doesn't always come out right, and I was tired and hot today and didn't feel like it.
There. That's my reason.
I explained all that to Amanda.
"Whatever," she said. "This whole thing is already crazy. I say anything you can do to dial it back must be right."
"You're not disappointed in me?" I asked.
She scoffed. "Kitty Cat, the only thing you ever do that disappoints me is live the life of a hermit. Other than that, you can do nowrong. And one day, when you actually allow yourself to have a boyfriend, you will have reached perfection as far as I'm concerned." She checked her watch. "Gotta go."
That conversation really made me feel a lot better. But the true test is going to be hearing what Mr. Fizer has to say. He wants to see our research notebooks every Monday. I'll have to give him a full and detailed confession in there and just hope I haven't violated the spirit of the project already before the first week is even over.
Meanwhile, pasta me.
16
"T his is good," Peter said as he shoveled in another forkful of my spinach pasta primavera. My dad nodded and kept chewing.
"Excellent, honey," my mom said. "You're hired."
"Gee, thanks."
"I'm serious," she said. "If you'd like to make a little extra money every week, I'd be happy to hire you as our personal chef."
"Great idea," my dad said.
"But--" I didn't want to say anything in front of Peter, but I knew they probably wouldn't want to eat everything I might make. My dad and Peter are pretty partial to their hot dogs and microwave chimichangas.
But then something occurred to me--a way to make my life a little easier.
"Would you do all the grocery shopping?" I asked my mom. "If I gave you a list?"
My mother is no slouch at negotiation. "It depends. How many nights would you cook?"
"How many would I have to?"
She thought about it for a moment. "At least four. That seems to be how many nights we end up ordering takeout."
Then she added the clincher. "And we'll pay you what we save on restaurants."
Considering how paltry my college fund is at the moment, that was too good to pass up.
Besides, I can make a few meals ahead on the weekends and just pop them in the oven when we get home from work. And maybe on the other nights I'll just fix something my father can cook on the grill. A few side dishes and we're there. And now that I'm not watching TV anymore, I actually have the time to cook and still do all my homework.
One more thing. "Do I get to decide what to make?" I asked my mom.
She understood my issue--it had to be something I could legally eat. "Sure."
"Wait," Peter said, "I want pizza."
Whole wheat dough, fresh tomato sauce, veggies, some mozzarella and pepperoni on their half--
"Okay," I said, "I can do that."
"Once a week?" Peter pressed.
My little brother and I shook hands on it. The deal had been struck.
"How come you even stopped cooking anyway?" Peter asked. He took another bite. "You're really good."
"Uh, I just got really busy. With school and stuff."
"But you could have done it in the summers like before."
I got up to start clearing the table, even though I was the only one done eating.
"Yeah," my dad said, "why didn't you? It seemed like you and Amanda had a lot of fun with that."
I took my plate into the kitchen. This conversation would be much easier if I were in another room.
"Well, you know--I had math camp the year after, then chemistry camp, and then last summer I worked in the lab...."
Blah, blah, blah.
They might buy it, but no one who really knew me would. Because the real question, I could have told my little brother, wasn't why I stopped cooking after that summer. The real question was why I ever started.
And only Amanda, Matt, and I know the answer to that.
17
I t was at the seventh-grade science fair . I had just won--my first time ever. Or since. I was so ecstatic. My parents rushed over to hug me, Amanda was there, and I kept waiting and waiting for Matt to show up. He was in the convention center that
There. That's my reason.
I explained all that to Amanda.
"Whatever," she said. "This whole thing is already crazy. I say anything you can do to dial it back must be right."
"You're not disappointed in me?" I asked.
She scoffed. "Kitty Cat, the only thing you ever do that disappoints me is live the life of a hermit. Other than that, you can do nowrong. And one day, when you actually allow yourself to have a boyfriend, you will have reached perfection as far as I'm concerned." She checked her watch. "Gotta go."
That conversation really made me feel a lot better. But the true test is going to be hearing what Mr. Fizer has to say. He wants to see our research notebooks every Monday. I'll have to give him a full and detailed confession in there and just hope I haven't violated the spirit of the project already before the first week is even over.
Meanwhile, pasta me.
16
"T his is good," Peter said as he shoveled in another forkful of my spinach pasta primavera. My dad nodded and kept chewing.
"Excellent, honey," my mom said. "You're hired."
"Gee, thanks."
"I'm serious," she said. "If you'd like to make a little extra money every week, I'd be happy to hire you as our personal chef."
"Great idea," my dad said.
"But--" I didn't want to say anything in front of Peter, but I knew they probably wouldn't want to eat everything I might make. My dad and Peter are pretty partial to their hot dogs and microwave chimichangas.
But then something occurred to me--a way to make my life a little easier.
"Would you do all the grocery shopping?" I asked my mom. "If I gave you a list?"
My mother is no slouch at negotiation. "It depends. How many nights would you cook?"
"How many would I have to?"
She thought about it for a moment. "At least four. That seems to be how many nights we end up ordering takeout."
Then she added the clincher. "And we'll pay you what we save on restaurants."
Considering how paltry my college fund is at the moment, that was too good to pass up.
Besides, I can make a few meals ahead on the weekends and just pop them in the oven when we get home from work. And maybe on the other nights I'll just fix something my father can cook on the grill. A few side dishes and we're there. And now that I'm not watching TV anymore, I actually have the time to cook and still do all my homework.
One more thing. "Do I get to decide what to make?" I asked my mom.
She understood my issue--it had to be something I could legally eat. "Sure."
"Wait," Peter said, "I want pizza."
Whole wheat dough, fresh tomato sauce, veggies, some mozzarella and pepperoni on their half--
"Okay," I said, "I can do that."
"Once a week?" Peter pressed.
My little brother and I shook hands on it. The deal had been struck.
"How come you even stopped cooking anyway?" Peter asked. He took another bite. "You're really good."
"Uh, I just got really busy. With school and stuff."
"But you could have done it in the summers like before."
I got up to start clearing the table, even though I was the only one done eating.
"Yeah," my dad said, "why didn't you? It seemed like you and Amanda had a lot of fun with that."
I took my plate into the kitchen. This conversation would be much easier if I were in another room.
"Well, you know--I had math camp the year after, then chemistry camp, and then last summer I worked in the lab...."
Blah, blah, blah.
They might buy it, but no one who really knew me would. Because the real question, I could have told my little brother, wasn't why I stopped cooking after that summer. The real question was why I ever started.
And only Amanda, Matt, and I know the answer to that.
17
I t was at the seventh-grade science fair . I had just won--my first time ever. Or since. I was so ecstatic. My parents rushed over to hug me, Amanda was there, and I kept waiting and waiting for Matt to show up. He was in the convention center that
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