“We’ll talk as a family,” Anika said. The phrase was becoming a refrain, a fence, a promise.
Priya’s birthday bowling was fluorescent and loud and perfect. Delia bowled badly and did not care. She ate too much soft pretzel. She told Priya, under the noise of pins, that the sauce held on the third try. Priya high-fived her with buttery fingers. No one at the alley knew Emberwick from a hardware store, and Delia loved them for it.
Sunday with Miss Odette returned Delia to the small apartment kitchen where the hood was really just a fan and the stakes were supper. They made rice. They made greens. Miss Odette let Delia fix a vinaigrette and then made her explain every choice like a defense attorney.
“You sound like that chef a little,” Miss Odette said, not accusing.
“He sounds like you a little,” Delia said. “Except you smile more and he buttons more buttons.”
Miss Odette cackled. “Don’t marry a kitchen, baby. Visit it. Learn. Come home.”
“I’m eleven,” Delia said. “I’m not marrying anything.”
“Good. Keep that energy.”
Monday returned like a tide. Spelling quiz: improved. Recess: damp. In the cafeteria, a fifth grader named Jordan said he’d heard Delia was “famous at some fancy restaurant,” and Delia’s stomach dropped.
“I’m not,” she said. “Who told you that?”
Jordan shrugged. “My sister’s boyfriend washes dishes somewhere. Or used to. I dunno. He said there was a kid who schooled a chef.”
“That’s not a story for school,” Delia said, hearing Anika in her own voice. “And it’s not what happened.”
Jordan smirked. “Okay, genius.”
Priya appeared like a small avenging comet. “Jordan, go chew your cardboard pizza.”
After he left, Delia stared at her tray. “It’s leaking.”
“Then we plug it,” Priya said. “You want me to tell people you’re boring?”