The world’s LARGEST MACARONI AND CHEESE record was set in New Orleans in 2010. It was 2,469 pounds of gooey goodness. My family uses the same recipe—scaled down—on Tuesdays.
Usually the mac ’n’ cheese is perfect. Today, it’s on fire. Literally.
As soon as I walk through the door of my house, the hazy living room attacks me. The smell burns my throat and makes me cough.
“Mom? Dad?” I yell, but they don’t answer.
I throw down my backpack and run into the kitchen right as the alarm starts screaming.
Smoke streams out of the top of the oven. The flames light up on the other side of the glass door.
“Mom!” I yell louder this time. “Dad!”
“Get back, Milo!” Mom yells, running into the kitchen.
Dad is right behind her. The alarm still blares.
“It’s on fire!” Mom says when she sees the oven.
“Don’t open it!” Dad says. He steps up onto a chair and then onto the kitchen table.
“Dad! What are you doing?”
He plows into the middle of Toilet Paper Tower. The entire top half tumbles to the floor.
Dad burrows through the middle of the bottom half. He has obviously lost his mind.
“Call 911,” I say over the noise.
Mom has her phone in her hand. She looks around in a panic. “But I don’t want anybody else to see the kitchen like this. It’s a mess.”
“Almost… got it,” Dad says. His voice is muffled. We can’t see him anymore. He’s in the center of the Tower.
Then he busts out the other side with a fire extinguisher in his hands. The rolls scatter. Some skid over the top of the table and land at my feet.
He puts the extinguisher between his knees and pulls the pin out of the top. “Okay. When I count to three, open the door of the oven and stand back!”
“That’ll ruin dinner,” Mom yells over the alarm. “All that good cheese.”
“Mom! It’s on fire!” I grab the handle of the oven.
“One. Two. Three!”
I yank open the door and rush out of the way. Dad sprays the extinguisher and a white cloud fills the entire oven—though honestly, when I opened the door there was only a tiny flame on top of the charred mac ’n’ cheese.
But the fire is definitely out now.
The air is foggy. Fine white powder lands on the countertops and the floor. Finally, the alarm stops.
Dad steps back to survey the oven. He lifts the nozzle and gives one more squirt before he puts the fire extinguisher next to his feet, wipes his hand across his forehead, and says, “I guess it’s pizza night.”
“We should charge it to Mr. Amondo,” Mom says. “And make him clean up this mess.”
“Wait. What? Why my principal?”
“Because this is his fault.” She holds up the phone. “We were talking to him, and he distracted us. He called. Just to tell us something ridiculous.”
Dad starts stacking the toilet paper rolls. “He says your absences for record breaking will no longer be excused.”
“As if he can make that call!” Mom shakes her head. She sets the phone on the counter and starts scooping up the white powder in her hands.
“He said if you miss more school, we’ll have to go to truancy court or you’ll have to repeat the grade.” Dad doesn’t seem mad—more resigned maybe.
“Ridiculous!” Mom flings the powder into the kitchen sink.
“We’ll figure something out,” Dad says.
I try to stop the shaking in my voice when I ask, “How did he even know about the records?”
Dad lifts his hands. “He just kept repeating, ‘It has come to my attention.’”
“Well,” Mom says. “It’s come to my attention that all three of us will march in there tomorrow and we will tell him this is not okay.”
“Please, no.”
Mom shakes her head. “This is just unacceptable. They can’t tell us that you can’t miss school. You’re our child.”
If I walk in with them tomorrow, Mr. Amondo will definitely let them know I tipped him off. I’m not ready for that. Plus, it won’t do any good. They’ll still make me do the records. I need them to think it is their idea they quit.
“You can go to Kansas. Do the record thing. I’ll stay here. He’s probably just worried because I’m behind in school anyway. Almost failing, actually.”
Dad frowns. “Milo, you know you can’t stay home alone. And since when are you failing?”
“Almost failing. I just have to do some makeup work. I’ll stay at Allie’s,” I say before considering that staying with my sister also means staying with Jesse.
“Your principal should not be able to tell us what our family can and cannot do,” Mom says. She steps forward like she’s ready to go talk to him right now.
“But if I end up failing, you’ll prove him right. Here.” I take my phone out of my pocket and dial Allie’s number. When she answers, I say, “Can I stay with you Friday and Saturday night?”
I give my parents a thumbs-up when she says yes.
Dad holds out his hand. “Let me talk to her.”
Five minutes later, it is official. My sister has saved me. Surely I can ignore Jesse for two days. We’ve barely noticed each other for the past two weeks.