Aunt Liz and I were the ones running late on Thursday evening. It turned out that making individual cheese soufflés— a possibility for the Party Starters category of the cook-off—was a little more time-consuming, complicated, and difficult than we’d thought. We’d stirred and whipped and beaten our hearts out. We’d even made little tinfoil collars for our soufflés, to keep their heads from spilling over and running down the sides of their cups. And when we finally put them in the oven, we’d kept a close watch. They’d risen to form perfect little golden peaks. So we pulled them out of the oven. Right away, the peaks sank back down into the cups, even as I commanded them, “No, no, no, no, no—don’t do that!”
Aunt Liz gave me a sympathetic look.
“Can we put them back in the oven?” I asked her.
“Afraid not. They’re done for. We’ll have to start over tomorrow.”
My heart sank soufflé style as a car horn honked twice—beep! beep!—outside.
For once, I was glad that Mom had been running late, too—because she doesn’t like to hang around Aunt Liz’s house waiting for me. We went straight to school.
I left Mom at my homeroom door and headed for the gym, where all the students were gathering. I skittered past our music teacher, Mrs. Gita, before she could see me—and place me—and placed myself next to Miyoko on one of the three risers.
Miyoko smiled and said, “She’s not going to let you stay here—you’re too tall.”
“We’ll see,” I said. Then I scanned faces, looking for Zach. He wasn’t there yet.
Zach was the last student Mrs. Gita placed on the risers. When she stepped back to look, I bent my knees to make myself the same height at Miyoko.
It worked. Soon the gym was filled with singing. Once, Zach caught me staring at him, but I looked away—quick. Twice, we practiced the songs we were going to sing for our parents to end Parents’ Night. Then parents started showing up.
Now, the best part of the actual performance—for me at least—was when Buffy Lawson fell off her riser. I mean, one minute she was standing there singing, and then SPLAT! She was on the floor! I didn’t dare look at Miyoko, but I grabbed her hand and squeezed like, Great gravy! She squeezed back like, I know!
A few teachers and other adults rushed forward to see to Buffy, while Mrs. Gita’s hands continued dancing up and down as she stood in front of us. Keep singing, she mouthed. Keep singing! So we did.
Mrs. Sloan—the gypsy guidance counselor—helped Buffy to her feet just as our last song ended. The gym exploded in applause. I’m pretty sure Buffy thought the applause was for her because she smiled a shy smile and waved at the audience. Yeah, right. I mean, when you get up out of bed in the morning, do people clap for you? No, because let’s face it: The ability to stand up isn’t exactly awe inspiring.
• • •
I’d just said good-bye to Miyoko and her parents and was looking for Mom when Christine Cash came up to me chewing pink bubble gum like it was her only purpose in life. (I’m not allowed to chew gum because Mom says it isn’t ladylike.)
Christine said, “Is it true that Miyoko Hoshi is a black belt in karate?” Chaw. Chaw. Chaw.
I started to smile but caught myself, and instead met her eyes with my own very serious ones. “Yeah,” I said. “She knows three ways to kill a grown man instantly with her bare hands—they’re like . . . weapons.”
Christine’s eyes flew open wide and she gasped. Then she had a little coughing fit—she’d nearly choked on her bubble gum.
“Um, are you okay?” I asked.
“Fine,” she said before she scurried away.
Note to self: Chewing gum is not only unattractive, it’s dangerous!
I spotted Mom by the piano, talking with Mrs. Gita. I made my way over to them and then wished I hadn’t. Mom was trying to sell Mrs. Gita advertising in the newspaper!
Here’s the thing: It was Mom’s job to sell advertising in the newspaper and that was fine. The problem was that she was always trying to sell advertising, even when she wasn’t at work. Whenever Mom met somebody new, her first question was where they worked and how the company advertised. It was pretty embarrassing.
I gave Mom a look like, Please stop.
“Fizzy, how would you like to take piano lessons?!” Mom said enthusiastically, as if she were offering me a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.
“Um . . . I don’t know,” I said, giving Mrs. Gita an apologetic smile.
“We’ll discuss it—I’m sure Fizzy would love piano lessons,” Mom told Mrs. Gita.
Someone tapped me on the shoulder. I turned.
“Hi,” Zach said.
“Oh, hi.” I felt fluttery feelings in my stomach, but not like sickness—like something else. Then I realized Mom was staring at us. “Mom, this is my friend Zach Mabry. Zach, this is my mom.”
“A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Russo,” Zach said. “I can see where Fizzy gets her good looks.”
My mouth fell open. Good looks? He thinks I have good looks?
Mom must’ve been thinking the same thing because she raised one—very suspicious—eyebrow at Zach.
He showed her his teeth.
“Well, we’d better get going,” Mom said to me, and then she said to Zach, “It was very . . . interesting meeting you.”
“You too,” Zach said to Mom’s back.
• • •
It had turned dark outside and the wind stung my face with cold. Mom and I ducked our heads and hurried to the car.
As soon as we were inside with the doors shut, I said, “I don’t want to take piano lessons.”
Mom ignored me and turned the heat on full blast. As she backed out of the parking space, she said, “Mrs. Gita is thinking of advertising piano lessons with us, so we’re thinking of taking piano lessons with her—that’s the way the world works.”
“Well, I was thinking of taking karate lessons,” I said, feeling very . . . kicky.
No answer.
Just to be clear, I added, “I definitely want to learn karate.”