‘We all have our strategies, Mother.’
‘Well, now I’m up. So why don’t you tell me why you can’t sleep?’
I stopped hovering over the oven and joined her at the table. ‘What the culinary arts mean to me.’ She scrunched up her face, so I added for clarity, ‘It’s my essay for La Mère.’
‘Is this really all about an essay?’ she asked. ‘Because if so, it’s a lot, sweetie.’
Thatalmostmade me laugh. ‘Seriously, though. It’s my last chance to stand out from everyone else, and they require answering the most generic essay question.’
‘It’s generic on purpose. They want to see how you can wow them while giving you nothing. What happened to your video idea? I thought that was smart.’
‘I relied on someone else to help me, and they … aren’t able to.’ I’m sure Gabe would still help me, but I didn’t want to ask.
My mom chewed her cheek; she seemed to be choosing her next words carefully. ‘Is the only reason you want to go to this school so badly because your father went there?’
‘No.’ That kind of felt like a lie – but there was more to it than just my dad going there. ‘I mean, I do want to go there because he did, too, but it’s also a great school.’
She reached out and took my uninjured hand in hers. ‘I’m not saying it isn’t. But you seem to be putting a lot of pressure on yourself to get intothisschool. Your dad wished he could have finished school there and pursued the career he wanted, but the universe had other plans. We didn’t decide to have you as some kind of proxy for us to fulfill our failed dreams. You don’t have to go to the school your dad went to. He was always going to be proud of you no matter what you did with your life.’
I didn’t want to go to La Mère just because my dad went there. Baking did make me feel closer to him after he died, though. When I started going through each step of a recipe, I pretended to talk to him in my head. Explaining a video I saw online that gave me a new idea or a different way to do the recipe. And then sometimes it felt like a conversation, where I could almost hear his voice suggesting I use melted butter to see how the texture would change or add an extra egg yolk for more density.
‘I know he would have been,’ I said. ‘But I want to go to La Mère because it’s where the best go.’
My mom shook her head. ‘No one goes to school already as the best. And a lot of people who go to school never become the best. Trust me. I know dudes who went to Yale and still suck at their jobs.’
I didn’t say anything. Of course there were people who went to great schools and coasted on their privilege or slightly elevated intellect. But that wasn’t me.
She probably saw me thinking something along those lines, because then she said, ‘Think of it like one of your recipes. All the instructions are there, but if you don’t have the best ingredients and the passion to make it …’ She shrugged.
I tried not to smile as I crossed my arms. ‘I’m so mad at you for making this a baking metaphor.’
‘But it worked, right?’ She threw up her hands.
I sighed, still trying to hide my growing smirk as the egg timer on the table went off. I stood and took the cookies out of the oven. But as I set up the cooling racks and grabbed the spatula, it hit me.
My dad was the reason I loved what La Mère referred to simply asculinary artsin all their informational packets. It was time we’d spent together; it was him passing down what he’d learned to me. Even wearing his chef’s coat made me feel closer to him. That’s what they were looking for in their stupid essay question. What the culinary arts meant to me was a connection to my family. A way to remember my dad and share that with my mom. And it was baking things for the people I loved and hopefully for the people in my future. There was something more there, but it was a great start.
‘I’ll be right back.’ I put the spatula on the table and raced up to my bedroom to get my computer. I also grabbed my phone and saw there was another text from Ava – probably taking a break from the video game she had been up playing. And this one more ominous.
If you aren’tgoing to do it, I’ll plan it myself!
I’d answer her later, but only when my essay was finished. I didn’t want to lose the chance to get this done while it was fresh in my mind.
When I got back to the kitchen, my mom was gently tossing a cookie between her hands and blowing on it.
‘That’s what the cooling racks are for.’
‘I’mgoing up to bed. No time for cooling!’ She took a bite of the cookie and rolled her eyes. ‘Wonderful, as always, pumpkin.’ Then she kissed me on the cheek as I sat down at the kitchen table. ‘Clean this place up before you go to bed.’
‘I will. Night.’
With that she left. And I started writing my essay.
‘What are you doing?’ I asked as Ava pulled into the parking lot of the Super Save Lot. It was already nine thirty, and she’d been late picking me up. The party she said we were going to was bound to get messy by ten thirty.
It also wasn’t supposed to take place in the Super Save Lot parking lot. She parked all the way in the back, next to some familiar cars.
Morgan’s truck was there, next to a Buick Lucerne I didn’t recognize. But the owners of the cars were missing.
