Fat Cat (7 page)

Meanwhile, pasta me.

16

"T
his is good,"
Peter said as he shoveled in another forkful of my spinach pasta primavera. My dad nodded and kept chewing.

"Excellent, honey," my mom said. "You're hired."

"Gee, thanks."

"I'm serious," she said. "If you'd like to make a little extra money every week, I'd be happy to hire you as our personal chef."

"Great idea," my dad said.

"But--" I didn't want to say anything in front of Peter, but I knew they probably wouldn't want to eat everything I might make. My dad and Peter are pretty partial to their hot dogs and microwave chimichangas.

But then something occurred to me--a way to make my life a little easier.

"Would you do all the grocery shopping?" I asked my mom. "If I gave you a list?"

My mother is no slouch at negotiation. "It depends. How many nights would you cook?"

"How many would I have to?"

She thought about it for a moment. "At least four. That seems to be how many nights we end up ordering takeout."

Then she added the clincher. "And we'll pay you what we save on restaurants."

Considering how paltry my college fund is at the moment, that was too good to pass up.

Besides, I can make a few meals ahead on the weekends and just pop them in the oven when we get home from work. And maybe on the other nights I'll just fix something my father can cook on the grill. A few side dishes and we're there. And now that I'm not watching TV anymore, I actually have the time to cook and still do all my homework.

One more thing. "Do I get to decide what to make?" I asked my mom.

She understood my issue--it had to be something I could legally eat. "Sure."

"Wait," Peter said, "I want pizza."

Whole wheat dough, fresh tomato sauce, veggies, some mozzarella and pepperoni on their half--

"Okay," I said, "I can do that."

"Once a week?" Peter pressed.

My little brother and I shook hands on it. The deal had been struck.

"How come you even stopped cooking anyway?" Peter asked. He took another bite. "You're really good."

"Uh, I just got really busy. With school and stuff."

"But you could have done it in the summers like before."

I got up to start clearing the table, even though I was the only one done eating.

"Yeah," my dad said, "why didn't you? It seemed like you and Amanda had a lot of fun with that."

I took my plate into the kitchen. This conversation would be much easier if I were in another room.

"Well, you know--I had math camp the year after, then chemistry camp, and then last summer I worked in the lab...."

Blah, blah, blah.

They might buy it, but no one who really knew me would. Because the real question, I could have told my little brother, wasn't why I
stopped
cooking after that summer. The real question was why I ever started.

And only Amanda, Matt, and I know the answer to that.

17

I
t was at the seventh-grade science fair
. I had just won--my first time ever. Or since. I was so ecstatic. My parents rushed over to hug me, Amanda was there, and I kept waiting and waiting for Matt to show up. He was in the convention center that night--he'd been competing, too--and I couldn't imagine why my best friend in the whole world hadn't come over to congratulate me the way I'd done all the years when he won.

So I went looking for him. Amanda came, too. I'd just started being friends with her a few months before when she got switched into my English class. I thought she was so funny and nice and talented, and we ended up hanging out a lot during school. All the rest of my free time I still spent with Matt.

So there Amanda and I were, happily walking along, me so excited to share the night with Matt. But then we got closer to his booth, and suddenly my whole life changed.

We didn't mean to eavesdrop. We came around the corner of his
booth and I saw Matt talking to this despicable guy named Willie, and I slowed down and backed up and that's when I overheard them.

I still wish I hadn't.

But the truth is the truth. And science deals in truth.

And the truth is what Matt said stabbed me in the heart.

18

I
was deep into calculus after dinner tonight
when there was a knock at my door.

"Cat?" Peter called. "Can I come in?"

That was kind of odd, but I said, "Sure."

I get along with my little brother just fine, but we don't really have a habit of stopping by each other's rooms to chat. His hair was wet from the shower and he was already wearing his sleep T-shirt and shorts.

He sat on the floor just inside my door, like he was afraid to come all the way in. "Can I ask you something?"

Uh-oh. For a minute I thought he was going to continue grilling me about why I'd hung up my spatula.

But I played it cool. "Sure. I'm ready for a break."

"Um ... you know the cafe thing you and Amanda used to do?"

"Yeah."

Peter picked at my carpeting. "Is she ... gonna come back? You know, and be your waitress?"

"I doubt it," I said. "She has a real job now. And I doubt I could pay her what the restaurant does."

"How much ... would you pay?" Peter asked, not meeting my eye. So now we were getting to the real issue.

"Why do you ask?" I said, smiling to myself in relief.

Peter had been talking mostly to the floor, but now he lifted his eyes. "Could I be your waiter?"

"Sure--you really want to?"

Peter nodded.

"Okay, you're hired," I said, holding out my hand. I left it there until he pushed off the floor and came all the way over to me.

"How much?" he asked, taking my hand.

I thought about it for a moment. "Three dollars a week?"

Peter obviously learned his negotiating skills from our mother. "Ten?"

I sucked in a breath. "That's pretty steep--Mom and Dad aren't really paying me that much."

"Five?"

We shook on it.

"You'll have to dress up," I added, just for my own amusement. "You have to look like a real waiter."

"Okay," Peter said very seriously. As soon as he left and shut the door, I snorted to myself. What a funny little kid--so weirdly earnest sometimes, like he's already in his forties or something.

I wanted to call Amanda so badly. Or at least send her a quick text:
uv bn rplacd
.

I know it's only been three days, but can I just say how much I miss my phone? And my music and IM'ing and my blow-dryer and makeup and junk food and normal life and everything that goes with it?

Am I really going to do this for 204 more days?

19

Day 5, Monday, August 25

Breakfast:
Oatmeal, banana, walnuts, honey.

Technology avoided:
Last night I experimented with using candles instead of electric light. It takes five candles to provide sufficient light for homework--only three if I'm using the computer. Used the computer this weekend for homework only. Resisted checking e-mail or playing music or cruising any of my usual Internet sites. In some ways those things feel even harder to give up than chips and candy.

And just on a personal note, I'm beginning to see what Nancy meant about my digestive system--"interesting" is right. Yow. But it actually feels really good--like I'm getting rid of a lot of gunk. I just don't think that's the kind of thing Mr. Fizer or the judges need to know.

I did, however, include in my notebook a full list of everything I've eaten since last Thursday, including the peanut butter and honey sandwich I made myself for lunch today. The peanut butter came from a jar, but the only things in there were peanuts and salt, so I figure I could have duplicated that at home with a bag of peanuts and a hammer.

But rather than just wait and worry about whether or not Mr. Fizer would approve of all these minor modifications, I decided I'd bring it up with him myself this afternoon. He told us last Friday that we can meet with him as often as we want to make sure our projects are progressing the way they should. I don't want to get two months into this and find out I've messed up.

But when I got to class, I saw I wasn't the only one having a problem.

Kiona was already off in a corner with Mr. Fizer, looking all stressed, showing him the picture she had chosen and discussing it in an intense whisper. I tried to read their lips, but Amanda is much better at that than I am. Thanks to our Sign Language classes, she can eavesdrop as far as her eyes can see.

The bell rang, and Mr. Fizer told us all to carry on with our work. Then he and Kiona went back to talking.

After a few more minutes, Mr. Fizer addressed the class. "Let me remind you of something Einstein once said: 'If we knew what we were doing, it wouldn't be called research, would it?'"

That got a chuckle out of some people, but I was too nervous.

"I don't expect you to have all the answers at this point," Mr. Fizer said. "The purpose of this class is to explore an idea and let it
take you as far as it will. If you pursue a project believing you already know the outcome, what is there left to discover?"

Kiona looked a little calmer after that. She went off to her lab table, but before I could get to the front, Margo hurried to take Kiona's place. She showed Mr. Fizer her research notebook, they talked for a while, and then before anyone else could snag him, I rushed over.

"You've made a discovery, Miss Locke?"

"Yes, sir." And I explained about the pasta and the peanut butter and some other potential transgressions from the weekend.

"Let me see your proposal again," Mr. Fizer said. He read it over, then instead of talking to just me, he once again addressed the whole class.

"Miss Locke raises an interesting issue."

Great. Clearly my pasta violation was a bigger deal than I thought.

"Einstein also said that 'everything should be made as simple as possible, but not simpler.' Think about that. You might find it applies to several of your projects." He handed me back my notebook. "Including yours, Miss Locke."

What was that supposed to mean? I wandered back to my table wishing I had never gone up there. Not only did he make an example of me, but I didn't even understand the example.

I sat there for almost the whole period, just staring at my proposal. I couldn't see what to do.
Everything should be made as simple as possible, but not simpler?
Okay ... and?

I was so absorbed I didn't even see him come up. "Making things hard for yourself again, Cat?"

I quickly slapped my notebook closed. "No. Go away."

"So how's it going?" Matt asked.

"Fine. Great." I gazed somewhere off to his left. I'm still not ready
for people to see me full-faced, looking the way I do. Especially not Matt.

"I'm serious," Matt whispered. "How's it going?"

"What do you care?" I snapped.

"I just thought--"

"Please go away, all right? I'm busy here."

And I couldn't believe it--he actually looked ... hurt. Come on! As if he hasn't noticed we're not exactly friends anymore.

Matt stood there a moment longer, then turned and walked away without another word. Good. Go. Thank you.

But then why did I have to spend the next five minutes sitting there feeling guilty?

But I didn't have time to worry about Matt McKinney's supposedly hurt feelings. Mr. Fizer was expecting some brilliant answer by the end of class, and I didn't have it.

And then suddenly I did.

Matt was right. As were Mr. Fizer and Albert Einstein. I'm always making things too complicated. I have the same problem in math, as Matt well knows--I want to take the long way around a problem, when sometimes there's a much shorter, more elegant answer. Sometimes all I have to do is cut out a few extra steps and I'm there.

So I made a few simple adjustments:

A.
Rules:

1. Subject may eat only the kinds of foods that would have been available to early hominins. This means nothing as few processed, manufactured, chemically altered, or preserved foods as Possible.

Once I did that, everything else still fit. I don't have to eat
exactly
what the hominins ate, I just need to stick to foods in the categories that they had back then: fruits, vegetables, grains, beans, nuts, meat. And I can make sure I'm eating modern foods in the simplest, least processed form possible--brown rice instead of white rice, whole wheat flour instead of all-purpose white--that sort of thing.

Plus this way I can make things like pizza for my little brother instead of forcing my family to live off of roots and grubs.

I'm sure I would have seen that eventually. I didn't technically need Matt's stupid comment. It was just a matter of timing. And what was he doing butting in anyway? He doesn't even know what my project is about. He should be worrying about his own project instead of coming over and bothering me.

I took my revised proposal to Mr. Fizer. He reread the whole thing, then nodded. "Proceed."

I caught Matt's eye. And this time he looked away first. Fine with me. If he was expecting me to come over and apologize or thank him for spurring me to a solution, forget it.

I don't care if he thinks he did me the biggest favor in the world today. It's going to take a lot more than that.

20

A
s soon as I walked into work
, my mom sent me right back upstairs. Her registered-dietician friend, Jackie, had a cancellation and could see me if I came right away.

I wasn't really sure how it was going to go. I sort of stumbled and stammered my way through an explanation of the project, half expecting her at any point to jump in and be just as skeptical as Nancy and my mother had been.