remember, the symbol you choose will influence how mortals see you. You don’t want to appear too humble.”
“Okay. I’ll . . . um . . . think about it some more,” Hestia mumbled, taking her seat again in relief.
Ping. Ping. Ping. At long last the lyrebell chimed.
As students began to gather up their belongings, Mr. Phintias called out, “The Service to Humankind Award sign-up sheet will be posted near the lockers first thing Monday morning. That will give you the weekend to think about your symbols, which you’ll need to note when you sign up.”
Hestia crumpled her sketch and shoved it into her schoolbag. Still stinging from the class’s reaction to her kettle symbol, she left the room as quickly as possible. Keeping her hooded head down and avoiding eye contact with anyone, she managed to ward off conversation. It didn’t matter what symbol she chose. No way would she enter the contest. Who wanted a bunch of people staring at their image in a giant mural? Not her!
On her way down the hall, she stopped near the lockers to take a drink from a golden fountain along the wall. Instead of spouting water, the fountains at the Academy spouted nectar.
Hestia drank deeply. The cool nectar soothed her some after what had just happened. And because she was an immortal, it made her skin glow more brightly. (Nectar had no effect on the few mortals who also attended the Academy, however.)
As students passed behind her, she heard someone say, “A hearth is the floor of a fireplace, right?”
Hestia peeked over her shoulder. It was Aphrodite speaking with her friend Persephone, the goddessgirl of spring and growing plants. They had stopped to pull textscrolls from their lockers. With all the activity in the hall, Hestia couldn’t quite catch what else Aphrodite said. However, she did catch the words “ordinary kettle” and “fits her personality.”
Did that mean Aphrodite thought she was as ordinary as a cooking pot? Ears burning, Hestia was suddenly glad for the “invisibility” her hood provided. The two goddessgirls never glanced her way, and a moment later they moved off.
Maybe I am ordinary, thought Hestia. So what? Still, that remark of Aphrodite’s had kind of hurt. Everyone wanted to be special in some way. Even ordinary old her. She’d always admired Aphrodite, who was so beautiful that boys couldn’t help staring at her. Hestia wouldn’t want that for herself, of course. She didn’t like to be stared at. But being practically invisible wasn’t so great either. Somewhere in between might be better. Just normal recognition.
As she headed for the cafeteria, where she apprenticed in the kitchen during third period, a desire to make a change slowly kindled in Hestia like a fire starting in a hearth.
2
Kitchen Fun
HESTIA THREADED HER WAY THROUGH the empty tables and chairs that filled the MOA cafeteria. It was quiet now, but after third period ended it would quickly become noisy and full of hungry students. At the far end she swung through the kitchen door and went straight to the fireplace hearth, as usual.
Her brown-eyed gaze fell on the sticks of wood stacked under a big, black kettle that was partly filled with water. This was the very pot she’d drawn in Crafts-ology class for her symbol. The ordinary pot that Aphrodite thought was a perfect fit for her personality. Whatever!
Stooping a little, Hestia chanted a quick spell—one she’d made up herself.
“Come, spark,
Light the dark.
Blaze higher,
Make a fire.”
Instantly, a tiny yellow flame leaped between the sticks. Hestia spread her arms wide, causing the flame to blaze higher with oranges and reds. Oops! Maybe that was too big a fire. She brought her arms closer together, and the blaze lowered as a result. In seconds she’d created a crackling fire that was just the right size for cooking.
Ms. Okto, the head cafeteria lady, was working over at the butcher-block counter. Her eight octopus-like arms were busily chopping multiple vegetables. Noticing the flame, she paused to compliment Hestia. “Nice job, peanut. I’ve never known anyone who could get a perfect fire going as quickly as you can.” She was always calling people by food nicknames and sprinkling her speech with food-related sayings.
“Thanks,” said Hestia, going over to wash her hands at the kitchen sink. As far as she kn
ew, none of the students at MOA were aware of her ability to create fire. Which was fine with her, she thought, as she straightened up from the sink. She was no show-off. Besides, compared to the talents of others at the Academy, such as Aphrodite’s matchmaking skills, Heracles’ strength, or Athena’s fabulous olive invention, her flame talent burned low. Speaking of olives . . .
“Hey, I’m thinking of making olive bread. Okay?” she asked Ms. Okto.
The head cafeteria lady paused mid-chop again. “Your call, pumpkin. Students love everything you make.” Ms. Okto had filled a pot with water and was now hanging it over the newly made fire.
Smiling at her kind words, Hestia went over to the bowl of bread dough resting on one of the large wooden kitchen counters. She’d mixed it up before breakfast that morning. By now the dough had risen above the bowl and doubled in size. After removing the cloth covering it, she punched down the dough with a fist. It was soothing work, and some of the troubles that had followed her from her last class began to fall away.
Thunk! Thunk! Clink! Ms. Okto’s eight arms were a blur as she got to work again, simultaneously chopping and dumping the veggies she’d cut up into a bowl to begin a humongous salad.
After adding pitted olives to the dough, Hestia began to knead it a second time. Hmm. This bread could use some . . . pizzazz, she concluded, as Mr. Phintias’s word from Crafts-ology class popped into her mind. Was she up for something bold and a teeny bit risky, cooking-wise? She was!
She tossed a handful of an herb called rosemary into the dough. Normally, she stuck to simple spices like salt and pepper, but she had a hunch that the rosemary might go well with the olives. She hoped she was right, because nobody needed a bunch of students unhappy with the food at lunchtime.
Humming a little tune, she pushed down on the dough with the heels of her hands and folded it over and over again. After dividing the bread dough into six parts, Hestia patted each lump into a big round loaf and set the loaves on trays to rise again. She never tired of the many little tasks involved in cooking. Working in MOA’s kitchen felt as natural to her as . . . well . . . as swimming in the sea must feel to MOA’s newest student, a mermaid named Amphitrite.
Ms. Okto picked up the huge bowl of veggies. “Could you start the yambrosia while I take this salad out to the serving area?”
“Sure,” Hestia agreed. Many of the dishes served regularly in the cafeteria—like yambrosia stew, celestial salad, and nectaroni—were recipes Hestia had developed in the years she’d been at MOA. She’d taken great pleasure in naming those dishes as well. Because a good name added to a dish’s appeal!
She gathered chunks of yam Ms. Okto had cut and as many of the other chopped veggies as would fit into a big bowl, and headed for the kettle over the fire. Meanwhile, Ms. Okto headed out the kitchen door to the serving area. It was time to start setting things up for lunch, which would be served after the end of this period.
As Ms. Okto left, she nodded to a second cafeteria lady entering the kitchen through the door. This one had a long snout like an anteater. She was holding a tray and sucking up crumbs of leftover food on it.
Though Hestia had often seen the snouty lunch lady doing this, the sight still startled her momentarily. The bowl she was carrying tipped, and a piece of yam rolled across the floor.
“Got it!” the lunch lady crowed happily. She tossed the tray into the sink and rushed over to neatly vacuum up the yam chunk with her long snout. “Mmm. Tasty!” she declared, raising and lowering her eyebrows in a silly way.
Hestia grinned back as she dumped the contents of her bowl into the kettle. “Thanks, Ms. Xena.” The cleanliness of the cafeteria and the kitchen was largely due to this snouty lunch lady. Ms. Xena (who had shortened her name from Ms. Xenarthra to make it easier to pronounce) could suck up crumbs and pieces of food from the floor or tables lightning-fast. This talent really came in handy during cleanup.
“No problem. I yam a big fan of yams,” Ms. Xena joked.
Hestia laughed. Of all the lunch ladies, Ms. Xena was her favorite. Ms. Xena had pretty much rescued her from loneliness when Hestia had started school at MOA back in third grade.
After noticing her hanging around the kitchen after meals, Ms. Xena had started giving her small tasks to do. At first it had been stuff like peeling vegetables and testing cookie batters. Slowly, Hestia had proved herself capable of much more, and by now she had become a trusted member of the kitchen staff.
Straightening from the kettle, Hestia went to fetch some chicken broth from the larder, which was a small closet cooled by blocks of ice. Earlier this year Ms. Xena and Ms. Okto had somehow squared it with Ms. Hydra (Principal Zeus’s administrative assistant) so Hestia could apprentice as a cook this period every day. This opportunity meant the world to Hestia, making her feel needed, appreciated, and much more a part of MOA. It had pretty much changed her life. For the better.
Back from the larder, Hestia added some broth to the water and vegetables already in the kettle.
“Mmm,” said Ms. Xena, snout-sniffing the air. “Is that yambrosia I smell?”
“Mm-hmm,” Hestia told her as she went to fetch a big wooden spoon for stirring. “Your snout is never wrong. I just need to add a few more veggies.”
“I’ll do it,” Ms. Xena said eagerly. She scooped up the remaining veggies Ms. Okto had chopped and tossed them into the cooking pot hanging over the fire. She accidentally-on-purpose dropped a few, just so she could suck them up. “I’ll lee the spy oh you, tho,” she mumbled.
Hestia knew Mrs. Xena well enough by now to easily translate that veggie-eating-speak into: “I’ll leave the spices to you, though.”
“Okay,” Hestia agreed, hiding a grin.
The last time Ms. Xena had spiced the yambrosia, she’d added so much pepper that it had practically set the throats of the students who ate it on fire! Though an expert at food preparation tasks like chopping, slicing, and dicing, Ms. Xena didn’t have Ms. Okto’s and Hestia’s flair for making up recipes and judging the balance of ingredients.
Ms. Xena moved to the sink to wash dishes as Hestia returned with the big wooden spoon, and the salt and pepper, too. Bending over the cooking pot, she stirred and did tastings after each addition of the seasonings. The big, black kettle reminded her of how students in her Crafts-ology class had laughed when she’d picked it as her symbol for the Service to Humankind contest.
She was telling Ms. Xena what had happened when Ms. Okto returned and overheard.
“Who gives a fig what they think?” Ms. Okto huffed.
“Right!” Looking annoyed, Ms. Xena took the pan she’d been cleaning and whacked it against the countertop. “If any of them ever had to miss a few hot meals, they might think more highly of the power of the kettle.”
“Good point,” said Hestia. These cafeteria ladies were often wise, as well as kind. And if she was feeling down, talking to them never failed to lift her spirits. They continued talking about this and that as they worked companionably together to prepare the rest of the meal.
Hestia had just slid the six loaves of rosemary-olive bread into the baking oven when Bam! The kitchen door swung open, hitting the wall. Out of the blue, Principal Zeus had arrived! (Sometimes he didn’t know his own strength.)
“You there, Ms. Okto!” he thundered. “We need to talk!”
Despite the fact that he wasn’t addressing her, Hestia shrank back against the nearest countertop. She’d never actually spoken to Zeus in the entire time she’d been at MOA. He’d been away on an emergency her first day of third grade and thus had been unable to welcome her. Somehow that missed meeting had never been made up, and she sometimes wondered if he even knew who she was!
Seeing as how he was seven feet tall, with bulging muscles, piercing blue eyes, and wild red hair, it was no wonder she found him intimidating. And truthfully, so did a lot of other students.
But Ms. Okto was unflappable. “What can I do for you?” she asked him calmly, wiping all eight of her hands on her apr
on.
“I need to order some food. Lots of food,” Zeus said. The wide, flat golden bracelets encircling his wrists flashed in the late-morning light streaming in through the kitchen window as he made circles in the air to indicate great heaps. “For a banquet one week from tomorrow—Saturday.”
Ms. Okto nodded and grabbed a feather pen and a notescroll. “Sounds like we’ll be as busy as popcorn on a skillet! How many in attendance? What’s the theme of the gathering?”
Just then, another man stepped forward from behind Zeus. He was wearing a tall white hat and a starched white apron. “I believe that is my purview,” the man said snootily. “Permit me to introduce myself. Chef Soterides, personal cook for King Nikomedes in the country of Bithynia.” He executed a curt bow.
Hearing this, Ms. Xena’s mouth dropped open. She stared at the chef in awe.
But Ms. Okto seemed unimpressed. “Too many cooks spoil the broth. Especially certain cooks,” she muttered. Did she know him? Hestia wondered. In any case she seemed to dislike Chef Soterides. But Zeus didn’t appear to notice.
He, the chef, and Ms. Okto began discussing the number of guests. Then Zeus added, “The banquet is to honor the finalists and the winner of the Service to Humankind Award and . . .”
His words tapered off. He lifted his face and sniffed the air. “What is that scrumptious smell?”
Um, food? Hestia wanted to reply. This is a kitchen, after all. But she didn’t say that aloud.
“It’s some kind of spice . . . ,” Zeus went on, his expression both thoughtful and blissful. He was on the move now, following his nose and searching for the source.
Meanwhile, Ms. Okto and the new chef were bent over the counter, discussing something in low murmurs. If you could call it a discussion. They actually seemed to be arguing.
By now Zeus was sniffing around the ovens. “Aha! I’ve found it. Something baking in the oven.”