Death by Eggplant (14 page)

“Oh. Well, if success means being able to inspire the first Nobel Prize in Cooking, then, yes, I'll succeed.” I grinned. I had actually said that out loud.

“Don't worry, Mrs. Menendez,” said my father. “We're seeing a therapist. In fact, the three of us have an appointment this evening.”

“The three of us?” I asked. “Mom, me . . . and Cleo?”

My mother and father exchanged a worried look. Then my mother said very gently, “Dr. Zimmerman asked to see all three of us, remember? But, of course, you can bring Cleo, too, if you want.” She tousled my hair, then turned to Mrs. Menendez and said, “Thank you so much for everything. See you Tuesday?”

“Yes, I'll be there.”

I was puzzled. “Be where?”

“The past-life regression class we both attend,” Mrs. M. said.

“Past . . . life . . . regression?” That explained why my mother had remembered her that day on Church Street. “You, too, Mrs. M.?” I asked. The last little bit of the sane world turned upside down as I imagined possible past lives for her.

I was still hyperventilating when my mother said, “Bertie, after the doctor tonight, I thought, maybe, um, you might, um, show me how to cook.”

“You, cook?” I could already see the results: food poisoning or starvation.

“I think I'd like to try, if you'll teach me,” she said. “I've noticed you seem to have a little knack for it.”

“A little knack? Most people won't be eating crème brûlée at home tonight. I'm a really, really good cook, Mom. I'm going to be a chef.”

“I guess it's better than a spy.”

“Which reminds me,” my father said. “Crème brûlée is my boss's favorite. Would you mind if I brought him home sometime?”

“Home?”

“For you to cook for him.”

Me cook for Dad's boss? What was the probability of that?

“Sure. Did you want me to help you land a big promotion?”

My father frowned. “No, but he's very friendly with the people at Wharton. I figure, he has four years to convince them to add cooking to the college courses. Like your mother said, you do seem to have a little knack for it. You could major in actuarial science and minor in cooking.”

Minor in cooking. It was progress.

“Or we can get takeout,” my father added. “Either or.”

I guess being weird is an inescapable part of my family. That was okay with me. Just the sight of my parents, as they walked away, picking the twigs off each other's clothes, made something inside me squeeze tight, and I knew, if it came to it, that I would pay any ransom for them any day.

“Bertie,” Indra asked. “Can you cook Indian food, like curries?”

“Curries and biryanis and vindaloo, but I don't have a clay oven for tandoori,” I said.

“We do. Come over this weekend.” She grinned. “My grandmother would love to meet you. All
I
ever do is boil and burn.”

Then Mrs. M. sent Indra back to class, and it was just the two of us.

“So, Mr. Hooks, it's been quite a week, hasn't it?”

I nodded, dazed.

“What you said about children being nasty to their
peers,” she continued, “there's usually a reason for it. Mr. Dekker, for example. He's moving next week.”

That got my attention. “What?”

“I said he's moving—to Oshkosh. His mother has accepted a partnership with a new law firm, and his father will be commuting back and forth every weekend, at least till he gets a job there, too. Young Mr. Dekker is not very happy with his parents' decision.”

But I was. I had wanted him kidnapped by aliens. I guess moving to Oshkosh was a close second.

“So many changes,” Mrs. M. murmured. “Even for me.”

“What do you mean?”

“My transfer came through this morning.”

And then Mrs. Menendez smiled her very special I'm-so-pleased-with-myself smile, the one that usually meant I was in big trouble.

“I'll be teaching at the high school next year, Mr. Hooks. Do keep up with math over the summer. I expect we'll meet again.”

Following Mrs. M. inside, Cleo in the crook of my arm, I realized that I had gotten everything I had asked for in Dr. Zimmerman's office. Indra had kissed me, my mom had acted like a mom, my dad had accepted me for who I was for at least a few minutes, I had passed eighth grade, and Nick Dekker was about to disappear. I had also announced to the world that I was a chef. All that other stuff—being star of a prime-time cooking show, owner of
a four-star restaurant, author of a best-selling cookbook, and proprietor of a bed-and-breakfast—maybe I wouldn't,
couldn't
, do all those things. But whatever I did, I knew I was going to have a whisk in my hand.

I looked down at Cleo, cradled in my arms. She was smeared with dirt, and her bag was slack, only half full. But she was still my responsibility, still my little flour-sack baby. A bit of extra flour from the non-talking bag at home, some tape, and she would be okay. I knew the perfect corner in my room, where she would have a good view and not feel left out, on a small, soft pillow so she would be comfy. Maybe even with time, her eyes would uncross.

After all, in a way I owed her everything.

QUESTIONS FOR THE AUTHOR

SUSAN HEYBORE O'KEEFE

When did you realize you wanted to be a writer?

I “was” a writer as soon as I could literally write, which was about age five, and so never thought about it. I already just “was.” For me, writing has always been as natural—and as absolutely necessary—as breathing. As far as the business of trying to get published, I started submitting and collecting rejection slips when I was thirteen and got my first acceptance when I was nineteen.

What's your first childhood memory?

Standing on a chair at the stove, stirring tapioca.

What was your worst subject in school?

Penmanship and geography in a dead heat.

What was your first job?

When I was about ten, a friend and I wrote and published a local newspaper and sold it by subscription to the neighbors.

Which do you like better: cats or dogs?

Neither. I'm a bird person through and through. I have two parrots, an African Jardine and an African Grey. They're called, respectively, Wallace and Gromit, after the British claymation characters. I didn't name them myself and would have picked something else, especially in retrospect. “Gromit” is not a real name for a real person.

How did you celebrate publishing your first book?

I actually don't remember. But that's nothing new. I have a terrible memory. For example, and I am not making this up, I don't remember being proposed to. My husband says it was very romantic. He proposed to me in a holly tree forest in one of the state parks. I have absolutely no memory of that at all. But I guess he did, because suddenly we were planning our wedding.

What do you value most in your friends?

Honesty, a sense of humor, and undying admiration of my brilliance.

What time of year do you like best?

Winter, as long as it doesn't snow too much. A cold dry winter is best.

What's your favorite TV show?

House, or as my son calls it, Dr. Dreamy McDreamy.

What's the best advice you have ever received about writing?

That writers write. They don't just think about writing.
This sounds something like, “Just do it,” but it isn't. Writing is never easy, but if you don't actually sit down, and actually try, and actually squeeze out even just a word or two, nothing at all gets written. A sentence a day eventually adds up to something, but nothing a day adds up to nothing each and every time. Also, more best advice is that every first draft stinks. That doesn't mean you're bad, only that the piece needs to be rewritten—like every other piece in the world by every other writer in the world.

What do you wish you could do better?

Everything, including write.

When you finish a book, who reads it first?

My critique group. My family never reads my work—at all—whether in manuscript form or published. It would be very awkward if they didn't like something or if I thought they were totally crazy in their comments.

Are you a morning person or a night owl?

I used to be a night owl, then somewhere along the way I became a morning person, and somewhere further along the way, I've become a 10:00
A.M.
to 10:15
A.M.
person.

What makes you laugh out loud?

No so much a what but a who. My husband is very funny and makes me laugh out loud, which is one of the reasons I married him.