Kitchen Chaos

by Deborah A. Levine

  “Wow,” Liza says. “That’s a pretty short story.” She smiles. “So does your family miss China? Do they talk about it?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “A lot, actually. I mean, back home in San Francisco, China seemed really close. With all of my aunts, uncles, and cousins and my grandmother around, somebody was always going back to visit, bringing us stuff, talking about what’s going on. I’ve been to China only a few times, but my parents go almost every year. Even though they’ve lived in the U.S. for so long, they don’t really like American music or TV or anything. They think Chinese things are better.”

  “Your family sounds a lot like Frankie’s,” says Liza. “My mom has only one sister and my dad’s an only child, so I just have my grandparents and the one aunt. I don’t even have any cousins. You and Frankie are lucky to have so many people around all the time.”

  “I guess,” I say, looking down at my hands. “Only they’re all back in San Francisco.”

  “Oh yeah,” says Liza, sounding sorry. “That must be hard.” She pauses, but I don’t feel like explaining how many hours a day I spend thinking about my cousin Chloe and my best friend, Sierra, so I don’t say anything.

  Liza changes the subject. “So, what do you think of Brooklyn?”

  I shrug. “I’m still sort of getting used to it.”

  “I’ve never been to San Francisco,” Liza says. “But I’ve heard it’s really cool. Lots of hills, right? And the Golden Gate Bridge or something?”

  I nod.

  “Brooklyn’s cool too,” she assures me. “You’ll see.”

  Just then the classroom lights flick on and off, which means Mr. McEnroe wants us to wrap things up. My fifth-grade teacher used to do that. It’s funny how right now, thousands of miles away from each other, two teachers might be signaling their class to finish their work in exactly the same way. I think about Sierra and Chloe and wonder whether they’re in social studies too.

  “Okay, everyone, I’m going to need your attention for a minute,” Mr. McEnroe says. “I hope you found this interview exercise enlightening. I went around the room listening to your conversations, and if my notes are correct, as a class we emigrated from twenty-six different countries—including Scotland and Ireland, where my own ancestors hail from. Pretty exciting, huh?”

  I’m not sure whether we’re supposed to answer him or not, because I still haven’t totally figured Mr. McEnroe out. He seems like a really cool teacher, but I wonder what everyone else thinks. I look around to see what the other kids are doing. Just nodding. I can do that too.

  “Now it’s time to partner up in groups of three for the project I introduced earlier. Do you think you can handle dividing up with a minimum of drama, or do I need to do it for you?”

  “We can handle it!” everyone seems to say at the same time—except for me, since I’ve been dreading this moment since the beginning of class. Did Liza mean what she said earlier, or was she just being nice?

  “All right.” Mr. McEnroe rubs his hands together, smiling. “You have five minutes. And remember: Best friends don’t necessarily make the best collaborators.”

  I’m starting to get a feeling in my stomach like I might throw up when I feel a tug on my sweater.

  It’s Liza. “Hey,” she says. “Come on. Let’s go tell Frankie you’re going to be our third group member.”

  Suddenly, the awful feeling disappears. I smile at Liza and follow her over to Frankie, who’s talking to a boy named Evan.

  CHAPTER 4

  Liza

  I have to give it to Frankie, she doesn’t mess around. As my nana would say, she “doesn’t let the grass grow under her feet” (whatever that means). She’s already practically interrogating this kid Evan, who just looks dazed and keeps nervously nodding.

  “So you don’t have that much going on after school, right? We can work on this as much as we want?” I hear her say, and when he mutters something about sax lessons, she waves that idea away. “We’ll have to focus, Evan, so you might have to make some hard choices.” She looks over and notices us standing next to them. “You want to do a good job for the, um, team, right?” she says, giving Evan a not-at-all-subtle head nod toward me. OMG, Frankie, do you really have no shame?

  Now she turns to face us and seems to realize for the first time that Lillian is there too. Frankie gives her a pathetic attempt at a smile, then looks at me, one raised eyebrow asking, What’s up with this?

  “Hi, Liza, good news. I was just telling Evan here that we could use him on our project. That we’ll let him join us, I mean, if he’s willing to work hard.”

  I see where this is going. Take advantage of the poor guy because, for whatever reason, he’s decided he likes me. No way. Plus, here’s Lillian without a partner, and she seems really nice. Nope, I have to put a stop to this.

  “Oh wow, that’s great,” I say, “but it’s not necessary. I already asked Lillian.” Frankie starts to get a stormy look on her face. She gets like that when things don’t go her way, but I’m not going there. There’s no way I’m going to spend six weeks “collaborating” with a guy who can’t stop staring at me and can barely speak to me without blushing. I turn to Evan, who clearly has no idea what’s going on. “You don’t mind, right, Evan? I had already asked Lillian, and Frankie didn’t know.”

  Frankie’s eyebrow does its thing again. “But, Lize, I already asked Evan.” I know Frankie doesn’t like to compromise, but I have no idea what she has against Lillian. I try not to look at Lillian because I’m sure she’s feeling totally awkward right now. Instead, I turn to Evan with a little wave. “Thanks for understanding.”

  Evan gives me a goofy smile and backs away, stumbling against a desk as he leaves.

  It’s so weird! There are plenty of girls in our grade—including Frankie—who have, like, six guys crazy about them at all times. I’m not one of them. I have no idea what I did that made Evan decide to like me, but I definitely couldn’t deal with a project partner who acts so strange whenever we’re within three feet of each other.

  Frankie is clearly annoyed at the way this is going. She sits back down at her desk, and Lillian and I grab the two seats next to her, so that we’re sitting three across like a game of tic-tac-toe. I’m in the middle, and I look back and forth from one to the other.

  “So, now that that’s settled,” I say, trying to sound positive, “what do you guys think we should do for our project?” All around us, other groups are starting to throw out ideas. I hear Gideon Fuller’s booming voice revving up about mapping the waves of immigrants and all the different places they came from. Someone else is talking about researching inventions. Yikes, we have to get on this.

  Frankie still won’t look at Lillian, and she keeps boring her eyes into me, like she can stare me down and get her way. I decide to show her how great Lillian is going to be as our third project partner.

  “Frankie, Lillian was just telling me that her family is from China. Like, recently, isn’t that cool?”

  Frankie keeps looking straight at me. “Totally.”

  I keep going, because Frankie is being even tougher than usual. Pivoting my head to look at Lillian, I try to tell her with my eyes: Really, Frankie is the best when you get to know her.

  “And she just moved here from San Francisco. . . .”

  Frankie glances over at Lillian, then back at me.

  “Interesting,” she says, in a totally disinterested way.

  She takes her eyes off me for a long minute and gives Lillian one of those head-to-toe, up-and-down looks. The three of us don’t say anything for a minute. I cannot take this.

  I turn back to Lillian.

  “Hey, so, I didn’t get to ask you. How did you end up at our school?”

  Her voice is so low that I have to lean forward to hear it.

  “When my parents visited before we moved, they really liked Park Slope. They thought it felt a little bit like our neighborhood in San Francisco.” Her eyes dart around the room, before coming back to me.
>
  The rest of us have been at Clinton for a whole year, but I can still remember how I felt on the first day of sixth grade. I was nervous and excited at the same time, like my brain couldn’t decide which way to feel so I just felt everything all at once. I’m pretty sure “nervous” would have incinerated “excited” if I’d had to start at a brand-new school all by myself, and after everyone else.

  I give Lillian an encouraging grin. “So what do you think?” I ask. “Of Clinton, I mean.”

  Lillian stares down at her hands. “It’s okay,” she says, pulling at a hangnail. Then she looks up and shrugs. “Sometimes I just miss my friends.”

  Frankie and I exchange a look, and I know we’re thinking the same thing: If one of us ever moved away from the other, it would be the Worst. Thing. Ever.

  Lillian forces a smile. “So,” she says in her same quiet voice, “I guess we’re supposed to come up with some ideas for the project, right?”

  I shift into major student mode and flip a page in my notebook. I notice Frankie picks up her pen too. She rolls her eyes when she catches me smiling at her, but I’m pretty sure she’s smiling just a little bit.

  “Right,” I say, looking from one to the other. “What have we got?”

  Before anyone has time to answer, the lights switch on and off again and Mr. McEnroe says it’s time to wrap things up. I look down at my blank notebook and know just what Frankie must be thinking: If it were just the two of us, we’d have five pages full of notes and ideas by now. She’s right, but it’s not my fault Mr. Mac wanted to “stir things up” and make us work in groups of three.

  “We should all meet up after school this week to work on the project,” I say.

  To my surprise—and I’m pretty sure Lillian’s, too—Frankie turns to Lillian and flashes her most charming smile. “How about at your house?” she suggests. I stare at her for a split second, and then I realize that Mr. McEnroe has just walked up. She’s obviously trying to impress him. He gives her shoulder an absentminded pat before moving on to other groups. Frankie closes her eyes and sighs. She’s definitely going to have that T-shirt framed.

  CHAPTER 5

  Frankie

  Now I know what it means when they say “New World Order.”

  Ever since Liza sprang this whole Lillian thing on me a few days ago, I’ve been trying to talk to her about it. I mean, it’s not like we don’t have other friends, we do; but it’s us, and then everybody else. At home I’m the only girl in a house full of boys, and practically ever since Ms. Hirshman made us line partners in kindergarten, Liza has been the sister I always wanted. Now, all of a sudden, without consulting me, she brings in the new girl and thinks I should like it?

  I’ve tried to bring it up a million times, but either Liza’s running off somewhere or Lillian just happens to be there. Who knew we had so many classes together? And when I text her about it, Liza seems determined to answer as vaguely as possible. Evasion. I get it. Well, two can play that game.

  Mr. McEnroe says we have a week to come up with a topic for our project, but I’ve decided that the sooner we figure it out the better—then we can just divide up the work and do it independently. Or, better yet, Lillian can handle her piece while Liza and I work our magic as a team.

  In the meantime, we’re all supposed to meet at Lillian’s house to brainstorm ideas. I’m on my way to Liza’s locker to pick her up, and out of nowhere, Lillian materializes. Of course.

  “Hey, Franks!” Liza says, grabbing my arm. “We thought we could all just hop on the train and head over to Lillian’s together.” Lillian smiles and nods.

  Oh, we did, did we? I think fast.

  “Great idea,” I say. “But, Lize, we said we’d water the planters for the Garden Committee, remember? We can’t forget to do that.” I turn to Lillian. “Why don’t you go on ahead and we’ll catch up?”

  I see Lillian look at Liza, who starts to say something but then changes her mind. “Oh, that’s right, sorry. It won’t take us long, but if you want to go on home, we can definitely follow.”

  Lillian nods and gives us her address, then heads down the hall to her locker. She looks back at us once, as if we might have disappeared.

  We’re not actually signed up for an official watering shift today, but we go through the motions anyway since we have to kill time before heading to Lillian’s. We troop down to the janitor’s closet near the gym to get enormous watering cans and the wrench to turn on the hose. Mike, the janitor, salutes us when we pass him on the stairs.

  Filling up the cans at the spout, Liza watches me, like I’m a time bomb ready to go off.

  “Frankie,” she says, almost cautiously, as we slosh our way to the front of the building. “Did we really have to do this today? I thought our day was tomorrow.”

  “No, it’s today,” I lie. “Or maybe not, I can’t remember. But I thought we should just go ahead and do it rather than put it off. It’s the responsible thing to do.”

  Liza takes one of the watering cans and I take the other as we work our way from planter to planter.

  “Hmm, and that’s Francesca Caputo, always the responsible one, right?”

  “Liza, if you have something to say, say it.”

  “Franks,” she says, giving me one of her smiles. Doesn’t she get exhausted, being so bright and cheery all the time? “I think you didn’t want to walk home with Lillian.”

  “So sue me if I want to hang out with my best friend for two seconds, is that such a crime?”

  Liza drops her almost-empty can and pushes her curls back from her forehead. “No, I guess not. But we’re working with Lillian on this, and you need to make more of an effort to be nice. I know you don’t really know her—I don’t either—but she seemed so lonely during that interview that I just had to ask her to team up with us.”

  “But that’s just it, Liza,” I say. “You just went ahead and asked her without even consulting me.”

  Liza rolls her eyes. “Didn’t you ask Evan Jacoby without consulting me?”

  She has a point. We round the corner to the last set of planters. There’s just enough in the watering cans to dampen the soil, but I don’t feel like going all the way back to the faucet. I’m not that responsible.

  “Hey, that’s different,” I say. “Evan is really—” I stop because Liza’s eyes are pleading.

  She puts her hand on my shoulder. “Frankie, it won’t kill you to be a little nicer to Lillian. You don’t have to be friends, but we’re a team for this project and she’s going to be great. Better than Evan Jacoby—I promise.”

  I sigh. “Okay, okay. I’ll try. It’s just that usually we rock this stuff, and I feel like we’re getting off to a bad start. Conner Berman’s group is already cutting wood for dioramas, and we don’t even have a topic!”

  We pick up our empty cans and head back to the closet to put them away, dodging all the stragglers racing out of school who practically mow us down.

  “Hey!” I say at the receding backs of a bunch of thick-necked guys who remind me of my brothers. “What are we, invisible? We are trying to walk here!”

  Liza laughs and hooks her arm into mine as we head down the hill to the subway station.

  “Conner Berman, Franks? I think he’s what you might call OCD, and I don’t exactly see us modeling our study habits after his. Does that kid ever eat or drink or sleep or turn on a TV?”

  We hop on the train for the short ride to Lillian’s. She’s right, of course.

  “Nah. I know. We just have to rock this project.”

  Liza laughs and gives me a look. There’s no way she suspects I have a crush on Mr. Mac . . . is there? “Sure, Frankie, sure,” she says. By the time she stops giggling, we’re practically at Lillian’s.

  CHAPTER 6

  Lillian

  As soon as I walk in the door, I hear it: “Shoes off in the house, Lillian!”

  This is how my mother greets me every day. This afternoon it’s just her voice issuing the warning—the rest of her mus
t be in the kitchen because the smell of garlic and ginger is filling the front hall. The trouble is, since we just moved in a few weeks ago, we haven’t put any rugs down yet, and the old wood floors are freezing cold.

  “They are off, Mama,” I lie, tiptoeing to the stairs so I can run up to my room and grab my slippers. There’s no fooling my mother, of course, no matter how often I try.

  “I hear the clop, clop, clop like a horse,” she says, stepping into the hallway and waving a bamboo spatula at my feet. “Off!”

  I do what she says and then dash upstairs for my slippers. Unlike the rest of the house, my room is a mess, but I find the slippers right where I left them this morning, one sticking out from under the comforter and the other in the laundry basket. When we moved, my parents let Katie and me get all new furniture and decorate our bedrooms ourselves. But even though I really like all of my new stuff, nothing about this place feels like “my room” or “my house”—at least not yet.

  It’s a decent-looking house, I guess, with four floors and gardens in the front and back. And Park Slope seems like an okay neighborhood. But my house is back home in San Francisco, with a view of the Golden Gate Bridge and a secret stairway right outside my bedroom leading down to the kitchen. My house is just up the street from my best friend, Sierra, and three blocks away from my cousin Chloe. My house is where I learned to walk and read and where everyone in the neighborhood came over for a big party every Chinese New Year.

  Only the smells of our new place remind me of home. As soon as we moved to New York, my mother took Katie and me to Chinatown to find the shops that sell her favorite herbs and spices, lumpy vegetables and dried mushrooms, fish and other things that, trust me, you don’t even want to know about. My mother is a biologist—she studies the way mice behave when you interrupt their sleep or blindfold them, that sort of thing—but cooking is her real passion. She’s taking a year off from the lab because of the big move, and she can’t be happy unless her kitchen is stocked with ingredients and at least two pots are simmering on the stove. The boxes labeled COOKWARE were the first ones to be unpacked when we moved into our new house.