“Do you think they will notice the missing food?” Katrina asks.
“Not if we clean up,” Meera replies as we walk into the kitchen. “If they don’t suspect anyone has been here, they won’t be on the lookout for missing items. And if they do notice, they will probably think they miscounted.”
“Besides, if we do get caught, we can tell them we were practicing our leadership skills,” Sarah adds. She hops onto the prep counter. “You know, taking charge to eliminate our unnecessary hunger.” She keeps her flashlight on so we don’t have to turn on the main lights. “The worst they will do is put us on kitchen duty. If they let Jenny cook, that might not be much of a punishment anyway.”
Sarah’s comment catches me off guard. I laugh so hard I double over. “You have never even tasted my cooking!” I say. “You only saw my sandwich and said it looked good.”
“Oh, it tasted good too,” Sarah says. “I could tell. And the faster you cook something now, the faster I can prove I know what I’m talking about.”
There is not a lot to choose from in the kitchen. But I do find stuff to make pancakes. I whisk the dry ingredients. Meera cracks in an egg while I add milk and melted butter. Sarah slices some bruised peaches we got from the walk-in fridge into a bowl. I cover the fruit with butter and cinnamon. Then I spoon it onto the hot griddle next to the bubbling pancake batter. When the pancakes are done, I load up the plates Meera set out and then top them with the cooked fruit. I squirt a bit of canned whipped cream on each pile and drizzle syrup over everything.
Everyone digs in, standing right there at the counter. No one says anything for a few mouthfuls. Then Katrina declares, “These are the best pancakes I have ever eaten!” She licks whipped cream from her fork.
“Told you I knew what I was talking about,” Sarah says with her mouth full of peach and pancake.
I shrug, trying not to feel too pleased. “It would be better with real cream and proper maple syrup,” I say.
Meera shakes her head. “No, it’s great,” she says. “Much better than what we ate for dinner. The others would be super jealous if they knew what we were doing. They would probably even be willing to pay you for this meal.”
“Hey, that’s an idea,” Sarah says as she picks a bit of peach from her braces. “You should cook at the farmers’ market. People always want to nibble while they’re shopping.”
“What?” I take a step backward and nearly burn my arm on the still-hot griddle. “No. I don’t cook in front of people.”
“You cooked in front of us,” Katrina says.
“That’s different,” I say.
“Why don’t you want to cook in front of other people?” Sarah asks.
I shrug my shoulders again and turn to start taking dishes to the sink. People tease me enough about my size without knowing how much I love cooking. I like the way I look. And I love the food I create. But it would be too easy to make fun of the big girl who feels most at home in the kitchen. I don’t want to be shamed about something I enjoy doing.
“Come on, let’s get these cleaned so we can get back to our cabin,” I say instead. The other girls are quiet for a minute. I can picture them sharing glances behind my back. But then they start helping me with the dishes. With four of us working, it doesn’t take long before everything is back where it belongs.
The kitchen has a rear exit that will lock behind us when we leave. But first we head back into the dining hall so we can lock the main door from the inside. As we pass one of the tables, Meera stops. She looks at something on the tabletop that we didn’t notice on our way in.
“What’s this?” she asks. She snatches up the paper.
“It’s the list of teams,” Sarah says. She stands on her toes to look over Meera’s shoulder. “Bonus! A good meal and early access to the list. Are we in the same group, Meera?”
“No, doesn’t look like any of us are together,” Meera says. She passes the list to Sarah. Sarah reads it over and passes it to Katrina. When she’s done she hands the paper to me.
“At least I don’t have to worry about making snacks for little kids,” Sarah says, giving Meera a playful punch on the shoulder.
“There aren’t any boys on my team,” Katrina says with a sigh. “Do you think they would let us switch?”
“I doubt it,” I say.
I search for my name, and my throat goes dry. I would gladly take Katrina’s place. I would gladly switch with anyone. One other girl and two boys are on my team. And one of those boys is Austin Parks.
It almost looks like a mistake to see my real name listed on the sheet. Austin’s going to hate being my teammate. It’s not my fault the counselors put us together. But he is going to blame me for it anyway. Which means that after tomorrow, no one is going to know who Jenny Royce is anymore.
My name might as well be listed as Jelly Roll.