by C. C. Payne
• • •
That evening, after dinner, Mom said, “Keene, please give Fizzy her shoes back now.” So Keene did, but he didn’t apologize for having taken them in the first place, which is why I didn’t apologize for having left them out.
“From now on, if you leave your shoes out, we’ll remind you to put them away. If you don’t . . . well, you’ll get fair warning before you lose your shoes,” Mom said, but she wasn’t looking at me; she was looking at Keene.
He looked a little pouty.
I pouted, too—because no one should take my shoes, not even with a warning! They’re my shoes! MINE! I mean, do we teach thieves that it’s okay to steal if they give their victims a warning first? I did some huffing and then took my shoes up to my room.
But I tried to make up for everything by leaving the bathroom extra sparkly that night. I scrubbed the tub and all the fixtures until they were gleaming. Then I went ahead and did the counters and two sinks, too—even cleaning in between the handles and the faucet with an old toothbrush. I thought about going downstairs to get the mop but didn’t want to call attention to myself—or interrupt anything—so I ended up cleaning the floor with some old washcloths.
I was still thinking about the importance of floors when I went to my room. I noticed right away that it needed vacuuming. So I set the—hateful—Genghis extra early, knowing he would enjoy stealing a little more of my sleep. But when I turned out the light and slipped into bed, I found the truth waiting for me:
No amount of cleaning or cooking or studying would change the fact that there was something wrong with me. My family knew it. Mrs. Ludwig knew it. Mrs. Warsaw knew it. Even my former best friend, Olivia Moore, probably knew it. And now I knew it, too. What I didn’t know was what it was or how to fix it.
But, I told myself, maybe winning the Southern Living Cook-Off would fix it. If not . . . well, I figured it would at least justify the space I took up on the planet, the oxygen I used, the food I ate. Yeah, if I won, I’d probably be forgiven for . . . existing . . . right? Surely I would. I really needed to win that contest.
Chapter 35
Two envelopes were practically burning holes in my shorts pocket as Miyoko and I walked home from the last day of school. But I only mentioned one of them to Miyoko.
“Did Mrs. Ludwig give you an envelope on your way out of her room today?” I asked.
“No,” Miyoko said. “Why? Did she give you one?”
I nodded. “Zach got one, too—I was behind him in line, so I saw—and if Zach and I are the only kids who got one . . . well, you know it’s bad.”
Miyoko didn’t seem to disagree. “Let’s just open it like before—at least then you’ll know what you’re up against.”
I wasn’t sure.
“I’ll throw the envelope away at my house and you can just pretend there wasn’t one.”
“But what if it says something like, ‘If the seal on this envelope has been broken, the letter has been tampered with,’ that’d be very coplike, don’t you think?” I worried.
Miyoko laughed. “It doesn’t say that.”
I gave her a doubtful look.
“It doesn’t,” she insisted.
I decided Miyoko was probably right, pulled the envelope out of my pocket and unfolded it as we huddled up on the sidewalk to look at it.
The outside of the envelope read Fizzy Russo, not To the Parents of Fizzy Russo. It was for me. Huh. I sort of wished I’d looked at it sooner, but I made up for it now and ripped the envelope open:
Dear Fizzy,
As you probably realize, I have pushed hard and been tough, especially on you. What you may not realize is that I did this because nothing upsets me more than wasted potential. I knew you were an A student, making Bs when you should’ve been making As. So, I pushed for more, and you gave it. As a result, you have earned an A in math this semester.
I expect you to earn even more As next year, and have told your new math teacher so. Therefore, you can expect him to be tough on you, too. But know this: As long as he’s being tough on you, he believes in you. It’s when a teacher stops being tough on you, stops pushing you, that you should worry—because that’s when they’ve given up on you. But no one is going to give up on you, Fizzy, least of all me.
With great expectations,
Mrs. Ludwig
When I finished reading the letter, I had tears in my eyes, but I blinked them back quickly and said, “I’ve never had a math teacher who was a man before.”
Miyoko smiled knowingly, but didn’t comment on my tears or try to hug me or do anything to indicate that she’d noticed them—she is an excellent friend.
I stuffed Mrs. Ludwig’s letter back into my pocket and left the other envelope where it was. I didn’t want to tell Miyoko about that one—which was weird because I’d talked about receiving it almost nonstop until I did. I’d been waiting for it for months.
Then last night, there it was: an envelope with Southern Living written across the top left corner, sitting on my dresser. I knew—because of where I found it—that Keene had gotten it out of the mailbox, and I checked to make sure he hadn’t opened it and read it. He hadn’t. He hadn’t even read the outside of the envelope—apparently—because he never said a word about it. Neither did Mom. So, whatever the letter said, it was between Southern Living and me. Just the way I wanted it.
But then, for some reason, I couldn’t bring myself to open it. I mean, what if the letter said my recipes stunk? What if it said something like: Dear Miss Russo, We regret to inform you that not only have your recipes not qualified for the cook-off, they’ve made us sick. So we here at Southern Living magazine would like to take this opportunity to suggest that you try something other than cooking, Miss Russo . . . anything other than cooking. What then?
I wasn’t ready to give up on my dreams yet. I wasn’t ready to give up on the idea of winning the Southern Living Cook-Off. I wasn’t ready to give up on becoming a world-famous chef. And I certainly wasn’t ready to give up my television show!
I heard Mom somewhere in the back of my mind: “I can’t give up on my dream of having a family either,” she’d said. And I thought I’d understood, but now I really understood. I decided I’d try a little harder to be friendly with Keene—for Mom.
I slowed to a stop on the corner of Chrysanthemum Court, where Aunt Liz lives.
Miyoko stopped, too, and turned to me, wearing a puzzled look on her face.
“My room’s clean, and my mom needs to grocery shop, so I don’t have the ingredients to cook today. Plus, I don’t have any homework, so . . . I’m going to see Aunt Liz,” I announced.
Miyoko smiled. “Good.”
“Do you want to come with me?” I asked, hoping—just this once—that she’d say no.
“Can’t,” Miyoko said, suddenly looking grim. “Tiger mom’s waiting.”
“Another day, then—maybe tomorrow, since we don’t have school,” I said, hoping to cheer her up.
“Sure.” Miyoko nodded. “Fizzy, is everything okay?”
“Oh yeah,” I said, bobbing my head up and down. “I’m just tired, I guess. What about you? Is everything okay with you?”
Miyoko looked down at the sidewalk and seemed to be thinking.
I took a step toward her and whispered, “What is it?”
“My mom’s mad at me. It’s not like this is new. She gets mad at me all the time, but I never get used to it. It always stays with me and bugs me, you know?”
I nodded. “What happened?”
“She was upset that I gave her slippers for her birthday, because I gave her slippers for Christmas, too—I forgot. She said my gift lacked any real thought or effort, and was therefore lacking in love.”
My eyes bulged.
“My mom thinks I don’t love her, Fizzy,” Miyoko said, dabbing at the outer corner of one eye with he
r finger.
I wiggled out of my backpack, let it fall to the sidewalk, and put my arms around Miyoko. “Your mom knows you love her—she’s just mad. Please, come with me to Aunt Liz’s,” I said, and I meant it.
“I really can’t,” she said, holding on to me like her life depended on it.
“Okay,” I said. I gave her a few more seconds, then took a step back. “That’s okay. You do whatever you need to do.” I figured the very least I could do for Miyoko was not add more pressure.
“Thanks,” was all Miyoko said. Then she sniffed and added, “Tell Aunt Liz I said hi.”
• • •
I knocked and pushed through Aunt Liz’s front door, letting myself in.
“Here! Here! I’m back here!” an excited voice called from the sunroom.
Aunt Liz met me in the doorway off the kitchen, where she smiled an electric smile that seemed to spark from the tippy-top of her head right down to her little toes. She threw her arms around me and said, “Oh, Fizzy! You’re here! I’m so happy to see you! I’ve missed you!”
This was the exact opposite of the tired what-now? reaction I often got when I walked into a room. It made me feel happy, so happy that I couldn’t even remember why I’d ever been upset with Aunt Liz. And I didn’t try. Instead, I breathed in the foody scents from the kitchen, the flowery scents from the sunroom, and the fruity scents of Aunt Liz’s hair and perfume and let the homey feelings wash over me.
Aunt Liz pulled back from the hug to look at me. “Where’ve you been? Are you okay? Are we okay?”
“Yes. And yes,” I said. “Just busy.”
Aunt Liz hugged me again and said, “I wish I’d known you were coming! I would’ve made Benedictine!”
“That’s okay,” I said. “It doesn’t matter.” And it really didn’t, because right now I didn’t need Benedictine; all I needed was Aunt Liz.
Of course, Aunt Liz poured me some sweet tea anyway—which never hurts—and I followed her back out to the sunroom. Aunt Liz settled into the cushy rocking chair that offers the best view of her rose garden. I sat down in the rocker beside hers. “Well? Tell me everything!” Aunt Liz said. “What’ve you been up to? Oh! Was today your last day of school? How was it?”
“Fine,” I said.
Aunt Liz smiled and watched a fat bumblebee buzzing around her pink roses. “How’s Miyoko?”
“Um . . . well . . . ,” I said, thinking about Miyoko and her tiger mom—who had graduated to monster mom in my opinion. I mean, what kind of person complains about a present? Aren’t gifts always good?—like cakes?—and chocolate? I began rocking at a furious pace. I wanted to tell Aunt Liz about Miyoko’s problem, only I knew I couldn’t because it wasn’t mine to share or not share—it didn’t belong to me.
Aunt Liz turned and looked at me expectantly.
“Miyoko’s fine.” I stopped rocking, fished the unopened envelope out of my right pocket, and handed it to her.
Aunt Liz stopped rocking, too, unfolded the envelope, and turned it over. “Fizzy! You haven’t even opened this!”
“You open it for me,” I pleaded, “and if it says really mean things, don’t tell me those parts.”
Aunt Liz laughed a nervous laugh. Then she tore the envelope open and scanned the paper, reading quickly.
Still, I could hardly stand it.
Finally, she looked up at me with soft, understanding eyes.
My heart dropped into my stomach, my throat tightened, and I could feel tears gathering behind my eyes.
Aunt Liz broke into a big smile. “Russo Lasagna has made it into the final cook-off!”
I bolted up out of my chair and Aunt Liz did, too. We hugged and jumped up and down together and I said over and over again, “Great gravy! I can’t believe it!”
When we started to calm down, I looked at Aunt Liz and said once more, “I just can’t believe it! Can you?”
She smiled. “I can believe it, Fizzy. I’m not even that surprised.”
I thought that was just about the nicest thing anybody had ever said to me.
Aunt Liz grabbed the long spoon from her iced tea glass, turned it upside down, and held it under my mouth like a microphone. “So,” she said, “Fizzy Russo, now that you’ve qualified for the Southern Living Cook-Off, what are you going to do?”
“I’m going to Disney World!” I hollered, like people do on TV.
Aunt Liz and I laughed and laughed.
I read the letter twice. Then I read it again:
Dear Miss Russo:
We are pleased to inform you that your recipe for Russo Lasagna as entered in the Southern Living Cook-Off has qualified you as one of the top finalists in the Family Favorites category, making you eligible to compete in the Southern Living Cook-Off, which will take place on July 11, before a live audience, in Charleston, South Carolina . . .
Chapter 36
The day that Mom and I were leaving for the Southern Living Cook-Off in Charleston, everybody was waiting in our town house’s small front yard to show their support and see Mom and me off to the airport.
Aunt Liz brought me a Benedictine sandwich in a brown paper sack, in case I got hungry on the plane.
Dad and Suzanne—and Baby Robert—brought a mini fire extinguisher with a big red bow on it, which was, they said, in case I forgot something in the oven during the cook-off. We all laughed. (I left my fire extinguisher at home.)
Keene held flowers, and I might’ve thought they were for Mom, except that they were purple. I thanked him. And then he hugged me, which made me think, Hey, maybe he likes me. But then again, probably not. How could he? I decided not to think about that any more. Today.
Zach showed up and brought me a new—musical—alarm clock.
Miyoko was there, too, with Mrs. Hoshi—who gave me a Japanese cookbook I could read if I got bored on the plane.
Mom was snapping pictures of Miyoko and me when I overheard Mrs. Hoshi, standing off to the side, talking to Keene.
“They’re an unlikely pair, aren’t they?” Mrs. Hoshi said.
“Are they?” Keene said.
“Yes,” Mrs. Hoshi said certainly. “Miyoko’s a very serious girl—she leaves for Super-Scholars Camp tomorrow.”
I looked over at them: Keene seemed impressed.
Mrs. Hoshi said, “Meanwhile, Fizzy is off to some cooking contest.”
Keene’s brow furrowed and he turned to stare at Mrs. Hoshi.
She looked at her watch and then fanned her face with her hand.
I imagined myself walking over to them and saying, You look so nice today, Mrs. Hoshi . . . like, really, especially nice—you must be wearing your Big Booty Judy Bloomers—right? That made me smile—a real smile—and I heard Mom’s camera click, capturing my expression at this thought forever.
Then I heard Keene say, “Miyoko is a remarkable young lady.”
I glanced back at them and Mrs. Hoshi was nodding in agreement.
“But Fizzy is remarkable, too,” Keene added. “If you think otherwise, you’re underestimating her, believe me. This isn’t just ‘some cooking contest.’ It’s the toughest cooking contest in the country, and Fizzy’s worked hard to qualify for it—competing against adults, many of whom are professional chefs.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Mrs. Hoshi stand up a little straighter. “Of course,” she said.
I smiled at Keene.
He smiled back.
Zach slipped in behind Miyoko and me and tried to photo-bomb Mom’s pictures by making funny faces and holding up bunny ears behind our heads. Mom kept snapping away. She snapped pictures of everybody until it was time for us to go.
We hugged everybody again, said our good-byes, and promised to call as soon as we had news. I really hoped it would be good news, because even though I appreciated everybody showing up like this, I also felt obligated to
do well—for them—since they’d made such a fuss over me. Even bigger than the fuss was the fact that members of both sides of my family had knowingly, voluntarily shown up in the same place at the same time—while smiling!—for me.
Chapter 37
Looking back, I have to admit that I don’t remember much about the city of Charleston. I remember Mom saying how beautiful it was and talking about the Spanish moss that hung from the branches of old trees—“like wedding veils,” she said—the historical homes, the wide front porches, and the joggling boards, which are like long benches you can bounce on, but I don’t remember any of these things myself. My only lasting impression of the city was that it was as hot as a frying pan, at least in July. I started each day as cool, clean, and dry as sugar, but ended it feeling more like caramel—hot, brown, and very, very sticky. (Caramel is just cooked sugar.)
What I remember best is room service and, of course, the Southern Living Cook-Off. Now, I love room service. Love it. Love it. Love it. I also love the fancy silver lids that cover the plates of food when they arrive at your door. After Mom and I ate our meals, I’d practice for hours with those silver lids, because I planned to use them on my TV show. So I’d stand in front of the beds and I’d say to my studio audience (the pillows), “And after baking for fifty-five minutes at 350 degrees, voilà! Russo Lasagna!” And then I’d lift a silver lid with real pizzazz, to show the audience my fabulous creation. Yes, I highly recommend silver lids.
I also recommend taking part in the Southern Living Cook-Off. The cook-off was staged in a grand ballroom inside our hotel. When Mom and I made our way through the maze of people, tables, equipment, and electrical cords and found the area for cooks competing in the Family Favorites category, we stopped and chatted with a few of them. One of the cooks was the biggest man I’d ever seen, so I knew his cooking was good because—duh!—look at him! We said hello, but Big Boy only nodded and went back to checking his equipment.
Francois was the first cook we officially met, and he was quick to inform Mom that he was an expert in “molecular gastronomy.” Then he looked down at me and said, “That’s food science,” as if I didn’t know what molecular gastronomy meant! I decided I didn’t like him—and also that he used way too much hair gel.