by Chris Negron
“Actually.” Mel’s voice comes from behind me, humorless and deep. “That phone goes directly to either security or another room downstairs where the rest of us assistants tend to hang out. You know, in case we need anything while we’re stuck up here babysitting y’all.” He winks at us. “You can’t call out with it. It’s more like the Bat-phone, a direct line.”
I exhale, louder than I mean to.
“Don’t worry, there are more supervised calls this afternoon. Your families can’t wait to talk to you guys again.”
After lunch, Paige is much more subdued over Skype. Even Mom seems low-key compared to the last time. Don’t get me wrong, she sounds concerned again, but not over how I’m being treated. It’s clear she’s a lot more worried about how I’m holding up.
Ugh. She saw my train wreck of a one-on-one. And the rest of the competition, too. She knows what a disadvantage I’m at for the finale. I mean, I knew she would, but the impact hadn’t really hit me until I see both their expressions.
“Tough meeting last week, huh?” Mom asks. Last week. Seems more like a lifetime ago.
“I guess,” I say, scratching my cheek.
“Only a couple days more, Curtis. Hang in there.”
“You’re doing great!” Paige adds, giving me a thumbs-up, but I can tell her enthusiasm is fake. Last Tuesday I was in first. Now I’m dead last. She must be so disappointed, even if she doesn’t want to say it out loud or talk about the competition at all.
Instead Mom tells me what’s been happening at her job. It’s great they keep finding stuff for her to do and extending her time there, but in the end they’re still a bunch of boring law office stories. Paige talks about school, when last time she thought I was crazy for asking about it.
They both tell me they love me, that they miss me, before Skype auto-ends the call right at the twenty-minute mark.
Harry’s teaching defensive magic to Dumbledore’s Army in the Room of Requirement when Wormwood pops her head into the dorms that evening. Ever since our family calls ended, we’ve been on a total Potter binge, skipping around the movies to everyone’s favorite scenes.
We all sit up straight when we see the sous chef checking on us. She walks in. “You guys rested?”
Our only response is Kiko pressing pause on the movie just as Harry’s about to kiss Cho under the mistletoe. Wormwood smiles at our stunned expressions. “Tomorrow,” she continues. “Please dress ready for spending a few hours outside. Coats, hats, scarves.”
“The food trucks again?” Joey asks, and this time there’s no complaint in his words.
“Just be ready, Chef,” Wormwood says.
Taylor’s longest-running sous chef doesn’t say anything else. She just takes one last, long, completely glowerless look at the five of us, then leaves. Kiko restarts The Order of the Phoenix, and we’re all mesmerized by Harry’s first kiss again.
I wonder if any of them are thinking what I am, noticed what I did.
That was the first time Wormwood called any of us “Chef.”
Out of all the wild guesses we make, none of us imagine anything close to where we end up spending the day before Thanksgiving: watching the Macy’s parade balloons being inflated, an actual New York tradition. But that’s exactly where Wormwood and our handlers take us. Taylor doesn’t join the field trip, and even though I’m excited, I find myself wondering what he’d rather be spending his day doing.
At first we move slowly around the tarnished, silver barricades guarding the balloons, the workers inflating them ignoring us, treating us like any other kid in the crowd and not the famous Super Five. I keep peeking between the mass of people and into open backs of running trucks, half expecting someone—maybe even the Super Chef himself—will pop out, surprising us with yet another cooking challenge. Every glimpse of bright silver makes me think I’ve spotted part of some stainless-steel kitchen appliance hidden among the colorful plastic balloon characters, when it’s really just an air tank or a pole holding up a tent.
Soon we realize there’s no trick coming. This is really and truly a day off. The only job we have here is to be kids, to race around pointing at Kung Fu Panda and Kermit, Papa Smurf and SpongeBob. Mel and the rest of the handlers’ breathing comes in cold, cloudy exhalations as they struggle to keep up with us.
We wind around the city streets until we’ve seen every single character worth taking in. And when we finally make it back to the van, out of breath but humming with excitement, we feel the best kind of sweaty cold. It’s the kind that always comes with a day outside in winter, sledding or having a snowball fight. Most of our cheeks and noses are rosy, and some of us are sniffling, but all of us are laughing and reminding each other which balloon was our favorite.
It’s not just us, either.
Because when we hop up into our seats in the van, Wormwood standing off to the side, counting us off to ensure we’ve all made it back, I catch a little something kinda foreign on her face.
It takes me a second longer than it probably should to recognize her smile.
40
Seriously, how could I sleep? Sure, I was super tired after our day out, but for me Thanksgiving Eve had become the opposite of Christmas Eve. Where the night before the big December holiday has always been full of excitement and eagerness, this year the night before November’s celebration is consumed with worry and dread.
Tomorrow’s my last chance to do what I came here to do. I’m at a huge disadvantage, for sure, but I have to believe it’s still possible for me to cook a better meal than the other four members of the Super Five. Even if I have only half the time.
I mean, I don’t have to believe it, but I’m certainly trying really hard to make myself believe it. Which means . . . not sleeping. Nope, not one bit.
Lying awake in bed, the slightest glimpse of the city lights reaching me through a gap in the blinds, I wonder, since it’s Thanksgiving, if the challenge might have something to do with the holiday itself. That’s when an odd memory pops into my head: Mom talking about Thanksgivings when she was young. Which was always weird, because she hardly ever talked about her past, almost like she didn’t have one.
Her mother would wake up at some crazy time, like five a.m., to start prepping their huge turkey, which apparently matched their huge family. The story always made me wonder how many hours my grandmother—it’s a weird word for me to think, since I never met her, or any of my grandparents—had to cook this mythical, giant bird, but of course Mom could never remember what the weight was.
I try to picture her now, this grandmother I never knew, alone in her kitchen in the fading gloom of early morning, working on a meal for her whole family. No crowds or cameras. Nothing super. Not a contest.
Alone at five a.m., worrying about making sure everything would go right for the people she loved most. Awake like I am now, at two in the morning. Thinking about Paige, about Mom, about how badly I’ve messed up. About how, for me, everything did not go right. Not at all.
When I used to have trouble sleeping when I was little, Mom would make a glass of warm milk for us. Us, because of course Paige, who sleeps like she’s in some kind of coma every night, had to follow me into the kitchen and drink a tall glass of it, too. Because little sister. Because copycat.
I haven’t had a warm glass of milk in years, but maybe tonight it would do the trick. Worth a try, anyway. I’m hot, I’m itchy, and I’m awake. I throw off my comforter and pace out into the common room. Bleary-eyed, I stub my toe on a stool but resist crying out. If I wake everyone else up, this night will only get that much worse.
When I open the fridge, cool air washes over me, and I start to feel sleepy already. I take out the milk, set it on the counter, close the door. But somehow I’m still feeling that chill. I trace it to the sliding-glass door leading out to the balcony. It’s open. I look that way in time to see the Super Chef and Mel coming back inside, their dueling shadows blotting out the city lights.
Mel’s wearing a robe and pajamas,
but Lucas Taylor’s still dressed for the day—no winter coat for out there on the frigid balcony, either. The only difference between him now and when he’s standing in front of us on the arena stage is his tie is loosened a little.
Mel steps forward, but Taylor stops, waiting in the open doorway. I guess he’s as surprised to see me as I am to see him. My handler senses his boss’s hesitation. He looks over his shoulder at Taylor, then back to me. “How about I give you guys a minute?”
Taylor nods, and Mel tugs at the collar of his robe to warm up, then takes his time closing and locking the sliding-glass door at the top and bottom. He tosses the keys into the air, catching them in his opposite hand, tucks them into his robe pocket. Finally he disappears into his room.
When the door closes behind Mel and we’re alone, Taylor moves for the first time, pacing toward me and the kitchen. I haven’t budged. Neither has my milk, the carton sweating dew on the counter.
“I needed to clear my mind,” he explains, nodding toward Mel’s closed door. “Mel there was kind enough to sneak me out to my favorite spot. It’s where—”
“You stared at the city trying to decide the winner in the last episode of season one,” I say. “And where you and Wormwood—” I gulp, then correct myself. “Chef Wormwood argued about how tough you were being on the competitors in season three.”
He stares at me, his lips slightly parted.
“Episode seven,” I finish.
Chef Taylor smiles. “So I take it you’ve watched the show, then?”
We share a quick smile.
He points at the milk, changes the subject. “So . . . late-night munchies?”
A little part of me still wants to hold back, say nothing, but maybe I’m too tired, because I do answer, and what comes out is way honest. “More like late-night nerves.”
He exhales, then nods. “Yeah. We’ve been kinda tough on you guys.” There’s an apology in his stare back at me. At least, I think that’s what I’m seeing. “So . . . let me guess. You’re about to try warm milk? Something your mother taught you?”
It’s the first time he’s come within a thousand miles of directly mentioning Mom. Not sure I can handle that on what’s sure to be my last night here, so I turn away from him without responding, reaching up for a fresh glass.
“Ever try walnuts?” he asks, stepping toward the fridge and yanking it open. “And pretty sure we have some of that tart cherry juice in here.” His voice floats back to me because his head is leaning all the way in. “They both have melatonin in them. Good for sleeping.”
He finds the juice and pulls it out, then nods toward the stools. “Have a seat. I’ll pour you some. And a little dish of walnuts. I’m sure we have those, too. Somewhere.”
“They’re in that pantry,” I say, pointing. I’d noticed them the other day when I was fishing around for some cornmeal for that night’s dinner.
“Right.” He wanders in that direction. “I do miss this place. I didn’t realize how much of a touchstone it had become for me during the competitions. After the long days in the arena, I always used to crash up here.”
“You didn’t have to give it to us.”
“I really did. We had to make sure you guys would be safe. Guarded.”
The Super Chef holds his open hand toward me, and I pass him my still-empty glass. He brings down a small bowl for the walnuts. He fills both and serves them to me across the island. “Try this combo.” He winks. “A secret I learned in Tibet.”
“Really?”
He laughs. “No, actually my grandmother taught me. In a hotel in Nebraska, I think.” A distant look crosses his face. “Maybe Oregon . . .”
His grandmother, when I’d just been thinking of mine. Lucas Taylor’s grandmother, who would be my great-grandmother. Who I’ve never met either, never even seen a picture of. I’m suddenly filled with a desire to know everything about her, but he asks another question first.
“Why the nerves?” He pops a single walnut into his mouth.
Because I’ve blown the biggest opportunity I’ve ever had in only two weeks? Because the father I’ve never really talked with—that I so badly want to somehow be able to talk to—is mere feet away, telling me he wanted to make sure I was safe, and I still can’t decide if he’s my biggest hero or my oldest nemesis?
I chew a few of my own walnuts, a delay tactic. So I don’t have to talk, because I can’t decide what I would say if I did open my mouth.
“Listen, Curtis,” the Super Chef starts. “It’s true our meeting didn’t go that well, but that score’s been posted. It’s over. You’re still here, aren’t you? Everyone who’s still here has a chance. Tomorrow is like starting over.”
I shake my head. “But we’re not starting over. I’m in last place. I’ve deserved the scores I’ve gotten. I . . . and . . . that wasn’t how I wanted our meeting . . . no.”
Wow, Pith. Super smooth.
“Okay,” he says slowly, clearly processing my jumbled comment. “So what happened that night?”
What happened? Part of me still wants to force him to explain all his life choices, to justify every decision he’s ever made. Most of me isn’t sure there’s a point to that, though. In the end, I just stare back.
“Tell me,” he presses. “What happened at Colbeh’s?”
I shrug. “It’s not really important. I wasn’t brave enough.” I’m still not brave enough. “Too scared, I guess.”
“Scared?” he says, alarmed. “Of what? Me?”
The walnuts are good. Fresh, crispy. I keep crunching, because that way I don’t have to talk, to admit things I’m still not ready to admit. I tilt the bowl so the last couple drop into my hand. Still stalling. Because . . . was I scared of him? No, that wasn’t it.
I think I was scared of chasing something I’d secretly wanted without totally knowing it. And it wasn’t money. Once what I wanted was right in front of me, though, once I could reach out and touch it, I guess I was afraid that, if I stretched too far, I would get burned. And there was no Mom or Wormwood to pull my hand back for me, so I did it myself. I pulled my own hand away from getting to know my father, told myself he didn’t deserve to meet the real me.
I push the empty bowl back toward him. He reaches out for it with his left hand. Something changes in his face, and he pulls it back, extends the right one instead. It makes me remember the cobbler mishap, the dessert falling to the floor in slow motion, the way he got so frustrated when the apples splattered all over the clean arena.
I need a change of subject anyway. “Sorry about that cobbler,” I say, nodding at his hand, still wrapped in gauze after the plate shards incident. Thinking how weird it is he’d rather pick the bowl up with his injured hand. “Is it any better?”
“A little. And please . . . no. That wasn’t your fault. That accident was all me. My hands . . .” He opens his left one and stares at it, open-palmed, like it doesn’t belong to him. Like it’s some other thing, not connected anymore.
“I make a point of never reaching for anything with my left hand,” he continues. “I think I got so wrapped up in the challenge, I just forgot. That’s what happens. Sometimes I forget. But it doesn’t last long. What I have . . . it always seems to find a way to remind me it’s there.”
I take a sip of the juice. It’s really sour; my lips pucker. “What you have?”
Chef Taylor inhales. He looks toward the balcony, then back at me. Holds my gaze for a second before his eyes change. They focus in, like he’s made an important decision. “Have you ever heard of Parkinson’s disease?”
“Kind of.”
“It’s a nervous system disorder. Makes your hands shake, gives you a funny walk, turns simple things like grabbing plates into difficult tasks.”
Like someone hit the rewind button on my brain, the images of all his strange walking and hand shaking and buttons not done up right on chef’s jackets flash through my head, so fast they become a blur, and I realize I’ve noticed a lot more of them than I understo
od. All those things he was doing that weren’t Super Chef–like. That weren’t cool.
“So you have that? Parkinson’s?”
He smiles a little, dips his head. “I do. Found out last year.”
“How do you get it?” I’m whispering. Why am I whispering?
“No one knows for sure,” he says. “There’s a chemical your brain needs. It’s called dopamine. People who have Parkinson’s, we don’t have enough of it. So . . . let’s just say our brains start acting funny.” He glances at his left hand again. “Then we do, too. Might start with a trembling hand, or a shuffling foot, or a shaking head. And then . . . off we go.” He swipes his bandaged right hand through the air, like it just rushed down a world-class water slide.
I take another gulp of cherry juice, because I’m not sure what to say. He’s leaning on the counter with his head down. I’ve seen him do it a bunch of other times. All those times he looked hurt, but I never saw a single cut or bruise or burn. Not on the outside.
“How do you get better?”
He jerks one shoulder up. “There are some great medicines. They help a bunch, actually. But get better? You mean, like, cured?”
I nod.
“You don’t, not really. There isn’t . . . there’s no cure. At least not yet.”
A bunch of LEGO-shaped pieces snap into place in my head, the full picture in front of me for the first time. “So that’s . . . all this . . . it’s why you’re ending Super Chef?”
The Last Super Chef.
He bites his lip. Nods agreement. “Yes, Curtis. It’s exactly why.”
41
“It was just time, that’s all. This disease, Parkinson’s, there’s no manual for it. It’s different for every single person who has it. Nothing is normal. I can’t.” Taylor holds up his empty hands again. “I can’t master it. It isn’t . . . predictable. There’s no recipe.