The Thing About Leftovers (18 page)

The day that
Mom and I were leaving for the
Southern Living
Cook-Off in Charleston, everybody was waiting in our town house's small front yard to show their support and see Mom and me off to the airport.

Aunt Liz brought me a Benedictine sandwich in a brown paper sack, in case I got hungry on the plane.

Dad and Suzanne—and Baby Robert—brought a mini fire extinguisher with a big red bow on it, which was, they said, in case I forgot something in the oven during the cook-off. We all laughed. (I left my fire extinguisher at home.)

Keene held flowers, and I might've thought they were for Mom, except that they were purple. I thanked him. And then he hugged me, which made me think,
Hey, maybe he likes me. But then again, probably not. How could he?
I decided not to think about that any more. Today.

Zach showed up and brought me a new—musical—alarm clock.

Miyoko was there, too, with Mrs. Hoshi—who gave me a Japanese cookbook I could read if I got bored on the plane.

Mom was snapping pictures of Miyoko and me when I overheard Mrs. Hoshi, standing off to the side, talking to Keene.

“They're an unlikely pair, aren't they?” Mrs. Hoshi said.

“Are they?” Keene said.

“Yes,” Mrs. Hoshi said certainly. “Miyoko's a very serious girl—she leaves for Super-Scholars Camp tomorrow.”

I looked over at them: Keene seemed impressed.

Mrs. Hoshi said, “Meanwhile, Fizzy is off to some cooking contest.”

Keene's brow furrowed and he turned to stare at Mrs. Hoshi.

She looked at her watch and then fanned her face with her hand.

I imagined myself walking over to them and saying,
You look so nice today, Mrs. Hoshi . . . like, really, especially nice—you must be wearing your Big Booty Judy Bloomers—right?
That made me smile—a real smile—and I heard Mom's camera click, capturing my expression at this thought forever.

Then I heard Keene say, “Miyoko
is
a remarkable young lady.”

I glanced back at them and Mrs. Hoshi was nodding in agreement.

“But Fizzy is remarkable, too,” Keene added. “If you think otherwise, you're underestimating her, believe me. This isn't just ‘some cooking contest.' It's the toughest cooking contest in the country, and Fizzy's worked hard to qualify for it—competing against adults, many of whom are professional chefs.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Mrs. Hoshi stand up a little straighter. “Of course,” she said.

I smiled at Keene.

He smiled back.

Zach slipped in behind Miyoko and me and tried to photo-bomb Mom's pictures by making funny faces and holding up bunny ears behind our heads. Mom kept snapping away. She snapped pictures of everybody until it was time for us to go.

We hugged everybody again, said our good-byes, and promised to call as soon as we had news. I really hoped it would be
good
news, because even though I appreciated everybody showing up like this, I also felt obligated to do well—for them—since they'd made such a fuss over me. Even bigger than the fuss was the fact that members of both sides of my family had knowingly, voluntarily shown up in the same place at the same time—while smiling!—for me.

Looking back,
I have to admit that I don't remember much about the city of Charleston. I remember Mom saying how beautiful it was and talking about the Spanish moss that hung from the branches of old trees—“like wedding veils,” she said—the historical homes, the wide front porches, and the joggling boards, which are like long benches you can bounce on, but I don't remember any of these things myself. My only lasting impression of the city was that it was as hot as a frying pan, at least in July. I started each day as cool, clean, and dry as sugar, but ended it feeling more like caramel—hot, brown, and very, very sticky. (Caramel is just cooked sugar.)

What I remember best is room service and, of course, the
Southern Living
Cook-Off. Now, I love room service. Love it. Love it. Love it. I also love the fancy silver lids that cover the plates of food when they arrive at your door. After Mom and I ate our meals, I'd practice for hours with those silver lids, because I planned to use them on my TV show. So I'd stand in front of the beds and I'd say to my studio audience (the pillows), “And after baking for fifty-five minutes at 350 degrees, voilà! Russo Lasagna!” And then I'd lift a silver lid with
real pizzazz, to show the audience my fabulous creation. Yes, I highly recommend silver lids.

I also recommend taking part in the
Southern Living
Cook-Off. The cook-off was staged in a grand ballroom inside our hotel. When Mom and I made our way through the maze of people, tables, equipment, and electrical cords and found the area for cooks competing in the Family Favorites category, we stopped and chatted with a few of them. One of the cooks was the biggest man I'd ever seen, so I knew his cooking was good because—duh!—look at him! We said hello, but Big Boy only nodded and went back to checking his equipment.

Francois was the first cook we officially met, and he was quick to inform Mom that he was an expert in “molecular gastronomy.” Then he looked down at me and said, “That's food science,” as if I didn't know what molecular gastronomy meant! I decided I didn't like him—and also that he used way too much hair gel.

The second cook we met was a woman who thought Mom was the one competing against her. When she learned that I was in the contest, she looked me over and said, “Brilliant marketing strategy—a child—what's next, baby zoo animals?” I didn't like her either.

But the lady who would be cooking directly across from me, Ms. Marla of Farmville, North Carolina, was really nice. She wore a blue flowery dress and looked scared—like me—which made me want to hug her. But she came out from behind her station to hug me first.

“Thank you,” Ms. Marla said when I hugged her back. “I needed that.”

“Me too,” I said.

We smiled and wished each other luck.

Then it was time to cook. In front of my station stood a huge man in a black suit with a curly cord running up his neck, from under his collar, into his ear. His hair was dark, his eyes were dark, and his skin was so dark, there were traces of purple. He did not move and he did not smile. I looked from him to Mom and back again.

“Hello,” Mom said.

He dipped his head—once—but otherwise didn't move.

“This is Fizzy Russo,” Mom said, placing a hand on my back as if to usher me forward.

The man extended one massive arm, motioning for me to enter the station.

I smiled at him.

Nothing.

“You already know my name. What's yours?” I asked, moving behind the table, which was covered with a clean, white tablecloth.

“Smiley,” he said, without a hint of a smile.

I wanted to giggle, but didn't dare. So, instead, I turned away, slipping into the
Southern Living
chef's coat that had been left for me and rolling up the sleeves, because they were too long. Even so, as I smoothed out the fabric and ran my fingers over the sewn-on lettering, I hoped I'd get to keep the coat.

At first, the live audience milling around made me nervous, but then I convinced myself they were no different from my television studio audience, and that helped a lot—because I'd had lots of practice with my studio audience, and they adore me. So after that, it was a snap. My fancy stainless-steel oven was already preheated for me. My ingredients were already prepared and arranged in bowls—yes, the bowls matched and they were clear glass! All I had to do was mix and layer the ingredients and pop the whole thing into the oven. Before I knew it, I was done.

When the judges started coming around and tasting everything, I have to admit I felt a little sick—not homesick but nervous-sick. When they tasted my lasagna, none of them smiled or nodded or gave any indication that they'd just tasted something they liked. They'd take a bite, write something down on their clipboards, and then take another bite. The bald judge even used his fork to peel back each layer and inspect the lasagna, and I just knew he was about to say something like,
What did you put in this . . . to ruin it?
But he didn't say a word. “It's much better the second day,” I assured him. The red-haired lady judge gave me a sympathetic little smile. I was worried, and not altogether sure I liked the folks from
Southern Living
.

I liked them even less when a voice came booming through the speakers in the ballroom, thanking everyone for coming and inviting us all to come back at six, to see the winners announced. With a loud, dramatic sigh—which involved my shoulders—I began tidying up my station.

“Don't do that,” Smiley said, as if I'd started tossing food onto the floor instead of into the trash can.

I stopped immediately.

Once again, Smiley held out a beefy arm to indicate that I should come out from my station, which I did.

Mom and I went back to our room, where she thought we both “ought to try to rest some.” She rested, while I lay on my back, clutching the sheets in two tight fists and staring at the ceiling, barely blinking. I wondered if any of the other cook-off contestants really
needed
to win as badly as I did. Then I tried to imagine what it might feel like if I won, but couldn't. After that, I tried to imagine what it would feel like if I lost: I figured things would be the same as they were before, only with another layer of disappointment—in me. I couldn't stand the thought of things being the same, couldn't stand the thought of being even more disappointing than I already was.
Could. Not. Stand. It.
So I squeezed my eyes shut and prayed,
Help me, help me, help me, pleeeease,
until the phone rang with our wake-up call.

• • •

Mom and I stood in the crowded ballroom wearing our best dresses. My heart pounded in my ears. My breathing was too fast. Little dots of color danced in front of my eyes. I thought I might black out. And then I heard my name—I thought. I turned to look at Mom, whose eyes were already on me. She was smiling. “Um, did they just—” I started, but then I heard the announcer say, “Fizzy Russo, where are you?” A big arm cut through the people standing around me, offering itself, and my eyes followed it to the face of its owner: Smiley. I latched on to
his arm, and was led through the crowd, up the stairs, and onto the stage. Had I won something? I didn't know.
They're probably just introducing all the contestants,
I told myself.

But then the man in the tuxedo, who was holding the microphone, said, “Congratulations, Fizzy.”

I wanted to say,
What for?
but didn't want to sound dumb, so I only smiled.

“Tell us, how old are you?”

“Twelve.”

The audience erupted in applause.

I smiled some more. The lights onstage felt warm on my skin, like sunshine.

The announcer said, “Winning the Family Favorites category is a big accomplishment, but it seems like an even bigger accomplishment for a twelve-year-old.”

I'd won my category! I immediately began searching the crowd for Mom's face.

“Tell us, how do you feel? What's going through your mind right now?” the announcer said.

“Um . . . well . . . I don't see my mom—could she come up here with me?” I asked.

Everybody laughed.

Smiley brought Mom up onstage, where she wrapped a protective arm around my shoulders, stood very straight, and beamed with pride and joy. Mom told the audience how I loved to cook, how I'd worked really hard preparing my entries for the cook-off, and stuff like that. And I knew she loved me way more than she ever did before. I was glad.

I was also glad to be presented with a cardboard check for $10,000 that was almost as big as I was!

I felt bad for Ms. Marla, though. Until she and her Sweet Potato Cake were announced not only as the Southern Desserts winner, but as the Grand Prize winner! Then Ms. Marla joined us onstage and I felt so happy, I could hardly stand still! Honest. I mean, I'd choose cake over lasagna every day and twice on Sunday—who wouldn't?

Smiley motioned to Mom and me from behind the curtain, off to the side of the stage.

Then, while Ms. Marla was telling the audience how she planned to use part of her winnings to fix a plumbing problem known as “ruts” in her house, Mom and I slipped backstage, where Smiley was waiting.

“What, exactly, is ‘ruts'?” the announcer asked.

Ms. Marla said, “You know . . .
tree
ruts—in the pipes.”

“Tree roots?” the announcer said.

“That's what I said,” Ms. Marla told him.

The audience laughed and laughed, while Smiley escorted us from backstage, down some stairs, into the basement, down a long hallway, to an elevator. As we walked, Smiley said, “People don't mean any harm, but they tend to get a little loud, a little pushy, a little grabby around the winners when it's all over—she's so small—you understand?”

“I do,” Mom said. “Thank you.”

We walked the rest of the way in silence. I really wanted to ask Smiley why in the world he was called Smiley, but I knew Mom would think that was rude, so I didn't.

When we arrived at the door to our room, Mom and I thanked Smiley.

He dipped his head, once, and then pulled some white fabric out from under his black jacket and handed it to me.

I unfolded it: my
Southern Living
chef's coat! I threw my arms around Smiley and squeezed.

When I pulled back from the hug, he offered me the biggest, whitest, most dazzling smile I'd ever seen—it completely took over his face—he was
all
 . . . Smiley. I grinned, thanked him again, and then hurried into our room. After all, Mom and I had a lot of phone calls to make.

Aunt Liz said, once again, that she wasn't surprised.

Suzanne squealed and dropped the phone when I told her, and I could hear her shouting for Dad to pick up right away.

Miyoko said, “You are a black belt in cooking,” and we giggled.

Zach said, “It was probably that lucky alarm clock I gave you,” and we laughed.

Our last phone call was to Keene and I let Mom make it.

After she told him the news, Mom held the phone out to me and said, “He wants to talk to you, Fizzy.”

I took the phone, sat down on the bed, and said, “Hello?”

“Congratulations, Fizzy,” Keene said.

“Thank you.”

“I have to be honest: I wasn't sure you could do it.”

“I know,” I said. “That's part of the reason I won.”

Silence hummed over the telephone line, until Keene said, “What do you mean?”

I took a deep breath and said, “I knew you didn't think I could do it, so I had to prove you wrong.” I looked over at Mom to see if she was listening.

Mom pretended to be fixing her hair in the gold-framed mirror, but I could tell she was listening.

“Well, I've never in my life been happier about being wrong,” Keene said.

“You want to know something?” I said, turning away from Mom, in a small attempt at privacy. “I almost went to bed instead of working on that lasagna. I almost didn't make it, didn't send it in. I
wouldn't have
, if you hadn't doubted me.”

It was then that I remembered Mrs. Sloan's words:
Sometimes God blesses us with people we never wanted or asked for—because He knows we need them, even if we don't.
“So, um . . . thanks for that, Keene,” I said, and I meant it.

Keene was quiet for a few seconds. Then he chuckled and said, “Glad I could help.”

When I was off the phone, Mom said, “Was I part, too?”

“Ma'am?” I said.

Mom put a hand on her hip and said, “You said Keene was part of the reason you won. Was I part, too?”

“Yes, ma'am,” I said. “I wanted to prove Keene wrong just as much as I wanted to prove you right . . . for believing in me.”

Mom smiled. Then she headed for the door as she said, “I'll be right back. I have to go downstairs and pick up the normal-size check so we can take it to the bank.”

“We can't take the big one?” I whined, disappointed because I'd really been looking forward to everyone at the bank knowing I'd won at the
Southern Living
Cook-Off.

Mom shook her head and laughed on her way out the door.

Maybe I can wear my chef's coat to the bank,
I told myself.
And to the grocery store. And to school!

I sat on the bed, thinking things over. For the first time, I understood that sometimes, someone doubting you is as helpful as someone believing in you. I didn't know that before.

Then I sat there waiting for the change. I mean, I was
somebody
now. I'd
won
. My dream had come true and it was a whopper of a dream. That kind of thing had to change a person, didn't it? Of course it did!

So I sat there, waiting for greatness to descend on me, waiting to become a bigger, better person.

But I was still just me.