Kitchen Chaos (7 page)

The way she says “whoever” makes it super clear that “whoever” should take the class is the two of them and “whoever” shouldn't is me. I look down at the floor, my cheeks burning again, but in a totally different way.

Liza picks up the fork from her waffles and pokes Frankie in the hand with it. I can't help hoping it hurts just a little. “Franks,” she sighs, “this is a team project, remember?”

“Ouch!” Frankie yelps, pulling her hand away. “Okay, okay.” She glances at me and flashes that half smile I'm getting used to. “It'll be fun,” she mumbles under her breath.

“Okay!” says Liza, clapping her hands. “We're all in. I'll send you a link to the class after school so we can all register tonight.”

“How much does it cost, by the way?” Frankie asks. “You know how my mom and dad are about spending money on ‘extras.' Have you asked your mom yet?”

Liza shakes her head. “Not yet. But I looked it up and it's not that much. I can use that money my nana sent me for my birthday, and aren't you still hoarding your Christmas stash from last year?”

“I wasn't exactly planning to use that for a cooking class,” Frankie says. “But since it's for our brilliant project, I guess it's worth it.”

Liza turns to me. “How about you, Lillian?” she asks. “Do you have anything saved up?”

Before I have a chance to answer, someone in the back of the room groans, and we all turn around to see Ms. Hernandez rush into the room, apologizing for being late.
Phew
. Even though it's actually her and not a sub, I'm glad I don't have to explain that while money would be no problem for me—our relatives all gave Katie and me a big stack of lucky red envelopes full of cash at our good-bye party, and so far I've had nothing to spend it on—convincing my mother to let me take the class is going to be its own kind of project. I decide to use
the next forty-five minutes to come up with a plan while Ms. H. drones on about x + y = zzzzzzzz. If I have to put my brain into overdrive during first period, at least today I have something interesting to think about.

On the wall above the nurse's desk in the infirmary at school, there's this really goofy poster with ballerinas on it and some corny saying like,
If you can imagine it, you can be it. If you can dream it, you can achieve it.
I'm thinking about that poster right now because I'm about to tell my mom about my big idea, and I need all the wisdom I can get.

Why am I looking to dorky posters for inspiration just to ask my mom if I can take a cooking class that
she doesn't even have to pay for? Well, there's kind of a “part two” to my plan that I didn't mention to Frankie or Lillian. The thing is, the class is really for adults—you have to be over eighteen to register. But I called the cooking school, and the receptionist said that as long as one adult signs up to take it with us, Frankie, Lillian, and I are in. My mom used to love to cook. But she never has time anymore. She never has time to do
anything
anymore, except work and take care of Cole. If I can convince her to be our “one adult,” maybe she'll start acting like her old self again, even if it's just for two hours a week. That would be the best big idea ever.

I bring up my plan after dinner while Mom's braiding my hair, which is usually when she wants to have “girl talk.” My hair is crazy curly, but it's softer and finer than hers, which makes it easier to braid. I'm not into braids all over my head or anything, but a couple of really skinny ones on each side with the rest of my hair hanging loose looks okay and keeps
the wild “corkscrews” (that's what my mom calls them) out of my eyes.

When she's braiding, my mom gets into a rhythm that she says is relaxing. That's when she starts asking me questions about my friends and whether I like any boys. Most of my friends hate talking about that stuff with their parents, but my mom and I have always been close, so I don't really mind. However, when it comes to boys, there's never much to tell.

As soon as Mom gets into her braiding groove, I decide the time to drop the idea of Chef Antonio's cooking class on her is now or never.

“Hey, Mom, guess what?” I say in a way that I hope sounds casual yet perky.

“I don't know, honey,” she says in that voice she uses when she's in the zone. “Hand me a rubber band and tell me
what
.”

“Well, we came up with a plan for our social studies project,” I say.

“That's great, Lize,” she mumbles, the rubber
band clenched between her teeth. “So what is it?”

“You know that cooking show I always watch,
Antonio's Kitchen
? Well, Antonio—he's the chef—is teaching a class right here in Brooklyn. It's around the corner from your coffee place, on Atlantic Avenue. We saw the commercial, remember?”

“Uh-huh.”

While she yanks at my curls, I tell my mom about American Cooking 101 and how it fits in perfectly with our immigration project. I get so into explaining the idea that I start to turn my head while my mom is braiding, which is never a good idea. She holds the braid tight and gently turns my head so I'm facing forward again.

“So,” I go on, reminding myself to talk with my mouth, not my head, “Frankie and our third partner, Lillian—she's new—both think taking the class and doing our project on immigration and food is a great idea. We're even going to make something from the recipes we learn in the class for our presentation—like
little replicas for the Immigration Museum that Mr. McEnroe is putting together.”

“Wow,” Mom says. “Sounds ambitious. But what else is new? Frankie and Lillian are right—it is a great idea for a project, Lize. Do you need me to help you register? How much is it?”

“Well,” I say, step one of my mission accomplished, “actually, we're not technically allowed to register unless an adult takes the class with us. So I was thinking you could sign yourself up too.”

My mom stops braiding and laughs. Not a good sign. “Oh, you were, huh?”

I spin around to face her, summoning all of my poster wisdom. “You said you used to love taking cooking classes,” I remind her. “And it's for my school project, so it'll be like you're helping me with my homework, which you always say you wish you had more time to do.”

My mom shakes her head, even though she's smiling. “You've got it all figured out, don't you?”

“All you have to do is sign us up,” I say, giving her my best puppy-dog eyes. “I can use my birthday money to pay for it.”

Mom turns me around again and starts on the last braid. “Hang on to your birthday money for a minute,” she says, in a voice that worries me just a little bit. “I love your enthusiasm, sweetheart, and I love the idea that my twelve-year-old daughter actually wants to spend time with me in public even more.”

Uh-oh, there's only one word that comes after a sentence like that.

“But,” she says (and that's the one), “you share me with a rambunctious little guy named Cole. Remember him? Curly hair, messy face, about this tall?” She holds her hand up about a foot higher than the coffee table.

I sigh. “Mom, I haven't forgotten about Cole.”

“So where exactly does he fit into your grand scheme?” she asks.

“What do you mean?”

My mom ties off my last braid, smoothes the back of my hair, and sits down to face me. “I mean, what do you propose we do with him while we're at cooking class every Saturday? I'm guessing he's too young to sign up with us, since he can't even reach the stove.”

“Couldn't you get a babysitter for him?” I suggest. “The class is only for a couple of hours, and it's right at nap time too.”

My mom takes my chin in her hand and smiles at me in that “I feel sorry for you” sort of way. “Honey, Cole is at day care for nine hours a day, five days a week,” she says. “If I leave him with a babysitter every Saturday afternoon, he's going to start thinking I'm his personal assistant instead of his mommy.”

I let my shoulders droop. “But what about me? Don't I get to hang out with you too?”

“Of course you do, Sweet Potato,” Mom says. “That's why the weekends are special. They're for family time, when all three of us can hang out together.”

I used to love it when my mom called me “Sweet
Potato.” It's kind of a funny nickname, I know, but it reminds me of that warm and delicious feeling you get when you walk into the kitchen and smell a freshly baked sweet potato pie. This time, though, all I can picture is a lumpy old root sitting in the dark at the bottom of the vegetable bin.

“It's just a couple of hours, Mom.” I sigh. “And it's only for six weeks. I'm pretty sure Cole will survive.” I look up at her. “Besides, you do Rock Band Baby just with him. I've never complained about that, have I?”

This time it's my mom who rolls her eyes. “Liza, Rock Band Baby starts at nine o'clock on Saturday mornings,” she says. “You're still asleep!”

“Just like Cole will be practically the entire time we're at cooking class,” I say back.
So there!

“You've got an answer for everything, don't you, Liza Louise?” Mom says. She's shaking her head, but she can't help smiling.

Hopeful, I shrug and smile too. “I'm waiting for a ‘yes' from you, Jacqueline Dawn.”

My mom perfects my braids in some microscopic way and tucks them behind my ears. “Well, you're going to have to settle for an ‘I'll think about it' for now, okay?”

I crumple, as if I have appendicitis or I've just been shot or something. “Come on, Mommy, really? Can't you just say yes?” I beg. “Frankie, Lillian, and I can't sign up without you.”

“What about Theresa or Joe?” she asks. “Or Lillian's parents? I appreciate that you're asking me to take the class with you girls, but if you need an answer right away, you might want to think about asking one of them.”

My mom touches my cheek and gets up to put away the combs and rubber bands. I pick up the hand mirror lying on the coffee table and stare into my own disappointed eyes. I wonder what Frankie and Lillian will say when I tell them that we need an adult to take Chef Antonio's class with us and that it doesn't look like it's going to be my mom. Even if one of their
parents agrees to do it, it won't be the same. Getting my mom to remember how much she loves cooking was the whole reason I came up with the plan in the first place. I guess my big idea was really just a Big Dumb Idea.

I have no idea what's up with Liza these days, but she's acting really weird. First she insists on including Lillian in everything we do, and then it turns out she left out a pretty crucial bit of info about her big idea: We can't actually take the cooking class unless an adult signs up with us. Liza sent me this text about how she really wants her mom to do the class, but Cole is ruining everything, as usual. Liza is an amazing big sister and way nicer to Cole than I am to
Nicky—most of the time. But whenever something doesn't go her way, she blames it on the poor little guy, as if being born right before their parents' marriage went down the toilet was all his idea.

Anyway, now Liza wants
me
to ask one of my parents to take the class with us, since we've already started working on our project proposal for Mr. Mac, and the cooking class is a big part of it. Actually, I think she asked Lillian to try too, but even after meeting her mom only once, I know that is
not
going to happen. No way.

Now, my dad is the obvious choice, right? He's practically a chef himself. The problem is, he's on call with his fire company every other Saturday and never knows when he might have to drop everything for an emergency. When I was younger, I used to keep a list of all of the birthday parties, soccer games, and dance recitals my dad missed because he was on duty or on call. I understood that, for him, “going to work” meant putting out fires and saving people's lives, but
I couldn't help wishing he were with me on those big days. By now I'm used to Dad rushing off to the firehouse in the middle of grilling steaks or watching one of The Goons' basketball games, so I don't think he's the kind of reliable adult Chef Antonio is expecting to keep an eye on us during cooking class. Which leaves me with no choice but to ask the one person in our family responsible for the most kitchen disasters: my mom.