Kitchen Chaos (14 page)

I stab a hunk of pepper and a slab of steak with my fork and hold it out to Frankie. “Want a bite?” I offer. “You always give me some of yours.”

Frankie shakes her head. “That's okay,” she says. “It'll just remind me of my mom's latest epic cooking fail. Can you believe that her eye was burning and
watering for the rest of the weekend from that fleck of cayenne pepper she managed to flip in there?”

I stifle a giggle. Poor Theresa, these things always happen to her. And believe it or not, it wasn't their only injury. “How's your pinky?” I ask, eyeing Frankie's bandaged little finger.

Frankie rolls her eyes. “It's fine,” she says. “Luckily, it was mostly the nail that got nicked.”

A paring knife slipped out of Frankie's mom's hand while she was slicing a pepper and landed . . . well,
in
Frankie's. I wonder how things would have gone if I'd tripled up with the Caputos like I'd planned instead of working with Errol. At first I was kind of upset that Chef Antonio asked me to switch—it wasn't like he made me do it, but who could say no to him? In the end, cooking with Errol actually turned out to be pretty fun, and at least I came home with leftovers—and no physical damage.

“Well, I think I'd rather have been in your shoes than Lillian's on Saturday,” I say, trying to make
Frankie feel better about the class. “At least your mom doesn't try to out-teach the teacher.”

“True.” Frankie nods. “I almost felt bad for her.” She gives the tables in our section a quick once-over. “So where is Lillian the Librarian today, anyway?”

“Frankie,” I say with a sigh, shaking my head. “She skipped lunch to ask Ms. Hernandez for help on last night's math homework. I told her we'd meet up with her in social studies.”

The second I mention social studies, Frankie's eyes light up. She must have forgotten that it's Tuesday again. “Well then,” she says, quickly packing up her half-eaten chicken parm, “we'd better get going. We don't want to keep Lillian waiting, do we?”

Oh, man. Sometimes Frankie is a real “piece of work,” as my dad would say.

We have to stop at our lockers to drop off our lunch bags and grab our notebooks, so by the time we get to Mr. McEnroe's room, the door is already open and people are filing in. I can tell by the way Frankie
slams her books on the desk that she's annoyed at having missed out on her usual Tuesday tradition of ogling Mr. Mac before class.

I sit down next to her and then notice Lillian in the back of the room hunched over her math notebook. “Hey, Lillian,” I call. “Come sit with us!” She looks up, smiles, and starts to collect her things. Frankie slams another book, and I kick her gently—but firmly—in the shin.

Mr. McEnroe strolls past us on his way to shut the door. “Hello, girls,” he says (I can practically feel Frankie melting beside me). “It's great to see how well the three of you are working together.”

Frankie shoots Mr. Mac a smile that says,
Well, what did you expect?
while Lillian and I exchange a look and roll our eyes. I mean, I hope Lillian hasn't picked up on the extent of Frankie's snarkiness, but no way has she missed it entirely.

Mr. McEnroe makes his way to the front of the room. “I have some exciting news to share today. At
least I think it's exciting, and I hope you will too.”

Frankie nods vigorously in agreement, even though she has no idea what he's talking about.

“I've decided to add another component to our Immigration Museum project,” Mr. Mac continues. “Since we'll be inviting all of your parents to join us, I thought it might be fun to give them an assignment of their own. To make things even more festive and inclusive, I'm going to ask your parents to bring in a dish representative of their cultural heritage for everyone to share. We can call the whole event ‘Museum Night'!”

I look at Frankie and know what she's thinking: Thank goodness her dad knows how to make some amazing Italian food, because her mom is definitely not going to be allowed anywhere near the kitchen for this assignment.

Lillian is probably worrying that whatever traditional dish her mother decides to make will be so elaborate, it will outshine our own project.

And me? I'm wondering where my mom will find the time to whip up anything more “homemade” than microwave popcorn. I make a note in my homework folder to call my dad tonight. It would be so cool if he could come.

“DUDE, you are so dead!”

Man . . . that's just great. Goons. Here I am bringing Liza and Lillian over to start making some of the pieces of our project, and what are we greeted with as we enter the house but the unmistakable sound of thundering Goons. I motion for Liza and Lillian to come on in behind me. “Watch it, guys, I'm afraid we're not alone. Keep your eyes open for projectiles and your heads down.”

They both laugh like I'm kidding. I am
so
not.

We put our stuff down in the hallway as far as possible from the monstrous pile of backpacks and skateboards that, unfortunately, means everybody is home. I just can't win. I lead Liza and Lillian straight to the kitchen because there's no point in confronting the enemy on an empty stomach.

Oh, goodie, Dad and Nicky are already there. Deep breaths. Dad's presence can sometimes keep things under control.

They seem to be making something in a blender—very loudly.

“Hi, Dad,” I start over the noise, but Nicky has seen us already and, squealing with excitement, rushes over to Liza, one of his favorite people in the world. He launches into the plot of a comic book about Greek gods that he's reading. Not only does he love the Greek gods, he totally believes in them, and somewhere along the way he decided that Liza did too. She's super nice to him, way nicer than I am.

“Um, hi, Dad,” I say again. Still nothing. “DAD!” He shuts off the blender and turns around.

“Hello, ladies!” He's really charming, my dad, so that sounds less dorky than you'd think. “So nice to see you, Liza, and what's your name, kiddo?” I introduce him to Lillian, right away to avoid another lecture from Liza about being rude.

“Hi, Mr. Caputo,” they both say together, and then giggle. It's not that funny.

“Dad, remember how I said last night that we were coming here to work on our project? We just want to get a little food and start working.”

“Sure thing, hon, sure thing. We had a ton of super-ripe fruit, so it seemed like a good day for smoothies. Help yourselves. And the avocados were turning, so I made some guacamole earlier. Grab those corn chips on the counter and dig in. Your brothers already blew through here, which is why I hid a pitcher of the smoothies. They should clear out of your hair soon. I think I heard them
hunting down their gear for soccer practice.”

He starts piling up assorted dishes and cleaning the kitchen. My dad likes his domain to be “shipshape,” as he says.

Just then we hear another crash overhead, and this time the kitchen literally shakes. Liza and Lillian look around, probably wondering if we need to crawl under a table or something.

“Sorry, guys, that's just The Goons in motion. Let's grab some food and spread out at the dining room table. If we're lucky, they'll be out of here soon.”

While Nicky is still telling elaborate tales about Apollo and Hephaestus that nobody in their right mind could follow, I get our snacks together. Liza and Lillian are too nice to blow Nicky off, so I intervene. “Nicky! Cut it out. Right now! Nobody wants to hear it, okay?”

For a minute he just stares at me, and I think I can see tears in his eyes. I actually start to feel bad, but then he looks at Liza, who gives him one
of her biggest smiles. “Liza does.” Then he points to Lillian, who still appears to be listening to his nonsense too. “I like your new friend better than YOU, Frankie!”

Now that I have everything on a tray, I lead the way to the other room. “I can live with that.”

They help me push aside all the papers, folders, notices, mail, clean socks, and other stuff that collects, like dust, on our dining room table. I have no idea where it all comes from or how the six of us manage to eat here every day. I remember the serenity of Lillian's house, and I'm more than a little embarrassed.

“Sorry about that,” I say as I put out the snacks. “Nicky loves an audience.”

Liza turns back to pull the pocket doors closed behind us. “Totally okay, Franks. You know I think he's cute. At least he speaks in full sentences, which is more than I can say for my brother!”

Lillian steps on a LEGO and looks startled.
“Sorry, Lillian,” I tell her. “One of the hazards of Casa Caputo.”

“No, no, it's fine,” she says, carefully picking up the LEGO and setting it on a shelf. “I just don't want to break anything.”

“Oh, please,” I laugh. “Like they'd ever notice . . .” We attack the bowl of chips and guac and slurp down the smoothies. My dad definitely has a talent for whipping up something delicious out of whatever we happen to have around. Chances are he discovered the fruit in our smoothies buried under a pile of papers and minutes away from rotting, which is what inspired him to make them in the first place. No need to share my suspicions with Liza and Lillian, though.

Just as we're about to finally get down to work, the floor throbs and the pocket doors slam back into the walls. The Goons have arrived.

“Hey, girls! And Frankie! Whatcha doing?” Leo, my oldest brother, booms. He booms everything he says. He's permanently booming—Mom says he has
no volume control. Joey just grins and ransacks the place, like a really moronic robber.

“Ha-ha. What do you guys want? Dad promised you were out of here.”

“What? And leave you girls here alone and defenseless? Francesca, how could you suggest such a thing?” Leo snickers again and then socks Joey in the arm. “DUDE, what did you do with the schedule? AM I going to have to kill you?”

I notice that Liza is looking at him with a certain expression—and I recognize it. No way. No way does she think he's cute. Impossible. I won't allow it. Lillian, on the other hand, looks stunned, as though aliens have just landed in my dining room. Now,
that
is a normal reaction.

“Why don't you check the pocket in the master calendar?” I say, not caring if I sound like the know-it-all they say I am. “Isn't that where all that stuff is supposed to go so Mom and Dad can keep track of it?”

Leo scratches his head like a cartoon character,
making himself look even dumber than usual. “Duh, Frankie, why didn't we think of that? 'CAUSE IT'S NOT THERE, genius!”

Joey pulls a tattered sheet of paper from under the mail, waving it around like he's found the golden ticket. “Got it!”

Leo pumps his fist. “Yes!” He grabs his bag and then nods in our direction. “Later, gators. We're out!”

And then they're gone, as quickly as they came. Like the tornado in
The Wizard of Oz.

I shake my head. “They are so repulsive,” I say, and get up to close the doors again. “Now, where were we?”

“Frankie, you're so hard on your brothers,” Liza says. “All of them. I mean, they're not that bad. And at least it's never dull around here.”

Even Lillian agrees. “I thought your brothers were funny. My sister is so
not
funny. Or fun. She's just perfect, which can get really boring to be around.”

I give this some thought. For about half a second.

“Perfect
and
boring? I'll take it. My brothers are a nonstop disaster waiting to happen. You can try to be prepared, but it's never what you think. I spent practically the whole day on Sunday trying to get melted wax out of my clothes because some genius—who wasn't necessarily Nicky—left a crayon in his pocket that went through the laundry and melted all over the place. There were purple streaks on everything! And the whole time I was scrubbing my clothes with some nasty toxic ‘miracle' cleaner, all I did was wish I were an only child. But a perfect sister sounds pretty good too. Perfect sisters don't destroy everything in their path. Caputo Goons and Goon wannabes, on the other hand, do major damage before breakfast. Without even trying.”

Instead of feeling bad for me, Liza and Lillian are laughing their heads off. Silly me, expecting sympathy.

“Thanks for the support,” I say.
Geez.

When they finally get a hold of themselves, we actually do get down to work and start to tackle the
details of our project, like plotting out the dioramas and making supply lists. The best diorama, I think, will be the one about bagels. Everyone loves bagels, right? But does everyone know who brought them to America? I seriously doubt it. They were brought here by Eastern Europeans, Jews mostly, and sold on food carts in big cities. Why the holes? So they could be stacked up on poles attached to the carts, and when a customer wanted one, all the seller had to do was slide it off. Our diorama will have tiny little bagels being sold by tiny little peddlers in tiny little caps, in the middle of a crowded street scene from the turn of the last century. Thinking about how this is actually beginning to shape up into a real project, I start to feel better. “Awesome” is starting to seem possible, and I don't plan on handing in anything less than awesome to Mr. Mac.