Señora Mendoza keeps a hand on the doorknob and her eyes on the clock. At precisely three minutes past nine she closes the door with a firm click. ‘Summer’s over, people. Time to get to work.’ She crosses the room on her toes, like a ballroom dancer, and repeats her point in Spanish. ‘Hora de trabajar.’
I can tell by the way she rolls her R’s that she learnt Spanish at home as a kid. I’d respect her more if she’d learnt the hard way, like us, or taught German. But I’m looking for flaws. I expect to hate everything here, from the teachers to the cafeteria fries. It smells worse than my old school, too – like perfume mixed with sweat and chalk dust.
The door opens again and a guy with unruly brown hair blocks the entrance. Even without the football jersey, you’d know he’s a jock from the build and the confident smile. I suppose he’s good-looking, if you’re into big guys with small heads. Some girls must be, because I can hear giggles behind me.
‘Sorry, Ms. Mendoza,’ the guy says.
‘Fletcher,’ she says, ‘aquí, se habla español.’
‘Disculpe el retraso, Señora.’ The words slip easily off Fletcher’s tongue. He’s used to apologising for being late.
A girl steps out from behind Fletcher and repeats, ‘Disculpe el retraso.’ She’s all sharp edges, but somehow still pretty. Great hair makes up for anything.
Señora Mendoza rolls her eyes at the girl’s pronunciation. ‘Siéntese, Hollis. Mañana, llegue a tiempo.’
‘Excuse me?’ Hollis asks. Her highlights shimmer as she tilts her head.
‘I said, be on time tomorrow.’ The teacher points to the empty seat to my right.
Hollis lifts her right hand, which is clasped in Fletcher’s left. ‘We always sit together.’
Señora Mendoza points to the empty desk on my left.
‘Let me introduce you to Zahra MacDuff. She’ll be sitting between the two of you this year.’
‘But, Señora—’ Hollis tries again.
The teacher cuts her off with a stamp of a high heel. ‘Siéntese. Por favor.’
Fletcher releases Hollis’s hand and they walk down the rows on either side of me. Dumping his backpack on the floor with a thud, Fletcher slides into his seat and turns to stare at me with eyes the color of a stagnant pond. Meanwhile, Hollis stands over me for a moment, hoping I’ll volunteer my seat.
I knew starting tenth grade at Austin High would be tough. Hollis and Fletcher seem to rank pretty high in the sophomore chain of command, and the way I react now could make or break my year.
Still, I got to class fifteen minutes early to stake my claim on exactly the right desk – second row in from the window, five rows from the front. I assumed (wrongly, as it turns out) that this was the perfect place to be overlooked. If I give it up now, will it say I’m a loser who’s desperate to please? Or will it say I’m a team player?
I stare down at Hollis’s flip-flops as I ponder. Her toenails are polished a deep metallic blue embellished with tiny daisies. She has rings on four toes.
Finally I look up. ‘Take—’
‘—the empty seat, Hollis,’ Señora interrupts. ‘Now.’
Hollis’s flip-flops turn and she drops her purse, her backpack, and another bag to the floor, each landing a little closer to my feet. Finally she settles into her seat and crosses her legs. Five little daisies bob into my sight line to remind me I’m in trouble. Fletcher’s swampy eyes are still boring into me from the other side.
Obviously, indecision was the wrong decision. I should have gotten my butt out of this seat and laid a red carpet for Hollis. I’m always a beat late. It’s the story of my life.
I let my hair fall forward, grateful for the cover of the mass of red curls that polite people call auburn. I wish I could go back to my old school. Mom would be glad to have me at home, but I’ve vowed not to return while my grandparents are there.
When they flew in from Pakistan last spring, I had no idea their visit would push my family over the edge. Mom had barely spoken to them since they’d disowned her for marrying a Scottish-American instead of what my sister and I secretly call an MOT – a Member of the Tribe. My parents’ marriage may not have been solid, but it was holding together until my grandparents put down roots in my bedroom. Mom talked less and less and Dad worked more and more, until July, when Dad finally realised he wasn’t wanted and moved out. I went with him, partly to make a grand statement, and partly to divide and conquer. My sister, Saliyah, is working the reunion angle at Mom’s end.
At first I thought living downtown was kind of cool, and I went back to Anderson Mill a lot over the summer to visit my best friends, Shanna and Morgan. Now that I’m in school and working part-time, I won’t be able to tackle the one-and-a-half-hour bus ride as often. I feel homesick and friend-sick. Too bad grand statements don’t come with back doors.
Señora Mendoza turns to the board. ‘Let’s start by reviewing some verbs you learnt last year. Suggestions?’
I start conjugating in my notebook:
I hate it here.
You hate it here.
She hates it here.
He hates it here.
We hate it here.
They hate it here.
It’s unanimous. But that doesn’t change the fact that I’m stuck between a jock and a hard face for another forty-two minutes.
Luckily, I’m easily distracted.
The classroom recedes as I drift to the set of my imaginary cooking show, The Sweet Tooth. Normally, I come here to escape my worries, but today I have something exciting on the agenda. Since Dad is out of town till late, I’ve decided to invite Rico over. Tonight will be the very first time I’ve ever …
‘Really? Your first time?’ Oliver James, celebrity chef and a frequent guest on my show feigns surprise. He leans against the granite counter and crosses his arms. ‘You seem so … experienced.’
‘Thanks – I think.’ Oliver gets away with murder because of his impish smile and English accent. ‘This is definitely a first, and Rico is special.’
‘Cracking, is he?’
I nod. ‘He’s just … perfect. So I need tonight to be perfect, too. That’s why I called you.’
‘Brilliant,’ Oliver says. ‘But are you sure you’re ready for this, pet?’
Rico and I have been seeing each other for exactly nine weeks, although it seems longer. He’s not only incredibly hot; he’s sweet and thoughtful, too. I’ve never felt this way about a guy before, and I want to take it to the next level.
‘Yeah,’ I say, ‘I’m ready. But I’m a bit nervous.’
‘Don’t worry; no one knows her way around a kitchen better than you do.’ He walks over to the chalkboard I use to share the day’s food plan with my viewers and writes: GET NAKED MENU.
‘Oliver! I’m cooking for Rico, that’s all.’
He turns and cocks an eyebrow. ‘I thought you wanted a little rumpy bumpy. I’m setting the stage.’
The older ladies in the audience murmur disapprovingly. I’m the youngest girl in the country to have her own cooking show, and as much as they adore Oliver, they don’t want him leading me down the wrong path.
‘This is about love, not sex,’ I say. ‘All I want to do is talk to Rico about our relationship.’
There’s a relieved sigh from the audience, but Oliver looks horrified. ‘Flippin’ heck. You’re too young to be playing Happy Families.’
‘I’m not pretending we’re married,’ I say, striking through Oliver’s words and writing ROMANTIC DINNER À DEUX. ‘But I want to tell him how I feel and find out if he feels the same way.’
‘Bollocks,’ Oliver says. ‘Let him tell you how he feels when he’s ready.’
‘But I’m ready now, and I communicate best through my cooking.’
On the board, I sketch out my dinner menu: oysters on the half shell, steak au poivre, baked potatoes, and chocolate volcano cake.
‘You’re off your trolley,’ Oliver says, mussing his permanently mussed hair. ‘Mollusks are about as useful as a chocolate teapot in the romance department, and steak is too heavy. The point is to throw something casual together. If it looks like you’ve been fannying around for hours, he’ll run for the hills. It’s like asking for a commitment.’
I lean against the stainless steel refrigerator. ‘You’re underestimating Rico. Besides, I just want him to say I’m his girlfriend.’
‘Then trust me on this: Make it easy-peasy. No oysters, no candles, no rose petals, no frills.’ On the board he writes PENNE ALLA ARRABBIATA AND STRAWBERRIES.
‘But dessert’s my specialty,’ I whine.
‘You don’t need the aggro.’ Oliver lifts the lid off a pot of simmering sauce and fills the air with the aroma of tomato, herbs, and garlic. ‘Pump up the heat with this, and Romeo will be on his knees under your balcony. And you, unlike Juliet, may live happily ever after.’
‘So you’re saying I should deny every romantic impulse I have?’
‘Correct. Do exactly the opposite of what you want to do. Hear me?’
Oliver’s hand drops onto my shoulder and squeezes. Hard.
Only it can’t be Oliver’s hand, because he doesn’t have long nails like daggers.
Señora Mendoza does. I see them as she picks up my notebook and reads aloud to the class: “Get Naked Menu: pasta arrabbiata and strawberries. Or … Romantic Dinner à Deux: oysters on the half shell, steak au poivre with baked potatoes, and chocolate volcano cake.”
She rolls every R suggestively, making it sound far worse than it actually is. Hollis is laughing so hard her toes are clenched to keep her flip-flops on.
Señora Mendoza drops the notebook onto my desk. ‘I recommend keeping your clothes on, especially near a hot stove. In the meantime, Zahra, conjugate to listen. En español, por favor.’
I do it, noticing that my voice sounds like it belongs to someone else – someone who knows she’s committed social suicide. Then I let my hair swallow me whole until the bell rings twenty-nine minutes later.
Hollis is smiling when I emerge, happy that I’ve saved her the trouble of kicking me to the bottom of the school food chain.
Fletcher is smiling too, but he seems intrigued. ‘Go with the steak,’ he says, in a faux whisper. ‘But getting naked wouldn’t hurt, either.’
Hollis stands and pushes past me, hitting my head with her bags – one, two, three. She pulls Fletcher to his feet, and he gives me a thumbs-up as they leave.
Austin High, I’ve arrived.
Cooking at Mom’s is a combat sport. There are too many people with too many opinions sticking their spoons where they don’t belong. Cooking at Dad’s, on the other hand, is virtually impossible. The apartment’s kitchenette was designed for reheating frozen food, not making romantic dinners. Even if there was more room, Dad has refused to buy me a set of basic kitchen equipment. He actually suggested I carry my blender back and forth from Mom’s on the two-bus commute. You’d think he’d be more supportive, knowing my goal is to become a celebrity pastry chef.
Luckily, my twelve-year-old sister, Saliyah, is easily bribed. In exchange for her getting Mom and my grandparents out of the house for three hours, I promised to do all her homework for a week. Three hours is plenty of time to make the arrabbiata sauce, dip the strawberries in chocolate (still easy-peasy), and be on my way.
The stresses of the day fade as I set out my magical glass mixing bowls, a complete rainbow of colors nested one inside the other. The violet bowl is my favorite, although it’s too small to hold more than the chilies that will hopefully turn this tomato sauce into a truth serum. The bowls aren’t really magic, but I’ve had more successes than failures with them. I had cooked Sunday dinner for years, until my parents ruined the tradition by breaking the news about their split over dessert. Now I’ve sworn off cooking for family, with the exception of Saliyah.
I start by opening the windows, turning on a fan, and flash frying the pancetta. Then I chop the onions and get to work on the tomatoes. By the time six of my seven bowls are full, I’m so calm that I actually believe I can pull this dinner off without triggering the Cookie Curse that has caused every guy I’ve baked for to dump me.
It all started with Sam Hoffler, my sixth-grade boyfriend, who walked me home from school for two solid weeks before finally kissing me. Back then, I thought a kiss really meant something, so I decided to show Sam how I felt by doing what came naturally: baking cookies. ‘The Sam’ was delicious – a basic sugar cookie with chocolate rosebuds. But the cookies were barely cool before Sam started walking home with a girl who brought grocery store brownies to school bake sales.
In seventh grade I created ‘The Tyrell’ for Tyrell Travers. We met at swimming lessons, and he rode his bike back and forth in front of our house until Dad threatened to line the road with tacks. Once Tyrell got the nerve to come to the door, I gave in and baked. The white chocolate Hershey’s Kisses on the dark chocolate cookies must have spooked him, because he dumped me the next day.
In eighth grade I created ‘The Logan,’ with ground almonds and a raspberry center. Logan Duprey and I had been together nearly four weeks, but he hadn’t bothered to mention his nut allergy. He survived; the relationship didn’t.
In ninth grade I created ‘The Jonah’ for Jonah Coen, who was so cute, but in retrospect, so selfish. I couldn’t see it at the time, though, and when Valentine’s Day rolled around, I rolled into the kitchen. ‘The Jonah’ was the finest of my boyfriend line: shortbread laced with Skor bars. I carried a tub of them over to his place for a romantic movie night, not realising Jonah had also invited six of his buddies for a zombie-fest. The guys ate all the cookies and teased Jonah so much about being ‘whipped’ that the breakup text he sent two days later wasn’t a big surprise.
Oliver was right. I can’t risk baking today, although if anyone could survive the Cookie Curse, it would be Rico. He’s not afraid of romantic gestures. The day after Dad and I moved, Rico showed up at the Recipe Box, the cookbook store where I work, with a triple ice cream sundae. We sat on the curb after my shift and ate it together as the sun went down.
I’ve finally hit the boyfriend jackpot, and I sense my timing for the big meal is just right. After cooking my way into Rico’s heart tonight, I’ll tell him exactly how I feel.
If he hasn’t told me first.
He’d better tell me first. I’ve just spent half an hour peeling and seeding fresh tomatoes when I could have opened a can.
He’ll tell me first. Rico obviously feels the same way I do. When we’re together, he acts like I’m the most important person in his world.
I can’t let doubts get to me now. Just because my parents’ marriage collapsed doesn’t mean the same thing will happen to me. I realise how important romance is to a relationship. If Mom and Dad had made more of an effort in that department, our family might not be in ruins today.
The sauce is almost done when I hear the car in the driveway. There’s the bang of a car door and the sound of running footsteps on the stairs. Saliyah turns the key in the lock and bursts into the kitchen, her long dark hair disheveled. ‘Sorry,’ she puffs, ‘I couldn’t stall them anymore. But I knocked over a flowerpot on the way in to keep them busy for a few more minutes.’
I crumple the recipe and toss it into the trash can. ‘You’re doing your own math homework,’ I say, shoving things into the cupboard.
Mom comes in two minutes later, and her face lights up. ‘Zahra, you’re cooking!’
I resist the urge to say, ‘Not for you.’ I can’t afford to raise any suspicions. So I give her a kiss on the cheek and say, ‘Just making pasta sauce.’
Her smile fades as she takes in the tomato juice splattered from one end of the counter to the other. ‘It looks like a crime scene.’
Mom tries to keep the kitchen sterile enough for surgery at all times – great if your appendix detonates, not so great if you like to get creative with food.
Sniffing like a hound, she says, ‘Do I smell … bacon?’
‘No.’ I stare into the pot until her dark eyes force the truth out of me. ‘Pancetta.’
‘Zahra!’
‘It was only two ounces.’
‘The quantity is hardly the point. It’s pork.’
‘Dad used to cook bacon sometimes.’
She shakes her head. ‘It’s different now.’
That’s for sure. Now all my parents think about is themselves. Mom’s obsessed with her parents and her culture crisis, and Dad’s become a workaholic. I’m basically raising myself.
‘Eating pork is forbidden for Muslims, you know that,’ Mom continues. ‘Your grandparents would see it as breaking faith with God.’
‘But they won’t be eating it,’ I say.
Relief and disappointment flood Mom’s face. ‘So you’re not cooking for us?’
What part of ‘never again’ didn’t she understand? ‘Mom, I wouldn’t serve Nani and Nana pork.’ I’m cursed enough without bringing the wrath of God into it.
Reaching for her trusty bottle of bleach, Mom prepares to purify. ‘Saliyah. Keep your grandparents busy in the garden till I can clean up. Tip over another begonia if you have to.’
My sister turns from the fridge. There’s a ring of chocolate around her mouth and two strawberries husks in the palm of her hand. Grinning at me, she grabs another strawberry and heads for the door.
Mom lights a homemade vanilla-and-bergamot candle to mask the scent of sin. Then she pulls on industrial rubber gloves and rinses pots and cutlery before stacking them in the dishwasher.
An expert in forensic cookery, she opens cupboards one by one to take inventory, wiping each item I touched. She checks the fridge, the recycling bin, and the garbage pail before announcing her conclusion. ‘You’re cooking dinner for Rico.’
‘I’m cooking for Dad.’ It’s not a total lie. He’ll get the leftovers.
She crosses her arms, rubber gloves and all. ‘You used hot pepper flakes and chilies. But you hate spicy food, and so does your father.’
‘Dad’s changed since you kicked him out.’ Again, not a total lie. ‘Now he brings home curry a lot. I guess it reminds him of home.’
‘I did not kick him out,’ she says. ‘It takes two people to make or break a marriage.’
‘Fine. I’m just saying he’s lonely.’ I taste the tomato sauce and make a show of putting the spoon back into the pot.
Mom shudders. ‘Use a fresh spoon.’
‘The germs will boil off,’ I say. ‘It needs more basil.’
Naturally, Mom’s already put the basil away and washed the cutting board. I take them out again.
‘I thought your dad was in Chicago,’ she says.
Saliyah must be the weak link. My parents avoid communicating directly if they can, and I’m counting on that today. If Mom decides to confirm Dad’s plans, I’ll be setting another place for dinner.
‘He’ll be home early,’ I say. Early tomorrow, since his plane lands close to midnight. ‘And he wants to meet Rico.’
True again, although I’ve worked hard to keep that from happening. Dad dislikes any guy I bring home until they’re history, at which point he starts talking about how great the guy is.
‘I’m surprised you’re subjecting that boy to your father already,’ Mom says.
I stay focused on my priorities, specifically getting home in time to straighten my hair. ‘You’ve met Rico, so now Dad wants to.’
‘Bumping into you two making out in the Arboretum Mall parking lot hardly constitutes a meeting.’
‘It was just a kiss goodbye.’
‘Tonsils included,’ she says, putting the basil back in the fridge. ‘This Rico … is he treating you well?’
‘Mom.’ I test the sauce again and decide it needs another pinch of pepper. I might not like heat, but Rico loves it, and the dinner’s for him. ‘Rico’s a really nice guy.’
She’s scrubbing the cutting board hard enough to break a normal woman’s fingers. ‘You said he doesn’t always return your calls.’
Mom and I haven’t had one of our heart-to-hearts over chai tea since the day Dad and I moved out, yet she still manages to collect and catalogue information to use against me. She has too much time on her hands. I wish she’d get a job or something. ‘Rico’s a busy guy. He has a lot of interests.’
‘You’re sure?’
There’s only one way to get her off my case. Turning away from the stove, I let tomato sauce drip off the spoon in a wide arc onto her clean counter and the floor. ‘Yes, Mom, I’m sure my boyfriend is a nice guy.’
Happily, her need to sterilize outweighs her desire to follow up on the B-word. Because it’s not exactly official.
Yet.
The evening is going exactly as planned. The pasta is delicious. Rico is saying all the right things. I am saying all the right things. Even my hair cooperated. Rico pushed it aside to kiss my neck earlier, and it didn’t snag his hand like a Venus flytrap.
I worked hard to keep things completely casual. It was Rico who arrived with the single red rose that’s now standing on the table in a water glass, since we don’t have a vase. It was Rico who dimmed the lights as we sat down. And it was Rico who lit the only candle I had on hand – a fat, wax Santa Claus that Mom nearly sent the way of pork. Oliver James might not approve, but no one is running for the hills. The boyfriend-killing Cookie Curse appears to have been broken.
The conversation flows easily, about music and art and places we want to see someday. For once I manage not to rant about my parents and ask about his instead.
‘Just the usual,’ he says, helping himself to more pasta. There’s plenty left because it burnt the skin off my tongue. ‘Dad’s got a big court case and Mom’s still teaching yoga. But let’s talk about you.’
Rico’s phone buzzes again, for maybe the fifteenth time, and although he ignores it, I start to feel a bit insecure.
‘Did you want to get that?’ I fully expect him to say no, but he pulls the phone out of his pocket, checks his texts, and grins. ‘What’s so funny?’ I ask.
‘Nothing,’ he says. ‘Just a friend goofing around.’
His grin worries me. It’s the same one he gives me when I tease him about his cowlick. That grin is supposed to be just for me. ‘Which friend?’
‘Pete,’ he says, without a second’s hesitation. ‘The guys are checking out a band tonight and want to know if I’ll meet them there.’
‘You made plans for later?’ I try not to sound hurt, but I can’t help it. I slaved to make this night special, and Rico cutting out early was not on the agenda.
‘Of course not,’ he says, tapping at his phone. ‘I’m telling Pete to stop bugging me.’ He drops the phone in his pocket and reaches for my hand. I try to pull it away, but he quickly links his fingers through mine. ‘Did I mention that you’re the best cook I’ve ever met?’
It might be a line, but it’s one I like hearing. ‘You did mention that.’
He leans forward and gazes at me with eyes that look black in the dim light, but are really the most beautiful blue. ‘You’re going to be a famous chef someday,’ he says, with a dazzling smile. ‘But tell me this: if you plan on calling your show The Sweet Tooth, how come you’ve never baked for me?’
I lean forward in my seat, too. ‘Who says I haven’t?’
‘Oh, right.’ He runs his fingers lightly along my forearm until my skin tingles. ‘We haven’t gotten to dessert.’
Thank God I ignored the dissenting voice in my head and followed my instincts. There’s a tub of cookies sitting on the kitchen counter now – peanut butter with dark chocolate chunks. I managed to whip them up because Rico was nearly an hour late for dinner.
I think about getting them, but I don’t want to spoil the moment. He’s gazing and I’m gazing, and though it’s intense, I could definitely get used to it.
‘You have the most beautiful eyes,’ he says. ‘And you’re so talented.’
OK, he’s really laying it on thick now. He must feel bad about Pete’s calls.
‘You are,’ he insists, reading my expression. ‘I admire your commitment.’
That’s nice, but I was hoping he’d talk about another kind of commitment.
‘I have something for you.’ He reaches into the pocket of his coat draped over the back of his chair. ‘A hostess gift.’
I tear off the tissue and try not to look disappointed when I find a pot holder inside. A romance vacuum has opened under the table.
‘Turn it over,’ Rico says, grinning.
On the flip side is an adorable, long-lashed cartoon character in the shape of a molar. She’s wearing a pink gingham apron with a matching bow in her curly red hair, and holding a cupcake. Underneath are the words The Sweet Tooth.
‘I figured you’d need a logo,’ he says. ‘So I designed it and had it printed.’
I was wrong – this is the most romantic gift ever, because it says he believes in me. It’s a grand statement. Today a pot holder, tomorrow a diamond. I can imagine us sitting this way when Rico’s hair is silvery in the candlelight. Hopefully, I’ll still be surprising him with my cooking. That never gets old.
‘You like?’ Rico prompts me.
I snap out of my trance and reach across the table for his hand. ‘I love.’
‘Good,’ Rico says. ‘Because there’s something I want to tell you.’
This is it! Our big moment. My heart is racing but I try to sound cool. ‘Yes?’
He leans so far forward that all I can see are teeth and eyes. ‘Zahra, I—’
The phone cuts him off. Mine, not his. It’s probably Mom, and if I don’t pick up, she’ll call the cops. Or Dad’s cell. Either way, I’ll be dead.
‘Hold that thought,’ I say, reaching for the phone. Rico does better than that. He continues to hold my hand as I say, ‘Oh, hi, Dad.’ Brightly. Casually. ‘Where are you? Oh. You caught an earlier flight.’ Rico lets go of my hand. ‘No, nothing’s wrong. I have leftovers for you. See you soon.’
Rico is already slipping his arms into his jacket when I hang up.
‘You don’t have to leave,’ I say. ‘He’s still a half hour away.’
Rico’s phone buzzes again, and he pulls it out of his pocket. ‘No worries. I should get going anyway.’
I trail after him to the door. ‘But you were about to tell me something.’
‘This weekend,’ he says. ‘We’ll go for a drive and talk.’ What felt so right now feels so wrong.
‘Wait,’ I say, heading into the kitchen to get the cookies. ‘At least take these.’
‘Thanks,’ he says, leaning down to kiss me.
With Rico’s lips on mine, and his hands in my hair, everything starts to feel right again – so right that we’re still kissing twenty minutes later when a key turns in the lock. We look up, stunned, as the door opens and light from the hall floods in.
Dad looks stunned, too. His eyes bulge as they drop from my face to Rico’s hand, which has migrated to the small of my back, under my T-shirt, then jump to my hand, which is in Rico’s back pocket. ‘Zahra, what is going on here?’
His eyes bounce up and almost pop out of his head as he looks over my shoulder.
I turn quickly to see flames licking across the dining room table.
‘My pot holder!’ I scream. ‘Oh, Rico!’
But when I turn back, Rico is gone.