Two envelopes were practically burning holes in my shorts pocket as Miyoko and I walked home from the last day of school. But I only mentioned one of them to Miyoko.
“Did Mrs. Ludwig give you an envelope on your way out of her room today?” I asked.
“No,” Miyoko said. “Why? Did she give you one?”
I nodded. “Zach got one, too—I was behind him in line, so I saw—and if Zach and I are the only kids who got one . . . well, you know it’s bad.”
Miyoko didn’t seem to disagree. “Let’s just open it like before—at least then you’ll know what you’re up against.”
I wasn’t sure.
“I’ll throw the envelope away at my house and you can just pretend there wasn’t one.”
“But what if it says something like, ‘If the seal on this envelope has been broken, the letter has been tampered with,’ that’d be very coplike, don’t you think?” I worried.
Miyoko laughed. “It doesn’t say that.”
I gave her a doubtful look.
“It doesn’t,” she insisted.
I decided Miyoko was probably right, pulled the envelope out of my pocket and unfolded it as we huddled up on the sidewalk to look at it.
The outside of the envelope read Fizzy Russo, not To the Parents of Fizzy Russo. It was for me. Huh. I sort of wished I’d looked at it sooner, but I made up for it now and ripped the envelope open:
Dear Fizzy,
As you probably realize, I have pushed hard and been tough, especially on you. What you may not realize is that I did this because nothing upsets me more than wasted potential. I knew you were an A student, making Bs when you should’ve been making As. So, I pushed for more, and you gave it. As a result, you have earned an A in math this semester.
I expect you to earn even more As next year, and have told your new math teacher so. Therefore, you can expect him to be tough on you, too. But know this: As long as he’s being tough on you, he believes in you. It’s when a teacher stops being tough on you, stops pushing you, that you should worry—because that’s when they’ve given up on you. But no one is going to give up on you, Fizzy, least of all me.
With great expectations,
Mrs. Ludwig
When I finished reading the letter, I had tears in my eyes, but I blinked them back quickly and said, “I’ve never had a math teacher who was a man before.”
Miyoko smiled knowingly, but didn’t comment on my tears or try to hug me or do anything to indicate that she’d noticed them—she is an excellent friend.
I stuffed Mrs. Ludwig’s letter back into my pocket and left the other envelope where it was. I didn’t want to tell Miyoko about that one—which was weird because I’d talked about receiving it almost nonstop until I did. I’d been waiting for it for months.
Then last night, there it was: an envelope with Southern Living written across the top left corner, sitting on my dresser. I knew—because of where I found it—that Keene had gotten it out of the mailbox, and I checked to make sure he hadn’t opened it and read it. He hadn’t. He hadn’t even read the outside of the envelope—apparently—because he never said a word about it. Neither did Mom. So, whatever the letter said, it was between Southern Living and me. Just the way I wanted it.
But then, for some reason, I couldn’t bring myself to open it. I mean, what if the letter said my recipes stunk? What if it said something like: Dear Miss Russo, We regret to inform you that not only have your recipes not qualified for the cook-off, they’ve made us sick. So we here at Southern Living magazine would like to take this opportunity to suggest that you try something other than cooking, Miss Russo . . . anything other than cooking. What then?
I wasn’t ready to give up on my dreams yet. I wasn’t ready to give up on the idea of winning the Southern Living Cook-Off. I wasn’t ready to give up on becoming a world-famous chef. And I certainly wasn’t ready to give up my television show!
I heard Mom somewhere in the back of my mind: “I can’t give up on my dream of having a family either,” she’d said. And I thought I’d understood, but now I really understood. I decided I’d try a little harder to be friendly with Keene—for Mom.
I slowed to a stop on the corner of Chrysanthemum Court, where Aunt Liz lives.
Miyoko stopped, too, and turned to me, wearing a puzzled look on her face.
“My room’s clean, and my mom needs to grocery shop, so I don’t have the ingredients to cook today. Plus, I don’t have any homework, so . . . I’m going to see Aunt Liz,” I announced.
Miyoko smiled. “Good.”
“Do you want to come with me?” I asked, hoping—just this once—that she’d say no.
“Can’t,” Miyoko said, suddenly looking grim. “Tiger mom’s waiting.”
“Another day, then—maybe tomorrow, since we don’t have school,” I said, hoping to cheer her up.
“Sure.” Miyoko nodded. “Fizzy, is everything okay?”
“Oh yeah,” I said, bobbing my head up and down. “I’m just tired, I guess. What about you? Is everything okay with you?”
Miyoko looked down at the sidewalk and seemed to be thinking.
I took a step toward her and whispered, “What is it?”
“My mom’s mad at me. It’s not like this is new. She gets mad at me all the time, but I never get used to it. It always stays with me and bugs me, you know?”
I nodded. “What happened?”
“She was upset that I gave her slippers for her birthday, because I gave her slippers for Christmas, too—I forgot. She said my gift lacked any real thought or effort, and was therefore lacking in love.”
My eyes bulged.
“My mom thinks I don’t love her, Fizzy,” Miyoko said, dabbing at the outer corner of one eye with her finger.
I wiggled out of my backpack, let it fall to the sidewalk, and put my arms around Miyoko. “Your mom knows you love her—she’s just mad. Please, come with me to Aunt Liz’s,” I said, and I meant it.
“I really can’t,” she said, holding on to me like her life depended on it.
“Okay,” I said. I gave her a few more seconds, then took a step back. “That’s okay. You do whatever you need to do.” I figured the very least I could do for Miyoko was not add more pressure.
“Thanks,” was all Miyoko said. Then she sniffed and added, “Tell Aunt Liz I said hi.”
• • •
I knocked and pushed through Aunt Liz’s front door, letting myself in.
“Here! Here! I’m back here!” an excited voice called from the sunroom.
Aunt Liz met me in the doorway off the kitchen, where she smiled an electric smile that seemed to spark from the tippy-top of her head right down to her little toes. She threw her arms around me and said, “Oh, Fizzy! You’re here! I’m so happy to see you! I’ve missed you!”
This was the exact opposite of the tired what-now? reaction I often got when I walked into a room. It made me feel happy, so happy that I couldn’t even remember why I’d ever been upset with Aunt Liz. And I didn’t try. Instead, I breathed in the foody scents from the kitchen, the flowery scents from the sunroom, and the fruity scents of Aunt Liz’s hair and perfume and let the homey feelings wash over me.
Aunt Liz pulled back from the hug to look at me. “Where’ve you been? Are you okay? Are we okay?”
“Yes. And yes,” I said. “Just busy.”
Aunt Liz hugged me again and said, “I wish I’d known you were coming! I would’ve made Benedictine!”
“That’s okay,” I said. “It doesn’t matter.” And it really didn’t, because right now I didn’t need Benedictine; all I needed was Aunt Liz.
Of course, Aunt Liz poured me some sweet tea anyway—which never hurts—and I followed her back out to the sunroom. Aunt Liz settled into the cushy rocking chair that offers the best view of her rose garden. I sat down in the rocker beside hers. “Well? Tell me everything!” Aunt Liz said. “What’ve you been up to? Oh! Was today your last day of school? How was it?”
“Fine,” I said.
Aunt Liz smiled and watched a fat bumblebee buzzing around her pink roses. “How’s Miyoko?”
“Um . . . well . . . ,” I said, thinking about Miyoko and her tiger mom—who had graduated to monster mom in my opinion. I mean, what kind of person complains about a present? Aren’t gifts always good?—like cakes?—and chocolate? I began rocking at a furious pace. I wanted to tell Aunt Liz about Miyoko’s problem, only I knew I couldn’t because it wasn’t mine to share or not share—it didn’t belong to me.
Aunt Liz turned and looked at me expectantly.
“Miyoko’s fine.” I stopped rocking, fished the unopened envelope out of my right pocket, and handed it to her.
Aunt Liz stopped rocking, too, unfolded the envelope, and turned it over. “Fizzy! You haven’t even opened this!”
“You open it for me,” I pleaded, “and if it says really mean things, don’t tell me those parts.”
Aunt Liz laughed a nervous laugh. Then she tore the envelope open and scanned the paper, reading quickly.
Still, I could hardly stand it.
Finally, she looked up at me with soft, understanding eyes.
My heart dropped into my stomach, my throat tightened, and I could feel tears gathering behind my eyes.
Aunt Liz broke into a big smile. “Russo Lasagna has made it into the final cook-off!”
I bolted up out of my chair and Aunt Liz did, too. We hugged and jumped up and down together and I said over and over again, “Great gravy! I can’t believe it!”
When we started to calm down, I looked at Aunt Liz and said once more, “I just can’t believe it! Can you?”
She smiled. “I can believe it, Fizzy. I’m not even that surprised.”
I thought that was just about the nicest thing anybody had ever said to me.
Aunt Liz grabbed the long spoon from her iced tea glass, turned it upside down, and held it under my mouth like a microphone. “So,” she said, “Fizzy Russo, now that you’ve qualified for the Southern Living Cook-Off, what are you going to do?”
“I’m going to Disney World!” I hollered, like people do on TV.
Aunt Liz and I laughed and laughed.
I read the letter twice. Then I read it again:
Dear Miss Russo:
We are pleased to inform you that your recipe for Russo Lasagna as entered in the Southern Living Cook-Off has qualified you as one of the top finalists in the Family Favorites category, making you eligible to compete in the Southern Living Cook-Off, which will take place on July 11, before a live audience, in Charleston, South Carolina . . .