Stir It Up (6 page)

“Well, you see, the tryout day is the same day as the Stuyvesant test,” I begin.

“Well, you can go after!” Dad booms.

“I wish. But it’s the same time, Dad,” I say miserably.

My mom puts her arm around my shoulders.

“Ah, that’s too bad,” he says. “But at least you know you made it. That’s an achievement. Next time, then.”

“Dad, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” I say, speaking quickly before he can interrupt me. “I’d like to do this instead. It’s a once in a lifetime chance — I might even get my own show! Plus, I can take the Stuyvesant test next year.”

Mom interrupts. “Where do you propose to go to school, then, Anjali? You know that even with the scholarship, Forest Hills School is expensive for us. Even on the one in a million chance you win this thing and get your own show, you’ll still have to go to school.”

“I can go to high school here in Queens,” I say. “It’s free, and there is the C-CAP program I told you about.”

“Absolutely not,” my father breaks in. “This is foolishness. You are taking the Stuyvesant test. Period.”

“But, Dad, that’s not a sure thing, either. I might not get in!”

“Rubbish, Anjali,” he says firmly. “You are one of the smartest kids in your school. Of course you’re getting in.”

“Please, Dad —”

“No, the conversation is over,” he says. “Be happy you made the tryout and drop it. This cooking on TV is not your future.”

“Why?” I say angrily.
“Cooking
is our family business. It’s
your
future!”

“Anjali,” my father says, raising his voice. “Do
not
test my patience. Cooking is a
hobby
for you. That’s it — a hobby! Do you think I like standing up in a roti shop all day? It’s not my future by choice, it’s my future by necessity. I want more for you and Anand. You are too young to know what’s good for you. That is my decision to make.”

“But, Dad —”

“No, Anjali!” he yells, making me jump. My mother is looking at the floor. She still has her arm around my shoulders.

“Mom?” I whisper. She shakes her head slightly.

“Deema?”

“Your father knows what’s best for you,
bayti
,” Deema answers softly.

I pull away from my mother and look angrily at them all. Anand has his arms crossed and is slumped on the couch. He won’t look at me. This is worse than having a bucket of ice thrown on my head.

“I don’t even want to go to stupid Stuyvesant! Do any of you even care about that?”

I run to my room and slam the door as hard as I can. I want to break something, to keep screaming, but I know my father would have no problem giving me a smack if I did that. I sit at my desk and stare out the window at the traffic on the Van Wyck Expressway.

There has to be another way. And I’m going to find it.

I sit on the wooden bench and unlace my skates. It’s Saturday. Linc and I are spending the morning at the ice rink at the World’s Fair grounds in Flushing, a few neighborhoods away.

“Anj, it’s too cold to sit out here,” says Linc. “Why can’t we talk inside the skate rental hall?”

“It’s too noisy in there.”

Linc blows into his hands, then shoves them into his pockets.

“I made the Food Network finals,” I blurt out.

Linc pulls his right hand out of his pocket. He slaps the air between us for a high five.
“Pow!”

But before Linc can get too happy, I tell him. “The callback is the same day as the Stuyvesant test.”

Linc puts his hand down. “Aw, crap,” he says. “The same time, too?”

I nod miserably.

“Maybe you can get a special pass or something. They can let you take the test another time,” he says. “You know — a dis — what’s that word?”

“A dispensation?” I say. “Not likely. My parents would have to agree and they’ve already said no.”

Linc hunches into the collar of his coat. “That just sucks,” he mumbles from behind the puffy cloth.

“Linc …” I begin. He cuts his eyes at me. He knows I’ve already got a plan that involves him. “That’s why I need your help,” I say softly.

He’s squirming like I’m about to give him a shot. I can only just see Linc’s eyes over the collar of his coat.

“How do you mean?”

“I’m not taking the Stuyvesant test,” I say firmly. “I
can’t
take it.”

Linc shakes his head. “I’m not gonna have this conversation with you. I don’t like where it’s going.”

“Please, Linc. Please listen,” I say, tugging at the edge of his jacket. “Just hear me out.”

Linc flings himself onto a bench. He’s listening.

“Linc, this means everything to me, even if I have to get in trouble and make my parents angry. If I make the TV show, Mom and Dad won’t stay mad. You should have seen how happy they were about the audition before they found out it’s the same day as the Stuyvesant test.” I’m talking faster before Linc can get a word in. “Imagine me on a TV show! Plus, there’s no guarantee I would even get in to Stuyvesant.”

Linc looks at me and sticks his fist in the air between us. “First,” he says, sticking out his thumb, “your parents will stay mad. Second” — he sticks out his forefinger — “they won’t think any TV show is as important as school, and third — of course you’ll get in to Stuyvesant.”

I take a deep breath.

“Linc, I am going to do it one way or the other. All I’m asking is that you help me a little. I won’t get you in trouble or anything. I just want you to take the Stuyvesant test, then tell me what was on the test after you take it, in case anyone asks me about it. Simple.”

Linc is quiet.

“Okay, Anjali, even if I do, don’t you have to have a parent or someone with you at the Food Network audition?” he asks. “How you gonna get around that?”

“I’ll think of something.”

That night, awake in bed, I do think of cooking. Quietly, I go to our kitchen, where there are always dry coconuts, ready for grating. So I grate. And I think of sweet bread. That’s when something else sweet comes to me — an idea for who can go with me to the Food Network audition as my “parent.”

3 cups flour

1 cup sugar

1 tablespoon baking powder

1 teaspoon salt

2 cups finely grated fresh coconut

1/3 cup raisins (optional)

1 large egg, beaten

1/2 cup evaporated milk

1/2 cup fresh coconut water

1 teaspoon mixed essence or vanilla

1 cup (2 sticks) unsalted butter, melted and cooled

1/2 teaspoon coconut essence

granulated sugar for dusting

1. Preheat oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit. Grease and flour two 9-inch loaf pans.

2. Sift the flour, sugar, baking powder, and
salt together, and stir in the coconut and raisins, if using.

3. In a separate bowl, combine the egg, milk, coconut water, mixed essence or vanilla, butter, and coconut essence.

4. Add the liquid ingredients to the dry ones, mixing lightly but thoroughly so all the ingredients are combined.

5. Pour the batter into the loaf pans, filling them two-thirds full.

6. Sprinkle the top of the batter with granulated sugar and bake for about 55 minutes or until a toothpick inserted into the center comes out clean.

Makes 2 loaves

I braid my ponytail to keep stray hair out of my face during the tryout. My black T-shirt says “Island Spice Roti Shop” on the front. I tuck sneakers into my knapsack along with the small
tawa
Deema bought me a few years back when I was first learning how to make rotis. It’s no bigger than a smallish dinner plate, but it will be good for making the little rotis I’m going to use for my main dish at the audition.

Our house is so quiet. Everyone left for the day. They think I’m on my way to take the test at Stuyvesant, but the only kid I know who’s headed to that exam is Linc. I’m taking the A train to the Food Network studios. I open my umbrella against the sleet that is still coming down. It’s gathered along the curbs, a dirty gray mess I need to leap over when I cross the street. My heavy backpack bangs against my hip each time I jump.

The train is packed with workers headed into the city for the 8 A.M. work shift. Even though it’s so cold
outside, all the bodies packed together make the car way hot. I stand between a fat lady in a fuzzy coat and a tall man in a suit. There are so many people I can’t get near a pole to hold on to, but together we all make a human wall. There’s nowhere to fall even if I lose my footing. I hold my backpack’s loop in my right hand, letting it rest on top of my foot. It’s so heavy it pulls me down, anchors me in place. My shoulder begins to throb.

Forty minutes later the subway pulls into my stop. The constant flow of passengers in and out of the train means I never did get a seat, and now my right shoulder is killing me. When I get to the top of the subway stairs at Fourteenth Street and Eighth Avenue, it’s at least stopped sleeting. I walk through the streets a few more blocks toward Chelsea Market, where the Food Network studios are located.

Inside Chelsea Market I walk along the snaking black hallway toward the middle of the complex to the café, where my “parent” is waiting to accompany me to the audition. She’s wearing jeans and a bright red V-neck sweater. Her blond ringlets frame her face.
It’s the first time I’ve seen her in street clothes. She looks so young and cool.

“Hey, Anjali!” she says, smiling. “You ready?”

I’m glad to see her. “Ready, Chef Nyla,” I say.

“Today I’m just Nyla,” she says. “Your friend Nyla.”

I smile and feel my body relax.

“Let’s go, Nyla.”

I hoist my ten-ton knapsack over my shoulder. Nyla knows her way around this place. I’m right on her heels, following closely. We ride the elevator to the sixth floor.

There’s a young guy sitting behind a tall oval desk and a few kids sitting on the funky modern couches with their parents.

Nyla walks up to the desk and signs us in, then comes to stand beside me. All the chairs are full.

“They said the associate producer will be out to take us to the greenroom shortly,” she tells me.

Ten minutes later, a heavyset woman with cornrows comes out and introduces herself.

“Hey, everybody.” She smiles. “I’m Paula, and I’m gonna take you all back to the greenroom. You’ll have
a little makeup and then the producer will come out and tell you how it’s gonna go.”

All of the kids and their adults file after Paula into a door that leads to a bunch of cubicles, then through a back hallway that looks like it belongs in a warehouse. We finally get to an empty room with some couches and two chairs like you see at the hairdresser. The room is tiny.

“Here you go. It’ll be a little tight, but make yourselves comfortable,” says Paula.

Nyla grabs my hand and heads quickly to the couch, plopping us down abruptly to make sure we have a place to sit. The other contestants — a girl with red hair and a nose ring, an African American boy, and a blond girl with thick glasses and a sharp pageboy haircut — and their parents stand awkwardly in the center of the room or lean on the wall.

A woman with curly blond hair and square purple glasses comes in. She’s wearing a long skirt that looks like a bunch of fabric patches sewn together. The heels on her black leather boots are spiky. She’s also wearing a barely noticeable headset in her ear and holding a little black box in her hand.

“Hi, folks, I’m Brenda Wokowski, the executive producer of
Super Chef Kids.
” This lady is all business, no smiles. “Here’s the breakdown of what will happen today. We’re going to split up into groups of three contestants. The first are” — she looks down at the clipboard she’s carrying and my throat goes tight — “Anjali Krishnan, He Kyong Park, and Jimmy DeFazio.”

I’m up first.

Brenda looks around the room as I step forward along with a heavy kid in a Mets jersey and a slender Asian girl.

“Good,” Brenda says, looking each of us over. “A makeup artist will be coming in here in a second, just to give you a little touch-up for the camera. Nothing fancy. Please tell her if there is anything you’re allergic to.” She pauses again and looks at me and the other girl. “You’re okay,” she says, pointing at me. “You’ll have to put your hair back,” she says to He Kyong.

“After that we’ll take you into the studio and show you your stations,” she finishes. “I’ll see you in a little bit — good luck, guys.”

After Brenda leaves the room, we all just stand there, not really sure of what to do next. He Kyong goes back and sits in the cosmetic chair. Her mother begins to fuss with her hair.

The makeup artist hustles in a few minutes later. He is a young Latino guy with spiky blond hair and a nose ring. He’s also got a headset and a little black box clipped to his black jeans.

“Who’s first?” he says in a singsong voice.

Since He Kyong is already at the mirror she goes first, followed by me, then Jimmy. I pull off my jacket and sit down in the chair after He Kyong gets up.

“Hmmm,” says the makeup artist, whose name is Abelardo. He tilts my chin up with his fingers and looks at my face from different sides. “You have good skin tone, I won’t have to do much.” Abelardo works for a few minutes applying makeup with a sponge to the corners of my mouth and on my upper lip, then uses a big brush to dust my whole face with a powder that he tells me matches my skin tone.

“Fabulous,” he says, putting a little gloss on my lips. “Try not to bite your lips.”

I nod and stare at myself in the mirror. Whoa. I’m surprised to see that I actually look pretty good.

When I come back to the couch, Nyla says, “Beautiful, Anjali.”

Brenda comes back just as Abelardo finishes making up Jimmy, who then mashes a Mets cap backward on top of his head. Along with our parents, we file after Brenda through more hallways and into a large kitchen with five parallel counters, each with a cooktop, drawers, and lots of utensils.

People dressed in black chef’s jackets embroidered with the Food Network logo dash around.

“New blood, Brenda?” a man calls out, smiling, as we walk past.