“Don’t just sit there!” Mom shouted. “Cooper! Carly! Do something!”
I jumped up and ran to grab a roll of paper towels from the dispenser by the sink. The dispenser was empty. Mom flung a terry-cloth dish towel onto the floor. It lay half drowned in the spreading yellow pool.
“See what you did?” she accused Carly. “The towel is ruined now, and the floor, and the tabletop. And you’re yelling at me about making you an oven?”
Carly burst into tears. “I didn’t mean to, I didn’t, I was just trying to help!”
“I don’t need this kind of help! I don’t need any help from either of you!”
“Fine!” I found my voice. “We won’t help. Come on, Carly, let’s go upstairs.”
“Go, then! Leave me with all of your mess to clean up.”
Still sobbing, Carly followed me out of the kitchen. I didn’t know what Mom would do when she saw the yellow footprints trailing across the living room carpet behind us.
Upstairs in my room, I did my math homework and practiced trombone, trying not to feel guilty for leaving Carly alone. Once I was calmer, I looked in on her, glad to see her busy at her little table. “What are you drawing?”
“Button. Cooper, do you think Button could be a bunny and not a kitten? She seems more like a bunny to me.”
“Sure.”
I sat down in the second chair at Carly’s low table and reached for a sheet of blank paper.
“What are you going to draw?” she asked.
“I’ll draw Button, too, with Inchitella and Parsley flying on her back.”
“You didn’t tell me Button could fly! I thought they rode on her like a horse.”
“They fly on her like a flying horse.”
“Does she have wings?”
I thought for a minute. I somehow couldn’t imagine a winged rabbit. “She flies without wings.”
“Where do they go?”
“Wherever they want to go. They fly over other countries, but all the other countries are too big. The people are like giants—bigger than giants, monsters. And the cars and the buses—they’re like humongous dragons. So they always fly back to Inchland, where everything is the right size.”
“Cooper?”
“Uh-huh?”
“Is it okay that I told Mom about Inchland?”
No, it isn’t okay. I shrugged. “I don’t think anything can happen to Inchland. Because it’s magic.”
“I put the deeds in my treasure box, all eight of them, yours and mine. It locks, you know. I hid the key. Should I tell you where I hid it?”
“You don’t have to tell me.”
“I want to. It’s in the stable, under the mattress on Parsley’s bed. I figure Parsley would be good at protecting it while we’re away on our trip for winter break.”
“I don’t think we’re going away after all.”
“That’s okay. Inchitella and Parsley would miss us if we went, don’t you think?”
“Yeah,” I agreed. “I think they would.”
I arrived at school for “Pasta Live” at six o’clock on Tuesday evening; Spencer’s mom drove us. Two food stations had been set up on the stage in the auditorium, with a stove, fridge, microwave, and counter at each one, but no sink.
For the first half, our team had been assigned the task of preparing what Mr. Pasta called “crudités”—a fancy word for “veggies and dip.” We had already arranged that Ben would do all of the talking into the microphone, and most of the chopping as well. Other groups were preparing mini-sandwiches, barbecued meatballs, chips and homemade salsa, and a warm artichoke and cheese dip, served with slices of crusty French bread. Lindsay’s team was making the punch, with frozen strawberries floating on top.
The show began at six-thirty. Mr. Pasta came forward to the microphone. “Welcome, parents, siblings, teachers, friends, and all lovers of fine food! Tonight we invite you to embark with us on a culinary adventure.” It was dark enough in the auditorium that I couldn’t see whether Mom and Carly were there. I said a quick prayer that they hadn’t come.
First up was the meatball-making team. They managed to get their meatballs into their Crock-Pot in a timely way. Only one meatball landed on the floor, and Mr. Pasta intervened just before the student who dropped it was about to pick it up and plop it back into the pot.
The salsa makers didn’t spill or drop anything, but their spokesperson spoke so quickly and softly that no one could hear what she said, even with the microphone. The teams were taking turns passing around a clip-on mike so we could have our hands free for the demonstrations.
“Next, Ben, Spencer, and Cooper will show us how to prepare crudités,” Mr. Pasta announced. He pronounced it “croo-dih-tay,” rolling the r in an exaggerated French way.
“Crudités are healthy and easy to prepare,” Ben said. “Our team will be serving celery, peppers, and baby carrots, together with a fresh dill and yogurt dip.”
Deftly, Ben began cutting the celery stalks into small spears. I took charge of cutting up the red, green, and yellow peppers, since peppers now held a special place in my heart. I hoped that Lindsay, seated on the stage with her team, noticed. Spencer, ever the ham, did a short comic routine in which he engaged in elaborate preparations for cutting up the baby carrots with a flourish of his large knife but then just dumped the already bite-size carrots onto the serving tray. Some chuckles came from the audience. Ben stirred together the dill weed and plain yogurt, and we were done.
At intermission, all the teams carried their offerings into the large open area outside the auditorium. Across the crowd, I saw Carly and Mom. Reluctantly, I went over to join them.
“I want to take Food Fun when I’m in sixth grade!” Carly said. “I want to make the punch with the strawberries.”
“Where’s Mr. Costa?” Mom asked. For a moment I wasn’t sure who she was talking about; I had almost forgotten Mr. Pasta’s real name. “I want to ask him if I could hire your class to cater the reception for the opening of the homeless shelter art show.”
“No,” I said, before I had a chance to realize how it would sound.
“No, what?”
“He’s not going to want us to do that. He has too many other things planned.”
“Well, there’s no harm in asking, is there? That’s him over there, isn’t it? I’ll be right back.”
Say no, say no, say no. I beamed the words in Mr. Pasta’s direction. But as Mom approached him, Mr. Pasta tapped on a glass with a spoon to get everybody’s attention. The rest of the crowd was drinking punch out of paper cups, but leave it to Mr. Pasta to be drinking his out of a real glass, and eating his snacks on a proper plate.
“Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen. I trust you are all enjoying the delectable tidbits prepared for us by our fine young chefs!”
The families applauded loudly in response.
“It has come to my attention that unfortunately one of our three parent challengers had to offer his regrets for the second half of the evening. Illness has kept him at home tonight. I know this is short notice, but is there anyone here who would be willing to take his place?”
Instantly Mom had her hand in the air. I never found out if any other parents would have volunteered, because of course Mr. Pasta spied her right away, given that she was standing not two feet in front of him.
“Bravo!” He clapped her appreciatively on the back. “I admire your courage!”
My heart clenched like a fist. I felt as if most of the oxygen had been suddenly sucked out of the room.
15
“We have to stop her,” I said to Carly.
Carly tugged at my sleeve. “I don’t understand. What is Mom going to do?”
I wished I knew, or maybe it was better not to know. “It’s going to be like one of those cooking shows on TV,” I told Carly. “Each side—the three parents on one side, and Mr. Pasta on the other side—will get a bunch of ingredients, and they’ll have half an hour to make something out of them. Then the judges—he has s
ome eighth graders and their parents for the judges—will eat both things and decide which side is the winner.”
“Mom’s a good cook,” Carly said loyally. “I hope Mom wins!”
I just hoped I could live through the next hour.
Back in the auditorium, I hurried up onstage to join the chefs’ assistants for the parents’ team, wishing I could be sitting on the floor in front of the stage with Ben and Spencer and the other kids from our class. Mr. Stuart came to the microphone to serve as the emcee for the second half of the show, since Mr. Pasta would be busy cooking.
Mr. Stuart read out the list of ingredients: boneless chicken breasts, sun-dried tomatoes, goat cheese, and half a dozen other things. I hardly listened, torn between wanting to keep my eyes on my mother every single second and wanting to keep them shut until it was all over. I hoped I’d get an easy task so I wouldn’t mess it up in front of everybody.
The teams had five minutes to plan, while the eighth-grade judges wheeled out rolling trays laden with the needed supplies. The three members of the parent team conferred with one another; Mr. Pasta, grinning broadly, conferred with himself. Standing a little bit to the side, I could hear my mother’s voice, louder than the others: “Presentation! I’m an artist, so I’ll take care of the presentation.”
Presentation, I knew from Mr. Pasta, was how the food looked on the plate, how it was presented to the diners. I greatly doubted that the eighth-grade judges would care about presentation. But maybe their parents would be impressed.
As the teams began cooking, Ben’s mother gave me the job of dicing celery and onions. At least I could do it without thinking. Mr. Stuart went back and forth between the two teams, offering each the chance to speak into the handheld microphone, sharing their plans and techniques with the audience. When it was the parent team’s turn, he held out the mike to Ben’s mom, but my mom intercepted it. I wondered if Mr. Stuart would recognize her as my mom. Probably not: he talked to so many parents during the course of a year, and it was a coincidence that both my mom and I had ended up onstage together.
“We’re grilling our chicken breasts—Brad is grilling them—while Michelle prepares a topping of crumbled goat cheese and sun-dried tomatoes. I’m working on dessert—leave it to me to go for the dessert!” She laughed too loudly, given that what she had said wasn’t all that funny. The audience obligingly returned her laughter.
“How does this sound? Fresh raspberries, drizzled with melted dark chocolate, topped with whipped cream and a few shavings of the chocolate?”
She moaned appreciatively, as if she were overcome, almost fainting, with pleasure. I felt my cheeks flushing with embarrassment.
“They don’t sound that good,” I heard Brad whisper to Michelle.
No kidding.
“Let me go check on how Mr. Costa is doing,” Mr. Stuart said.
Mom didn’t relinquish the microphone. “We already know how Mr. Costa is doing,” she said. “He’s losing! Because the three of us—Brad, Michelle, and Emily—can’t be beat!”
She turned to the audience, as if expecting them to go wild for the parent team. A few parents clapped in response, apparently thinking that was what they were supposed to be doing, but when the other parents didn’t join in, the feeble applause died out. My mom didn’t seem to notice.
“The parents—united—will never be—defeated!” she chanted. No one else took up the chant.
Mr. Stuart reached out his hand and took the microphone away from her. I half expected her to engage in a tussle with him to keep it, but fortunately she didn’t.
“All right,” Mr. Stuart said pleasantly. “We’ve heard from the parent team. Now let’s see what Mr. Costa is cooking up for us.”
Mr. Pasta announced that he was stuffing his chicken breasts with the goat cheese and the sun-dried tomatoes and then baking them in a 400-degree oven for twenty minutes. For dessert he was making a raspberry chocolate mousse.
“Go, Mr. Pasta!” one of the sixth graders called out, and a bunch of the kids started stomping their feet and whistling, which made me feel better. Maybe this was how a cooking competition was supposed to be, with the parents cheering on the parents, and the students cheering on their teacher. Maybe my mom had just been trying to get everybody into the spirit of the thing.
“Go, parents!” someone else shouted.
I felt even better.
My mother clasped her upraised hands and swung them from side to side in the air, like a heavyweight boxing champ.
I felt worse.
In his second stop to chat with the parent team, Mr. Stuart managed to give the mike to Ben’s mom, who made some brief, appropriate remarks. As the clock continued ticking, Mr. Pasta whisked his chicken breasts into the oven and was assembling a salad of greens, raspberries, and walnuts.
Onions and celery all neatly chopped, I didn’t have anything left to do, so I stood, as hidden as possible, behind the parent team, watching as Mom whipped the cream with an electric mixer. Across the stage, Lindsay looked busy chopping walnuts for Mr. Pasta, so I couldn’t catch her eye to smile. Not that I felt like smiling. In another ten minutes, the whistle would blow, signaling the end of the cook-off. I only had to get through ten more agonizing minutes.
On Mr. Stuart’s third visit to their cooking station, Mom pounced on the microphone again and oohed and aahed over the sizzling golden-brown chicken breasts coming off the grill and the pungent aroma of the cheese and tomato topping. She made a special fuss, of course, over her own snowy peaks of whipped cream.
“Mom,” I hissed desperately behind her. Couldn’t she see the huge clock hung on the side of the stage? “There’s just three minutes left!”
I couldn’t tell if she had heard me or not; I had tried to keep my voice low enough that no one else would hear.
“Mom!” I whispered again, louder this time. Finally, she surrendered the mike back to Mr. Stuart.
Her other team members had already started to assemble the plates of chicken to serve to the judges.
“I told you I was going to do the presentation!” she said, her voice rising in irritation. I hoped the people in the audience couldn’t hear her.
“We can handle them,” Ben’s mother said, with Ben’s same unruffled calm. “You need to take care of that fabulous dessert! Is the chocolate melted?”
“How could I be melting the chocolate when I was busy whipping the cream?” Mom snatched the unwrapped bar of solid chocolate, dumped it into a glass bowl, and slammed it in the microwave. As she whirled back to the counter, her elbow caught the glass bowl of whipped cream.
I leaped to catch it, but I was too far away. The bowl went crashing onto the floor, shattering into pieces. She gave a desperate cry. Frantic, I wondered if I could scoop any of the spilled whipped cream into another container as she knelt down to start grabbing up the foam-covered pieces of broken glass.
Then I heard cheers. Prepared for the fun of food messes from years of eating in the school cafeteria, the sixth-grade audience had burst into raucous applause, almost drowning out the sound of Mr. Stuart’s whistle.
“Time!” Mr. Stuart called out above the din.
Scarier than the witch in Hansel and Gretel, scarier than any witch in any story I had ever read, my mom ran to the front edge of the stage and began shouting at the sixth graders seated on the floor in front of her.
“So you think it’s funny when someone has an accident, do you? So you think it’s funny when someone gets hurt?”
She held out her hand. Blood was running down her arm from one of the slippery, broken pieces of glass from the shattered bowl.
“Emily, it’s all right,” Mr. Stuart said to her in a low, steady voice. “Let’s get your hand cleaned up.”
“It is not all right!” She whirled back to face the sixth graders. “I hope you’re ashamed of yourselves! I hope your parents are ashamed of you, too!”
I didn’t wait to see what would happen next. I slipped down from the stage and found Carly c
owering all alone in her front-row seat.
“Let’s go.”
Clutching her pink jacket, Carly followed me out to the lobby, where the tables were still laden with leftover intermission snacks. At first I was relieved that she wasn’t crying, but her face was so pale, greenish white, that I was afraid she might get sick instead.
“She got so mad,” Carly whispered. “First she was laughing, and everything was funny, and then she got so mad. And her hand—Cooper, it was all bleeding.”
“It’ll be okay,” I said. But nothing was going to be okay. “She ruined it,” I burst out. I wanted to add, She ruins everything. But I couldn’t say that to Carly.
“What’s going to happen with the rest of the show?” Carly asked. “Will they still do the judging?”
Who cared?
“I don’t know,” I said.
I led Carly to the steps up to the second floor of the school. We sat down in the shadows, waiting in silence. I tried to think of an alphabet game to play to pass the time. The three of us used to love alphabet games, making endless alphabetical lists of countries, foods, animals, flowers. Now we could have an alphabet game of disaster: A for anger; B for broken bowl; C for chicken, or maybe C for catastrophe.
From inside the auditorium came a roar of applause. The judges must have delivered their verdict. Mr. Pasta had to have won: how could the parent team win with their dessert unfinished and half of it lying on the auditorium floor?
People began filing out. I wished Mom would show up quickly, so we could go home before I saw anybody I knew. I didn’t even want to see Spencer or Ben; most of all, I didn’t want to see Lindsay. How could I face Lindsay ever again, after she had been right there on the stage, seeing it all at close range?
“There she is. There’s Mom.” I left my hiding place on the stairs and gave her an urgent wave. She crossed the room to meet us.
I wasn’t sure how I expected her to act—still angry? Ashamed? Plunged back into depression? What I didn’t expect was her wide smile and torrent of words.
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