Cynthia Kadohata - The Thing About Luck

“Yes, of course. I’ve decided to move dinner to eight for this job.”

“Okay.”

“Personally, I believe in three nice, big meals a day, not in those six smaller meals that are so popular today.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Personally, I believe in the traditional method of just about anything.”

Obaachan was watching me glumly. “Yes, ma’am,” I told Mrs. Parker.

“I’d like to get on one of those cooking shows. I think my recipes are just as good. I looked into self-publishing a cookbook; I think it would be a bestseller.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Anyway, you’d better get to making the sandwiches.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

I put the radio down.

Obaachan was pressing her palms against her temples. “She give detail a bad name.”

Obaachan made the sandwiches and went to drive them out to the combines. I went into the bedroom and took out my lucky amber, with the mosquito in it. I pressed it against my forehead for luck and then meditated the way Jiichan had taught me. First I did alternating-nostril deep breathing, then I lay down on my back and spread out my limbs. Thunder took that as an invitation and climbed back and forth over me three times before settling down on my shins. Jiichan liked me to pick a person to open my heart to. I picked Jenson. “I accept you for who you are,” I said. I hadn’t even realized he was still in my mind, but apparently, he was. I tried to picture him. But usually when I closed my eyes, all I saw were chaotic lights and shapes. Mrs. Parker once said she could see pages and pages of writing in her head if she’d just read a book. She could pick out a page number and know exactly what was on that page.

After I did my breathing, I opened my heart to Jaz, as Jiichan sometimes asked me to do. Then I tried to untangle some of what I saw when I closed my eyes. I could never quite meditate because of the chaos in my head. After a while I thought I was awake ... unless I was asleep. The next thing I knew, Jaz was leaning his face a foot over mine.

“Hey, Summer?” Jaz asked.

“You surprised me!” I yelped.

“Two kids at school said I’m a freak.”

“Which two kids?”

“Just two kids.”

“You’re not a freak,” I said.

“Why do you think they said it, then?”

“Because they don’t know what they’re talking about,” I told him firmly.

“Summer, can you just answer honestly?”

I considered that and decided to tell him what my true opinion was at that moment. “I think you’re a very intense boy and are really good at concentrating, and Jiichan says people like that are very successful in life.”

“Like thinking hard can make me successful?” Jaz asked. Something in his voice indicated that he was already moving on from the idea that he was a freak and was now playing with the possibility that he was a great thinker.

“Yes.”

“That’s interesting,” he said, clearly pondering which particular type of greatness he should aspire to.

I could hear voices in the kitchen and realized Robbie was talking to Obaachan. I really wanted to go out there to see Robbie, but Jaz’s earnest expression—with a few scars on his forehead—told me that he needed my full attention right then.

“So why can’t I make friends with any kids from school?”

Trying to be helpful, I said, “Sometimes you say the wrong things at the wrong time.” I heard Robbie saying, “Okay, thanks, bye,” then I heard the door open and close. Rats.

“How can you say the wrong thing at the wrong time?” Jaz asked me. “If you have a thought, why not say it?”

“It’s like that time the teacher said you started singing during a test.”

“I got an A on that test.”

I ignored that and said, “There was that time we went into town and you asked that boy from your class if he wanted to come over and play.” I felt the camper shake from the wind. Tonight would be dry and windy. The dust and bits of cut wheat would make the combines look like gigantic tumbleweeds.

“What was wrong with asking him that?”

“You can’t just ask someone that.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s not your friend yet.”

“How can he become my friend if he doesn’t come over?”

Jaz was making my brain hurt. I heard Obaachan growling and pushed myself up, then pulled my knees in close and rested my chin on them. I didn’t know what to say. He was a strange boy.

“You’ll make another friend,” I said finally. “It just might take time.” I stood up. “I have to help Obaachan. You coming?”

“No.”

In the kitchen Obaachan was making lasagna. She didn’t even turn her head. “You make brownies,” she ordered.

“How did you know it was me?”

“I have eyes on back of head.”

I took out the mixing bowl. “You always lecture me to tell the truth.”

“I never lie.”

“But you just said you have eyes on the back of your head.”

“Did I know who come in without looking?”

“Yes.”

“Then I no lie.”

At almost eight, we drove dinner out to the combines. I’d seen Robbie on a dirt bike ahead of us. At the combines, Obaachan and I arranged all the food on the open bed of the pickup, buffet style. We’d set out a bunch of folding canvas chairs for everyone. The drivers all stretched their necks and backs before turning to the food.

“It’s lasagna,” I said proudly, even though I hadn’t made it. “And brownies for dessert.”

Mrs. Parker was already looking over the food. “Oh, dear, the broccoli is overcooked.” She turned to me and Obaachan. “If there’s one thing I hate, it’s overcooked vegetables. Wasn’t that included in the directions at the start of my menu book?”

Obaachan didn’t say a thing, so that left it to me to admit, “We didn’t get a chance to read the whole preface. The broccoli is still kind of crunchy.”

“Oh, honey, you must read the preface. It’s my whole theory of cooking. I just wrote it this year. It needs to be a tad crunchier.”

“I’m sorry. I’ll read it, I promise.” I felt totally deflated. She leaned over and lightly sniffed the lasagna but didn’t comment. She only glanced at the brownies.

Everybody grabbed the reusable plastic plates and utensils and sat down. I stood watching. Mick stuck a big forkful of lasagna in his mouth, then made an unpleasant face. When he had swallowed, he said, “A bit cheesy, isn’t it?” Right then and there, I decided I hated Mick.

Mrs. Parker looked offended. “It’s my own personal recipe.” Then she took a bite, smacked her mouth together a few times, and shook her head. “Oh, no, no, no. This is all wrong. Too much Parmesan and no basil at all.”

Since Obaachan obviously wasn’t going to participate in this conversation, I said, “There actually wasn’t any fresh basil at the store.”

Finally, Obaachan said, “Not enough Parmesan in your recipe. Lasagna need—what you call it?—tang. I put more in.”

Mrs. Parker looked at Obaachan as if she couldn’t believe her ears. There was a deadly silence.

Then Mr. Parker said, “Oh, come on, honey, it’s actually good. I like the tang.”

She looked at him as if she was going to take a butcher knife and plunge it into his heart.

“Tang. No tang. All I know is this is good food and I’m hungry,” he said. “Sit down and eat, sweetheart. Mick, cheese is good for you.”

Mrs. Parker turned to Obaachan. “This must be the last time, and I do mean the last, that you deviate from a recipe.”

Obaachan said, “What ‘deviate’?”

“It means change,” Mrs. Parker answered. “You must follow my recipes exactly. I just want you to know that before I married my husband, I went to cooking school and worked as a chef for seven years.”