How It Feels to Fly(60)

“Math problem!” she calls out. “How many servings are in this lasagna pan?”

I stare at it. “Um. Eight?”

“Wrong! Twelve.” She indicates with her knife where the cuts will be. “How many calories are in this package of ricotta?”

I read the label and gulp. “Seven hundred.” That’s, like, an entire meal. I have to put the container down fast. I feel gross just touching it.

You are gross. So disgusting—

“What is seven hundred divided by twelve?”

“Uh.” I flounder until Dominic rescues me:

“Fifty-eight and a third.”

Katie gapes at him.

“What?” he says. “I’m good at math.”

Lisa takes my chin with two fingers and tips my face up toward hers. “If we use one container of this ricotta on each layer of lasagna, that’s just over a hundred and sixteen calories’ worth of ricotta in a single serving. How do you feel about that?”

Mortified. I feel mortified. “Better, I guess.”

“And what are these?” She shakes the pasta box at me.

“Whole-wheat noodles . . .”

“Right.”

“So basically, this lasagna is going to taste like cardboard,” Zoe cracks.

“I’m sorry, what was that?” Lisa asks Zoe, widening her eyes in mock horror.

“I said, this is going to taste like—”

“I thought you said you wanted to help me clean the kitchen when we’re done!”

“What? No!” Zoe steps away from the counter. “No way.”

“It’ll be good for you. Cleaning builds character.”

When Lisa walks across the kitchen to check the oven temperature, Zoe flings a piece of carrot in her direction. It misses and lands between me and Andrew. I’m so keyed up that I don’t stop to think about what I’m doing. I pick the bit of carrot up and throw it back at her.

Zoe looks from the carrot to me, a smile breaking across her face. “Oh, it’s on.”

“Zoe . . . ,” Andrew starts, his tone a warning. Then he gets hit in the head with a piece of uncooked pasta.

“Twenty points to Slytherin!” Zoe spins and launches a slimy slice of eggplant at Jenna. It hits her bare arm and drops to the floor with a splat.

“Ew.” Jenna wrinkles her nose. She lobs a slice of zucchini at Zoe in return.

“Guys, stop!” Yasmin shouts, but it’s too late.

Omar throws a handful of spinach across the counter at Dominic, and Dominic tosses a globe of mozzarella at Katie, and Katie sends a lump of ricotta toward Jenna, and Zoe unscrews the lid to her jar of marinara and— “Hey!” Dr. Lancaster shouts. Hearing her raise her voice is almost as surprising as the fact that we just had a food fight. A short food fight, sure. But it happened. And it was enough to release the tension inside me. For now.

I glance at Andrew. His mouth is twitching.

“It’s all right,” Lisa says dryly from her spot over by the ovens, where she watched the whole twenty-second drama unfold. “They’ve all just earned themselves kitchen cleaning jobs.”

Everyone groans, but no one seems too upset.

We finish assembling our lasagnas and get them into the oven. Then Lisa doles out the chores. I’m put in charge of rinsing dirty dishes, Dominic gets handed a mop, Omar has to put away ingredients, Katie wipes down the countertops, Jenna sets the table for lunch, and Zoe has to take out the trash. Not just the trash we created over the past hour—yesterday’s garbage, too. Zoe struggles past me, holding a giant bag at arm’s length. It smells terrible.

Andrew stays next to me, loading items I’ve rinsed into the industrial-sized dishwasher. “How are you feeling?” he asks.

I spray down a bowl. “Weird.”

“What do you mean?”

“I didn’t love that—but I didn’t have a panic attack. That’s progress, right?”

“How do you think you would have done if this was your first day here?”

“A lot worse.” I shudder and hand him the bowl.

“Then yes, I’d say today was progress.”

“What was your individual challenge, when you were a camper?”

“Dr. Lancaster had me write down all the things my coach and my dad and everyone else said to me, about football. Positive and negative. And then everyone read them at me while I ran passing drills.”

“Wow. That sounds intense.”

“It was. But after a few minutes of hearing it all together like that, it just became . . . noise.” He takes a handful of wet silverware from me and drops it into the dishwasher. “I found a way to stop listening to the voices and get done what I needed to get done.”

“Did you get upset?” No matter how much better I’m starting to feel, I’m pretty sure that I would have imploded in Andrew’s situation.

“I got frustrated, sure. But it made me focus harder.”

I rinse the last few dishes and then ask, “So do you think learning to cook is a good idea for me?” I know Dr. Lancaster’s opinion on the matter, but now I want his.

“Well, you did buy that apron on Friday at the general store. Maybe it’s fate.”

I let out a puff of laughter. “Right, fate. But seriously. Will it make it easier for me to eat in front of people? You’re a psych major—what do you think?”