people must buy so many of his books because they keep hoping he’ll finally write one that they can understand.
“Right,” I say from my seat across the counter. “Because baked apples appear out of nowhere and torpedo random metalheads every day. It’s as common as fathers calling their daughters liars.”
Hank concentrates on slicing an onion into identical quarter-moons and doesn’t answer. I know he has no comeback. After a night spent convincing me that the illogical is logical, he can’t just rewind or else
he’s
the liar. It’s too late anyway, because I believe now, and that can’t be erased.
“Are you
sure
it was apple?” He carefully scoops chopped ginger into a tablespoon, then levels it off with the back of a knife. He tips the ginger into one of the little bowls he’s got lined up, one for each ingredient in the stir-fry he’s making, like he’s prepping for a cooking show.
“What does
that
matter? If it was peach, does that mean it was leprechauns who caused it and not a fairy godmother? Does blueberry mean wood sprites?”
Hank is now looking at his watch, timing the heating of the pan to the exact second. I can’t take it anymore, and I march over and hip-check him aside as he’s fiddling with the flame.
“
Delaney
.”
“This is
not
how you make a stir-fry.” Mom didn’t cook much either, but when she did, there was no measuringspices, no whipping out the ruler to make sure the green pepper slices were exactly one-quarter inch each. She’d just grab a bunch of whatever from the fridge and the pantry, toss it all together, and make something amazing.
That
was magic.
A missing-Mom pang hits me, right in the chest, so I snap back to the two important tasks at hand: (1) stir-fry, (2) apple pie. “You overanalyze
everything.
” I pour oil into the pan and empty the bowls on top of it, sending up a smoky sizzle. Hank hovers nervously behind me and I can tell he wants to snatch the spatula out of my hand. I’d like to see him try.
“You shouldn’t have thrown everything in at the same time, Delaney.”
“Who says?”
“It’s right here in the recipe.” Hank taps the page and then keeps tapping like he can will me to read it. “There are steps. See? They’re numbered. There’s a precise way you’re supposed to do it.”
“Oh well,” I say with a sad sigh. “Too late.” I stir the vegetables. They snap and hiss in a cloud of ginger-scented steam.
Hank folds his arms. “Listen, Delaney, I’m not saying I don’t believe you about the apple—”
“Yes, you
are
.”
“There was only this one incident, correct?”
“One so
far
.” The rice boils over, and he has to stop arguing with me to deal with it.
He doesn’t say anything more while I finish cooking, but he starts right up again as soon as we sit down to eat.
“Okay, say this
was
proof that you’ve inherited—”
“It
was
.”
“It wasn’t something you achieved easily, however, or successfully.”
We’re sitting at the table opposite each other, the long way. It’s uncomfortable and weird. You can tell he never eats in here. Mom and I always ate dinner on the couch in front of the TV. Most of the time the TV wasn’t even on. We’d play music and talk, or sometimes not talk and just be.
No chance of “just being” during this meal. Not with the Master Pontificator holding forth over the meal and spouting nonstop negativity. “Most likely it was an isolated incident. You might have some stunted, recessive version of the gene, but if the ability hasn’t shown up before now, your experience today was probably a fluke.” He scoops up the rest of his rice, the king done with his proclamation, all smug and superior. He loved the stir-fry, obviously, since he’s practically licking the plate, but will he admit it? No. He’s not going to admit anything that gives me a little more power.
“You’re wrong. Let’s go out somewhere. Back to that mall. I’ll prove it.” I’m not
“Right,” I say from my seat across the counter. “Because baked apples appear out of nowhere and torpedo random metalheads every day. It’s as common as fathers calling their daughters liars.”
Hank concentrates on slicing an onion into identical quarter-moons and doesn’t answer. I know he has no comeback. After a night spent convincing me that the illogical is logical, he can’t just rewind or else
he’s
the liar. It’s too late anyway, because I believe now, and that can’t be erased.
“Are you
sure
it was apple?” He carefully scoops chopped ginger into a tablespoon, then levels it off with the back of a knife. He tips the ginger into one of the little bowls he’s got lined up, one for each ingredient in the stir-fry he’s making, like he’s prepping for a cooking show.
“What does
that
matter? If it was peach, does that mean it was leprechauns who caused it and not a fairy godmother? Does blueberry mean wood sprites?”
Hank is now looking at his watch, timing the heating of the pan to the exact second. I can’t take it anymore, and I march over and hip-check him aside as he’s fiddling with the flame.
“
Delaney
.”
“This is
not
how you make a stir-fry.” Mom didn’t cook much either, but when she did, there was no measuringspices, no whipping out the ruler to make sure the green pepper slices were exactly one-quarter inch each. She’d just grab a bunch of whatever from the fridge and the pantry, toss it all together, and make something amazing.
That
was magic.
A missing-Mom pang hits me, right in the chest, so I snap back to the two important tasks at hand: (1) stir-fry, (2) apple pie. “You overanalyze
everything.
” I pour oil into the pan and empty the bowls on top of it, sending up a smoky sizzle. Hank hovers nervously behind me and I can tell he wants to snatch the spatula out of my hand. I’d like to see him try.
“You shouldn’t have thrown everything in at the same time, Delaney.”
“Who says?”
“It’s right here in the recipe.” Hank taps the page and then keeps tapping like he can will me to read it. “There are steps. See? They’re numbered. There’s a precise way you’re supposed to do it.”
“Oh well,” I say with a sad sigh. “Too late.” I stir the vegetables. They snap and hiss in a cloud of ginger-scented steam.
Hank folds his arms. “Listen, Delaney, I’m not saying I don’t believe you about the apple—”
“Yes, you
are
.”
“There was only this one incident, correct?”
“One so
far
.” The rice boils over, and he has to stop arguing with me to deal with it.
He doesn’t say anything more while I finish cooking, but he starts right up again as soon as we sit down to eat.
“Okay, say this
was
proof that you’ve inherited—”
“It
was
.”
“It wasn’t something you achieved easily, however, or successfully.”
We’re sitting at the table opposite each other, the long way. It’s uncomfortable and weird. You can tell he never eats in here. Mom and I always ate dinner on the couch in front of the TV. Most of the time the TV wasn’t even on. We’d play music and talk, or sometimes not talk and just be.
No chance of “just being” during this meal. Not with the Master Pontificator holding forth over the meal and spouting nonstop negativity. “Most likely it was an isolated incident. You might have some stunted, recessive version of the gene, but if the ability hasn’t shown up before now, your experience today was probably a fluke.” He scoops up the rest of his rice, the king done with his proclamation, all smug and superior. He loved the stir-fry, obviously, since he’s practically licking the plate, but will he admit it? No. He’s not going to admit anything that gives me a little more power.
“You’re wrong. Let’s go out somewhere. Back to that mall. I’ll prove it.” I’m not