Chapter 14

Lacey texted back as Nora was about to leave for her cooking class. So sorry I've been MIA. Super busy! Hope all is well and you don't need anything urgent. Talk soon. xoxo

She hoped Nora didn't need anything urgent? Still riding the high of standing up to Dad, Nora was ready to take on Lacey's avoidance too. If the mountain wouldn't come to Muhammad... she was stopping by Lacey's house after cooking class.

The chef's studio was on Springdale Road above a Caribbean restaurant. The music was blaring, the thump, thump, thump keeping time as she walked up the narrow staircase.

At the end of the hall was a door and a neat little plaque on the wall that announced the Saucepot Kitchen Classroom. Nora opened the door and peeked her head inside.

"Come in!" A woman in a chef's coat gestured her inside. "Don't be shy."

The room was dominated by a large metal table that stretched the length of the room and ended at a bank of windows overlooking the street. Pots and pans hung overhead, and on one side of the table, people were seated on the metal stools. On the opposite wall, behind the chef, were eight cooktops. At each seat was a set of mixing bowls, utensils, and a folded kitchen towel. Plates and serving bowls were stacked neatly at the end of the table.

"Take a seat, hon," the chef said.

Nora's pulse quickened. The ghost of Nora may have been too awkward and anxious to meet new people, but the new Nora was too eager. She waved. "Hello, everyone!"

She got a few mumbles and no direct eye contact in return.

She slid onto a metal stool next to the stacked plates and surreptitiously checked out her classmates. Two men she assumed were a couple—one had his hand around the other's shoulders as they looked over the course notebook together. Two older women she assumed were not a couple but possibly sisters given their identical tightly wound gray curls. A young man who wore a knit cap low over his brow and his greasy long dark hair. And next to Nora, a woman with a girl who looked to be about twelve years old. She was wearing Air Jordans. Nora would know those kicks anywhere—they'd been all the rage when she'd played basketball as a teen.

The girl must have felt Nora looking at her because she slowly turned her head to scowl with contempt before turning her gaze back to her phone.

"I think this is everyone," the chef said, consulting a paper. "All right! My name is Bernice Williams, and I will be your chef instructor for this course. Now, at each place, you'll find a notebook with the recipes we'll be covering in this class, along with a kitchen towel, mixing bowls, and utensils, all of which are property of this class. But the apron is complimentary and yours to take home. Please bring it to class with you. You may unfold them now and put them on."

Everyone dutifully unfolded the red cloth aprons embroidered with a saucepot and put them on. Nora felt almost euphoric, surrounded by bottles of oil and spices and a bowl piled with heads of garlic, lemons, zucchini, eggplants, and tomatoes. After years of wishing, she was finally doing it—she would learn to cook.

She couldn't help herself. "This is kind of cool, right?" she whispered to the girl as she tied her apron strings at her waist.

The girl ignored her.

"Do you like to cook?" she asked.

"No."

The girl responded loudly enough that the chef looked at her, but the girl's attention had already slid back to her phone.

Bernice charmingly promised that they would be well on their way to being excellent cooks at the end of the six-week class. When she asked everyone to open their notebooks, the girl's mother took her phone and deposited it in her purse. The girl sighed loudly, propped her chin in her hand, and stared straight ahead, expending a lot of energy in the work of active disinterest.

"To begin, we will review Italian cooking techniques. Tonight we're making a garlic sauce to put on sautéed eggplant. The sauce is also suitable for other vegetables, such as potatoes or zucchini, and it's very easy to make. Anyone could do it. A trained seal could do it."

The class laughed, but the girl looked dubiously at Nora.

Bernice held up a long purple vegetable. "Does anyone know what this is?"

"Japanese eggplant," one of the older women said.

"Correct. The taste of this variety is milder and the skin softer than the eggplant you may be accustomed to seeing in the markets. You can sauté, steam, or roast this vegetable, which makes it perfect for the urban dweller."

Nora was an urban dweller. She made a mental note to plant some in her garden.

"We'll begin by sautéing the eggplant. Who among us has not sautéed eggplant?"

Nora's hand shot up.

"Oh my God," the girl said contemptuously and angled her body away from Nora.

Bernice handed out cutting boards and big knives. She demonstrated how to cut the eggplant, first slicing it down the middle, then cutting the halves into chunks. She invited everyone to take their eggplant and do the same, and the class began to chop with a vengeance. Even the girl was chopping. Her pieces were more uniform and smaller than Nora's.

Nora meant to compliment her, but when she turned, she was distracted by a shadow of movement at her feet. She glanced down as a basketball rolled out from beneath the girl's stool and touched Nora's foot. Willow was written across it in big silver letters.

A painful memory pierced Nora's glee for a moment. She bent down to get the basketball at the same moment the girl snatched it from Nora's reach.

"Is that yours?" Nora asked.

"Duh."

"You like basketball?"

Willow stared at Nora like she was an imbecile, which, okay, her question was stupidly rhetorical. "I like basketball too."

The girl rolled her eyes and returned her basketball to its place beneath her stool.

"Okay, have we all chopped our eggplants?" Bernice asked. "Now we'll salt the pieces. Does anyone know why we salt the eggplant?"

The guy with the knit hat said, "To pull out the moisture and some of the bitterness."

"Very good! Perhaps you should be teaching this class." Everyone laughed except Willow.

They salted their pieces and patted them dry with paper towels, then took their cutting boards to the cooktops where Bernice had set up woks. She showed them the correct amount of oil to add to the pan. Too much and the eggplant was oily. Not enough and the eggplant wouldn't taste right. "The last thing anyone wants is mushy eggplant," Bernice gravely informed them.

As they cooked, she moved down the row, observing. She leaned over Nora's shoulder and said, "Goodness, those are some big pieces. Cut pieces about one inch in size next time. Stir more vigorously, hon."

"Got it," Nora said. As Bernice moved away, Nora smiled at the girl.

"Your eggplant looks like chunks of barf," Willow observed.

"Willow!" Over the top of her daughter's head, the girl's mom gave Nora the universal head shake of parental disappointment.

"It does, sort of." Nora stirred harder. "So anyway, I loved basketball when I was your age. I always thought I'd be a pretty good point guard."

"Because you sucked at shooting?"

Nora's mood was sliding from euphoric to short on air, and not just because Willow was spot-on. Because she'd loved basketball until she wasn't allowed to love it. She'd never talked about that night of the basketball slaughter to anyone but the corner store guy. Funny how she could feel so safe with someone after a few short hours. It had been the perfect alchemy of mental and physical attraction.

"Great job, everyone," Bernice announced. "Please plate your eggplant and return to your prep area."

Bernice handed out whisks and explained the proper amount of peanut oil, soy sauce, and ginger to whisk together. She showed them how to peel and chop garlic and scallions, then instructed them to add those to the liquid. She gave her advice on using garlic and said that spices will make or break the simplest or most complex dish.

Nora managed to whisk some of her concoction onto the metal table.

"You suck at cooking too," Willow said.

Willow was warming up to her. "I know, hello,that's why I'm here. What's your excuse?"

"My mom made me. Hello," she said, mimicking Nora.

They returned to the stovetops to cook the sauce. When the scallions and garlic were properly translucent, they poured the sauce over their eggplant pieces.

The time had come for a taste test. They were all given forks and lined up to move down the row and sample the dishes. Most everyone gave compliments. Bernice gave constructive feedback. Willow gave sharp criticism, offering a loud opinion on every dish—too salty, too mushy, just gross. And when she came to Nora's, the last one, she took one bite and made a face. "Your chunks are too hard. And it's too garlicky. And something else tastes nasty."

"Willow Faye! Will you please stop being so rude?" her mother implored. She also tasted Nora's dish and made a valiant effort to keep from spitting it out. The others barely dipped their forks into the dish.

Bernice was last. She very carefully put a bite in her mouth. "Oh!" She coughed. "The eggplant is not cooked through, hon. Plus, I think you got a little happy with the garlic. Did you follow the instructions?"

She was failing already? "Yes, I think so." She looked at her book. "The butter and oil, the three tablespoons of garlic—"

"Oh dear. T-s-p means teaspoons."

Nora looked at the recipe. Tsp. "Oh." How could she be so bad at this right out of the gate? She felt hot with embarrassment and ineptitude. The ghost of Nora wanted to slink out of the kitchen and never return. So did the new Nora, but she was too humiliated, especially in front of Willow. What a loser she would be if she left. So she gamely tried to muster as much courage as she could in order to stay.

Bernice gave her a motherly pat on the back. "New to the kitchen? Don't you worry, hon. We'll turn you into a cook."

Sure, just like law school had turned her into a "lawyer."

As they packed up their leftovers, Bernice said they would continue their tour of Italian cuisine next week and learn how to make pasta.

Great! What could possibly go wrong?

Nora tried not to be completely deflated by her abysmal first outing as she walked out of class behind Willow, who had her ball tucked under her arm.

The moment they were on the sidewalk, Willow began to dribble. Her mother paused to put Willow's apron in her bag and noticed Nora. "She'd be on the court all day if I let her."

Nora could remember feeling like that. She ate, slept, and dreamed basketball. "Don't you like basketball?" she asked Willow's mother.

"I do. But I'm a single mother of three and don't have time to be at the Y every day after school and on weekends, you know?"

Nora did know. "I'm Nora, by the way."

"Tanya," her mother said. "Willow, please stop."

"Hey, Willow?" Nora dropped her garden tote and apron onto the sidewalk. "May I try?"

Willow looked at her mother, who gave her an impatient nod. Willow passed the ball so hard that it forced Nora back a step. Nora turned the ball in her hands. It had been years since she'd picked up a ball. She began to dribble. She was tentative for a moment, but then began to dribble like she was on a court. She passed the ball back and forth between her hands in a crossover pattern. She remembered how to dribble the ball low in a square, to pass it in front and behind her, then between her legs.

This was something she could do. With a laugh of surprise, she passed the ball back to Willow. The girl caught the ball easily but stared at Nora, wide-eyed.

"Thankfully I don't suck at dribbling," she said cheerfully. "See you next week!" She picked up her bag and apron and headed for her car.

Time to tackle another item on the reverse bucket list, because Nora had just rediscovered her inner athlete. She was going to play basketball. Somewhere, somehow, she was getting back on the court.