Kitchen Chaos (6 page)

We all stare silently as my dad enters my room, looking like Bigfoot after a rough night in the forest. It's gotten really crowded in here with all of us squeezed into this microscopic space, and with Dad's arrival, the atmosphere becomes tense. His large hazel eyes are usually welcoming, but right now they're all bloodshot and puffy. He glares at each of us with a look that says,
This had better be good,
until his gaze lands on Mom on the floor, still stuck under Nicky, who, for some reason known only to his bizarre seven-year-old brain, has not budged from on top of her.

Then something completely weird and unexpected happens: Like one of The Goons, my dad bursts into hysterics, barely able to control himself long enough to help my mom off the floor. Of course, Nicky, Leo, and Joey join in too, and Rocco starts his crazy barking again. Everyone is laughing (and barking) like total nerds, except for Mom and me.

My mom straightens the giant T-shirt that's her version of a nightgown and smoothes her hair as she stands up. She still has major bed head, but this definitely isn't the time to mention it.

“So,” she says, and the boys and Dad all try to control their laughter, “if you are all
quite
finished . . . do you still want waffles, Nicky? Who else wants breakfast?” She looks at us expectantly as we all exchange looks that say,
Oh no!

Dad puts his arm around Mom's shoulders and gives them a squeeze. “I'll take care of breakfast, honey,” he says. “Why don't you go and take a nice, long shower?”

“Come on,” my mom says, shrugging off his arm. “I can make breakfast. Right, guys?”

I manage to hold in a giggle, but The Goons just crack up again.

“Ma,” Leo croaks—he's fifteen, so his voice is changing, and everything he says sounds like it's coming from the bullfrog pond at the children's zoo—“leave it to Dad. You dumped the spaghetti all over your foot last night when you were trying to drain it, remember? We had to keep it in a tub of ice water all night and eat frozen pizza. There wasn't even enough for all of us, and I think I ate a whole box of cereal, too.”

Who is he kidding? He
always
eats whole boxes of cereal.

My dad looks alarmed. “Hon, your foot? I knew I should have heated up something for you guys before I
headed out to my shift.” Mom rolls her eyes and waves him away impatiently.

“No way Mom's cooking!” Nicky yells. “You burn everything!”

“Or undercook it,” adds Joey. “Remember that French toast she made on your birthday, Nicky? You stuck your fork in and the eggs oozed out all over your plate. Like alien guts!” Joey runs his hands all over Nicky's face like slimy egg yolks, which makes the little squirt scream. Again. I want them out of my room. Like, now.

“Her oatmeal's not bad,” Leo squawks. “You know, if you like your oatmeal cold and crunchy.”

Mom puts her hand on her hip. “Ha-ha. Very funny,” she says. “You know that only happened once.”

We all look at her like she's nuts.

“Okay, maybe twice. But I'm much better at it now and you know it.”

I try to think of something supportive—but not
too
supportive—to say, but before I have the chance, Joey pushes by me on his way to the door. “Sorry, Ma,” he says, patting her head like she's a little girl, “but your cooking is the worst. Nice bed head, though.”

My dad gives Joey a smack on his butt as he heads toward the bathroom. “Hey, don't talk to your mother like that!” Dad calls after him, but you can tell from his eyes that his heart isn't in it. I'm pretty sure it's taking all of his strength to keep from laughing again.

“Mom can't cook,” Nicky says matter-of-factly, handing my dad the maple syrup and dragging him out toward the stairs. “I want Pop's waffles!”

“Okay, then,” says Dad. “Waffles it is! Get yourselves dressed and meet me in the kitchen in fifteen.”

Everyone leaves my room at last, except for my mom, who's giving me a look. “Even you, Frankie?” she says. “It's just us two girls around here. We're supposed to stick up for each other.”

“Sorry, Mom.” I shrug. “I know you really like to cook in theory, but maybe . . . well, maybe you just need more practice.”

I feel kind of bad for her, so in a move that's totally out of character for me, I give my mom a kiss on the cheek. Then I squeeze past her through the door in search of an empty bathroom. With six people sharing only two full bathrooms, showering is a competitive sport in our house.

“How am I supposed to get any practice,” my mom calls after me, “if no one around here ever lets me cook?”

It's not until the middle of my shower, while I'm making a tower of my suds-filled hair, that I remember Liza's text about her big idea. Suddenly, I can't wait to get to first period, even though it's math. I make a mental note to bring Liza some of my dad's waffles, if there are any left over.

If I were a middle-school principal, I would make a rule against first-period math class. Seriously, whose brain can handle something as totally confusing as pre-algebra at eight fifteen? Not mine, although there isn't actually any time of day when pre-alg makes much sense to me. Unlike my sister, Katie, I've never been very good at math. You know that stereotype about all Asians being math whizzes? Well, I'm living proof that it's definitely
not
true. My
best subjects are creative writing and art, which isn't terribly impressive to my scientist parents or Katie, the junior genius.

This morning I drag myself to the overly bright math classroom early to spend a few extra minutes going over the homework sheet. Liza must have had the same idea, because she's already there huddled over the handout when I walk in. Even though Liza was just at my house yesterday, we're not technically friends (yet), and I feel weird taking the seat right next to her. I decide to sit down behind her instead.

“Hi,” I say as I walk past Liza's desk.

She looks up. “Hey!” she says. “Did you finish the assignment? I can't believe how hard it was.”

I take out my half-done homework. “Not exactly. I'm sort of mathematically challenged.”

“Yeah,” says Liza, “I think I am too.”

This is totally untrue. Liza is one of the best students in the class and I bet she got every problem on
the homework right. Unlike my sheet, which is covered in scratch-out and eraser marks, Liza's still looks fresh from the printer, with a neatly written answer in every blank.

It dawns on me that Ms. Hernandez is not at her desk at the front of the room, which is definitely unusual. “Do you think we have a substitute?” I ask.

Liza's eyes widen. “Oh, man,” she says. “That would be too good to be true.”

For a minute it looks like Liza is right as the door to the classroom begins to open. But instead of Ms. Hernandez, it's Frankie, carrying a big Tupperware container and a bottle of maple syrup.

“There you are!” she says to Liza. “I've been standing at your locker for, like, ten years.” Frankie plops the container and syrup on Liza's desk and dumps the rest of her stuff on the next seat over.

“Try ten minutes,” Liza says with laugh. She eagerly examines the Tupperware that has suddenly appeared in front of her. “What the heck is this?”

“Leftovers from breakfast at my house,” Frankie says. “My dad's waffles. Luckily, The Goons had morning track practice, or there wouldn't have been any left.”

“Yum,” says Liza, opening the container. “But how am I supposed to eat them?”

Frankie points at Liza's desk. “With a pencil, Einstein, what do you think?”

Liza raises her eyebrows and looks at me. I don't know Frankie well enough yet to tell if she's joking, so I just give a little shrug.

“Kidding!” Frankie laughs. She digs into her bag and pulls out a fork. “Here. You might want to wipe it off before you use it—Nicky's been known to hide his ‘discoveries' in my backpack.”

“Wow, thanks,” Liza says. She takes the fork from Frankie and digs into the waffles. After a bite or two she turns to me. “You've gotta try these, Lillian. Frankie's dad's waffles are practically famous.”

Frankie looks up and seems to notice me for the
first time since she walked in. “Oh hi, Lillian. Yeah, sure, have a bite.”

I stab a little pile of waffles and try to look normal as I stuff the whole forkful in my mouth.
Wow
. I close my eyes and savor its sweet deliciousness.

“Yum,” I say. “I can see why these are famous.”

Frankie rolls her eyes. “They're only famous in her mind.” She turns back to Liza. “Speaking of your mind, what's this ‘big idea'?” she asks, making air quotes when she says it. “I can't take the suspense one second longer!”

Liza puts down her fork and takes her time chewing her last bite.

“C'mon,” Frankie says. “Swallow already!”

Liza takes a long sip from her water bottle to wash down the waffles. I can tell she's enjoying making Frankie wait for whatever it is she's going to tell her. I know it's none of my business, but now I'm really curious about Liza's big idea too.

“So,” Liza leans in toward Frankie, “you know
how I'm sort of obsessed with that cooking show on Channel 16?”

“You mean the one with the really cute Spanish chef?” asks Frankie.

“Yeah, yeah.
Antonio's Kitchen
,” says Liza. “And Spanish people are from Spain, brainiac. Chef Antonio is Cuban.”

I hold in a giggle because I don't want Liza and Frankie to think I'm eavesdropping. Even though I sort of am.

“Anyway . . .,” says Frankie.

“So, anyway,” Liza continues, “I was watching it last night after I got home, and during the show an ad came on for an
Antonio's Kitchen
cooking class—right here in Brooklyn.”

Frankie nods her head but looks as though she's still not sure what Liza is getting at.

“The class is called American Cooking 101,” says Liza, “and it's about how most of the stuff we eat in the United States actually came from other places.
Like, when it comes to food, America really is a giant melting pot.”

Frankie looks disappointed. “So your big idea is that you're going to take a cooking class with your celebrity chef crush?”

Liza shakes her head. “Uh-uh,” she says, and then smiles like she's about to give Frankie a present. “My big idea is that
we
are going to take a cooking class with my celebrity chef crush.” When she says “we,” Liza draws a line in the air between herself and Frankie and then—I can hardly believe it—turns around and continues the invisible line until she's pointing directly at me.

Did Liza actually just include
me
in this big plan? I blush and try to act like I've been concentrating on my math sheet rather than their conversation.

“Um, did you say something?” I ask, hoping I don't sound as excited as I feel.

Frankie looks from Liza to me and then back again, as if to say,
Her?

“Guys,” Liza says, jumping up from her chair, “my big idea is for our project! The class is about all the different kinds of foods that make up American cooking. And guess who brought them here? Immigrants! Every group of immigrants had to eat, right? And they each brought their own style of cooking with them. So we'll take the class and then use what we learn to do a project about immigration and food!”

Liza plops back into her seat, as if explaining her big idea to us wore her out.

Frankie scrunches up her forehead and straddles her chair. If ever there was a look that said,
I'm thinking,
this is it.

Liza raises her eyebrows at us. “So?”

“Interesting,” says Frankie. “Not exactly what I was expecting, but definitely interesting.”

“Interesting good or interesting bad?” Liza asks.

“I think it's a great idea!” I practically shout, as if we were talking about a trip to Six Flags instead of a school project. Since my mom refuses to let anyone
touch her precious pots and pans, I have basically zero cooking experience. But taking a class with Liza and Frankie is guaranteed to be more fun than anything else I could be doing instead. I have exactly nothing planned for the next six years.

Liza seems pleased with my gung-ho response, but Frankie keeps talking to Liza as if I'm not sitting two feet away from her. “Well,” she says, “it does work pretty perfectly with the assignment.”

“And,” says Liza, like she's about to plop the cherry on top of an ice-cream sundae, “you know Mr. McEnroe is a major foodie, so our topic would definitely impress him, don't you think?”

Frankie's eyes get really wide and practically sparkle. “Oh, Lize, that's so true! You're a total genius!” Then she turns to me and the sparkle fades. “But we don't
all
need to take the class, do we? I mean, can't whoever takes the class just tell whoever doesn't all about it? I mean, it doesn't seem like everyone needs to do everything. . . .”