I looked up and she waved, and I half waved back. It was nice and all, but I couldn’t imagine going alone, and Coralee would probably set their table on fire, so I just said, nah im good. thx though, and waved again and she was fine with it.

Later, in speech, she asked me for the recipe for the snowballs, and I wrote it down on the back of her English notes.

Everybody’s mostly back to normal now that a month’s gone by and I haven’t collapsed in a puddle in the middle of the hallway. One good change stuck, though. People stopped looking over me and look at me now. It’s nice. Easy. I guess getting sick and disappearing for a while finally turned me visible. Or maybe it was the snowballs. Food is the universal hello.

Now I’m in the kitchen and I’m practicing. I realized something while I was making the cookies in front of the class: I’m my best self when I’m baking. I’m patient and I’m not nervous and I’m good at it. And so now I’m trying to be great at it.

The fish fry is coming up soon, and the big pie Bake-Off. I thought I’d have more time to prepare, practice my skills, but being sick sucked all the time away. And now this is the final part in the plan that I didn’t tell even Coralee or Bert. This is the final piece that will prove to Mom that we have to stay, past the summer, into seventh grade… maybe forever. It will prove I am more myself here and happier here than I could ever be in Tennessee.

No pressure.

For years I’ve had to listen to Mema tell me over the phone about the chocolate mousse or the cranberry apple or the double butter pecan that’s won. The winner gets a one-hundred-dollar gift certificate to Food & Co. and a big blue ribbon. It’s always some mama or grandmama who’s been baking her whole life, and it’s a recipe that’s been passed down for twenty-five million generations. It’s always a safe bet that wins.

But not this year.

This year I am going to be the youngest baker in history to win, and it’s going to be with something brand-spanking-new.

Except I have no idea what to make.

The counter is covered in cookbooks. Some are Mema’s and the pages stick together. Some are mine I brought from home—ones that used to be Mom’s that she never used. I’ve also got every single cooking app open on my iPad. Still nothing.

Grandpa walks in and side-shuffles toward me with a whistle. He’s been in the garage doing his woodworking, and he smells like sawdust and oil.