Mark is at the ready. “Sir, she’s on vacation.”
Richard shakes his head at the room. “You people and yourdamn vacations.” He briefly makes eye contact with me even though I haven’t taken a real vacation in years.
Though. If Meredith is gone, that means no one on the head desk is going to be looking at the website. No one checks up on it but her and our intern. If I film the cooking class segment and upload it to the KTVA site without publishing it on the front page, Richard will never know. No one will see it unless I share the link with them.
It’s not technically breaking any rules. Like, it’s not illegal. Is it frowned upon and could it get me in some trouble? Yes.
But I’m going to do it anyway. I’m going to build my portfolio, help out my fellow Armenians, and stick it to Richard and show him—
Richard interrupts my reverie by assigning me a segment on a group of residents complaining about the excessive goose poop in their neighborhood.
9
When you open the mouth, open also the eyes.
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—Armenian Proverb
Three days laterI’m at the Armenian school again. (I mean, where else are you going to get an industrial-size kitchen that allows for thirty people to be mixing and folding and stirring, all on the cheap?) But this time, when I park, I don’t need to be rescued by Erebuni. Though I wouldn’t say no to that, either.
I’ve been texting in a group chat with Erebuni and Vache to make sure everyone’s on board with the details for today. The chat has been flowing surprisingly well and not been awkward considering I’m the new person in their group. Now I’m more at ease because I’m not walking into this place cold, wondering if they’ll all want to speak to me again.
Plus I have a sense of purpose, like a wave billowing before me, clearing the way. I’m sticking to my promise to myself and reporting on the event today, Richard be damned. It’s possible that someone at work will tell on me (cough, Mark) but chancesare low. And Winnie the intern may be a sycophant, but she’s not a snitch (at least, I hope).
I stride into the great hall and see signs directing me toward the kitchen. I almost hesitate—despite the number of times I’ve been to this school, I’ve almost never been inside the kitchens, and it feels like I’m sneaking into a restricted area. If only my pre-K self being served hot lunches could see me now. Hot shit.
The kitchen is a product of pure industry. Chilly. Metal counters and islands, no-nonsense eighties tiles, vats and ladles suspended from above or pinned to the walls. And it’s brimming with people—mostly women, actually—inspecting the cooking accoutrement at their stations. People are picking up utensils, examining jars, drawing their fingers over the ingredient lists.
And there is Erebuni; I catch her profile. She’s wearing a long black lace cardigan over a short dark purple dress and black tights. Gakhart. That means “witch” in Armenian, and it also happens to be her Instagram handle.Intrigueddoesn’t begin to cover how I feel about that, but her posts are private, and she hasn’t accepted my request yet. She hasn’t followed me, either, so I’m guessing (hoping) that means she’s not a big Instagram person rather than just uninterested in me.
There’s a moon ring on her index finger, and with her other hand she pinches the moon and twists the ring all the way around and back. I want to be that moon. Then I immediately tell myself to dial it back.
Arek is by her side, chatting with Janette and Vache. Judging by the lack of dudes, I wonder if Arek is here mostly to support Erebuni and her organizing or if he’s into cooking. Vache, obviously, is here for the food and the stories behind them. As am I.
The event was actually sold out, super popular with only thirty spaces, but I wheedled my way in as press. Honestly, even better, because this one was expensive. Erebuni not only said she was fine with it, she used the wordthrilledand said the story would bein good hands. I might have been running those words over in my mind for the last couple of days. And she welcomed the opportunity for Vache and me to coordinate.
I sidle up to them, suddenly shy again since they’re all huddled together, these old friends.
“Hey, guys.”
Arek gives me a sudden hug like it’s a reflex. “Nar! I feel like we’ve been hanging out because we’ve been watching your clips. Damn, girl, you’re a real reporter.”
We’vebeen watching? That sounds like they’ve been on some group chat analyzing my segments. I’m glad it’s cold in here because that’s the only thing helping me fight the spreading flush in my cheeks. “I—oh. I hope you were watching some of my best-ofs. I haven’t always been given the greatest material to work with.” You know, food trucks and goose droppings. None of my segments are what you’d call hard-hitting journalism, and I feel it so acutely in this moment, the shame of what they all must think of me, then of what my dad would think—oof, I snuff that one out immediately—but I try to fix my face to seem impassive.
“There’s nothing to be embarrassed by, you sounded polished and professional in everything I saw,” says Janette, and I just about want to die. How many iseverything?
But Erebuni is reddening at the same rate I (probably) am. I thought I already liked her a whole bunch, but seeing her blush is like I caught her doing something she shouldn’t. She hasn’texposed anything that’s close to embarrassing, but now our conversation has her feeling that. And it has me hoping for something that probably isn’t there.
Vache says, “I get it. I feel the same way when I find out someone has read my articles. There’s a vulnerability to it, even if we’re the ones who put it out there in the first place.”
“Uh-huh.” Then, hoping my change of subject gives them all whiplash, I say, “And speaking of which, Vache, are you ready to be interviewed? Erebuni, I’ll get you later; you can tell me about how you and the group decided to organize this particular event. And if there’s time I’d love to chat with Vartouhi.”
Vartouhi is the master cook leading today’s class. She’s a consummate Armenian granny—roundish, clad in a plain dress just past the knees and a well-worn apron, short hair tied back, and olive skin dappled with sunspots from years of creating memories outside. She has the teacherly feel, which is perfect for this event. Commanding in the way she’s walking around the room, getting people set up, but completely approachable.
Things are easy again. I set my tripod up in a corner, mic Vache, and have him tell me about some of the food and its origins. I read a bunch of his articles recently, and if he’s as good on camera as he is on the page, this is sure to be excellent stuff.
And it is. After he shares background on the food, I ask him, “What would you say is the significance of an event like this one? Isn’t it just a cooking class?”
