Honestly elliott, p.1
Honestly Elliott, page 1
Also by Gillian McDunn
Caterpillar Summer
The Queen Bee and Me
These Unlucky Stars
For Jon
CONTENTS
PART ONE: Split-Down-the-Middle Pie
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
PART TWO: Monday-Morning Pie
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
PART THREE: School-Project Pie
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
PART FOUR: Desperation Pie
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
BABY BROTHER PIE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
PART ONE
Split-Down-the-Middle Pie
CHAPTER 1
If you saw me in the kitchen, you would think that I’m the kind of person who has it all together.
That’s because cooking is my secret power. It’s my favorite thing to do. And it also happens to be the place where I am most completely myself.
In the kitchen, I’m not my regular old always-late, homework-forgetting, not-many-friends, extra-disorganized self. When I become Chef Elliott, I’m focused. Confident. Decisive. I look at a pile of ingredients and see all the possibilities stretching out before me—everything that they can become—and I transform them into something bigger and better. When I start to cook, I’m calmed and energized at the same time. It’s like a magnetic force I can’t resist.
Which is probably why this Sunday afternoon—while Dad and Kate are out—I find myself poking around their kitchen. Even though it’s maybe, technically, a little bit off limits. Which is unfair. But that’s Dad and Kate for you.
A kitchen can tell you a lot about a person. Take Mom’s, for instance—she lets me cook whatever I want. When I first got into cooking, she said, “I’m glad you have an interest in something, Elliott. But first I need to make sure you know how to be safe.”
So I proved to her that I’m extremely careful when I cook. After she watched me long enough, she understood that I’m not going to set the house on fire or accidentally stab myself or cause a similar kind of catastrophe. Since then, I’m free to cook what I want when I’m there.
Mom’s kitchen is the one I think of as mine. It’s less than half the size of Dad and Kate’s. The counters are old, and they’re made of sunny yellow tile. The gas stove has a couple of burners that can be finicky, and the cupboards are crowded. But that kitchen is also warm and cozy. It’s the place that feels like home.
The only thing about that kitchen is that I have to share it with a bunch of plants. The kitchen gets the best light in the house, and Mom has a giant green thumb, so we have at least a zillion1 leafy green things hogging the counter at all times. If I complain, she says, “But, Elliott, have a heart. This one needs just a bit more sunlight to get big and strong. You know that the closest thing to magic is when I get to watch something grow right in front of my eyes.”
Inevitably, she gets all teary and reaches out to rumple my hair in this specific way that shows that means me growing too, not just her plants. I try not to roll my eyes because she’s a good mom, even though she’s mushy sometimes.
On Friday, before I left for Dad’s, she showed me the latest addition.
Mom stared at the jar like it was made of rainbows and diamonds. “See, Elliott?”
I peered at the container. Most of Mom’s plants are leafy or at least green. But this one wasn’t either. It was just an avocado pit floating in water, suspended by toothpicks.
So that’s what I said: “Mom, this is just an avocado pit floating in water, suspended by toothpicks.”
She grinned. “Look closer.”
When I squinted, I could barely glimpse the tiniest sprout that ever sprouted. Just a little white nothing pushing through the round brown seed.
Mom sighed. “This is it—this is the year I finally grow us our very own avocado tree.”
I frowned. “It doesn’t look like a tree. It doesn’t look like much of anything.”
Mom laughed, but she also pulled the jar close to her heart, like she was protecting it.
“Hush! You’ll hurt her feelings.”
My eyebrows popped up. “Her?”
She nodded, gently sliding the jar into a beam of sunshine. “Beth. Or maybe Imogene. I haven’t decided.”
So that’s Mom. She’s always been the type of person who sees the potential in things, and I guess I can’t blame her for that.
Another main kitchen in my life is my best friend Malcolm’s, which is right across the street from Mom’s.
This is the story of me and Malcolm becoming best friends: a few years ago, The Divorce happened, and Mom said, “Elliott, we need a fresh start.”
So Dad kept the house with the emerald-green lawn and the three-car garage and the neighborhood swimming pool with a water slide and giant diving board. Mom and I moved to our crooked little house in downtown Avery, where everything feels older and squished together but also more alive.
About ten seconds after the moving truck unloaded, Malcolm was on our porch, a basketball tucked under his arm.
“Hey,” he said. “I’m Malcolm. Want to play?”
And that was it, easy as pie. It didn’t take long for us to become best friends. Unlike a lot of kids, Malcolm never cared that I am terrible at sports. He would just shrug and say, “Don’t worry, Elliott—it’s no big deal. No one cares.”
Maybe that was true at one point, but now that I’m in sixth grade it sure doesn’t feel that way anymore. These days, when I goof up the other kids say, “Come on! Don’t you ever pay attention?” And sometimes they call me Smelliott.
That never happened once when Malcolm was around. He’s the kind of kid who’s automatically good at everything—sports, school, drawing, you name it. That’s another reason why I felt lucky to be his friend. I’m not good at everything. I’m not even good at most things. Especially sports. Especially school. And especially keeping my mind on one track.
The last part is because I have ADHD, otherwise known as attention deficit hyperactivity disorder. Otherwise known as: my brain is stubborn and likes to do its own thing. I think of it like this: Some people have regular brains—Dr. Gilmore says neurotypical. If you ask one of those brains to do something they probably say stuff like this: “Yes, absolutely! I would be happy to get that done for you on the double! Math equations? Fantastic! Paying attention to a little white ball, even though we’re all the way out here in right field and no one hits it out here anyway? I’d love to!”
Yeah, that’s not how my brain is.
If my brain isn’t extremely interested in what’s happening, it’s like: That’s it, buddy! I’m out of here!
Then it just stomps off down the hall or leaps out the window or dances around on a pogo stick instead of sticking with me.
One more thing about my brain—and this is the tricky part: even when I really want to stay focused, my brain sometimes takes off anyway. Sometimes I’m in a conversation and then I realize that I haven’t heard anything the other person has said in the last ten minutes. It’s like there’s one Elliott who is there and listening and then there’s another one who is off thinking about something that happened earlier that day, or planning a meal to make later, or noticing how sometimes clouds are fat and sometimes they’re stretched out really thin and what makes that happen? Or, what if we lived in a world where dandelions were considered fancy flowers and roses were considered weeds?2
The only place that never happens to me is the kitchen. So you can understand why that’s the right place to see me, if you want to know me at my best.
Okay, back to Malcolm’s kitchen. His one mom Janice is an amazing cook, and she taught me a lot. How to hold a knife and the way to rock the blade in a smooth motion. Why everything should be cut around the same size so it all cooks evenly. How to taste, taste, taste at every step. Why any recipe that calls for a teensy amount of salt and doesn’t tell you to add it in layers throughout the cooking process is basically a lie.
Their kitchen is on the older side, like Mom’s, but with a smooth counter and heavy stainless steel cookware and exceptionally sharp knives. Janice is the chef of the family, but his other mom, Grace, is a minimalist, so everything in their kitchen has to do more than one task. For example, no hard-boiled-egg slicers or cherry pitters, because you can do just as good of a job with a knife, which does both of those jobs plus a few thousand more.
Grace also believes in Tidying Up, so everything always has its very own place. Even the wok that’s twice the size of my head. Even the smallest jars of expensive saffron threads and dried lime leaves and black cumin seed, tucked in the very back of the spice drawer.
I know that kitchen so well, I could cook there blindfolded—or I could anyway, if they still lived there. Last summer, Janice and Grace rented out their house. They bought an RV and are homeschooling Malcolm while they drive all around the country having adventures.
They were supposed to come back this summer. I’m not joking when I say I was counting the days. But last week, Malcolm sent me a postcard that said they’re going to spend another year on the road.
Usually, I keep every single one of his postcards. Usually, I tape them to my wall.
But that one I crumpled up and threw in the recycling bin.
Best friends should never move away. Too many things have changed this year, or are about to change. Every single thing in my life has gotten worse since Malcolm left, if you really want to know the truth.
CHAPTER 2
Last year—right after Dad and Kate got married—the house projects began.
Kate likes things a certain way. First, she redid all the bathrooms even though they were perfectly fine. Then she painted every wall in the house. Before, they were just normal, but now the house has a color scheme she “borrowed” from one of the decorators she follows online. The rooms are painted Evening Leap, Gossamer Fog, and Coastal Yearning. They’re all in-between-type colors: not quite beige, not quite gray, not quite eggshell. There’s a reason they don’t make a crayon called Coastal Yearning—can you imagine how much that would confuse a kindergartner?
The next project was changing our old deck into a screened-in porch.
Then she hung a monogrammed thing on the front door with her and Dad’s initials. It’s pink. Enough said.
She even decorated my room—which was supposed to be a surprise for my birthday. For the record, that is not a very good birthday surprise.
“Oh,” I remember saying when she showed me. She stood there waiting, like she was expecting me to jump up and down with delight that my walls were now Whispered Wish and there were sailboats on every available surface. And I do mean every available surface. On my comforter. A big painting on the wall by my bed. Wooden sailboats on my bookshelves. And, unbelievably, a sailboat trash can next to my desk. As soon as I saw it, I wanted to throw that trash can right into the trash can, if you know what I mean.
Over my desk was another monogrammed thing, this time with my initials: EQS. I bet you don’t know many people with a Q as an initial. That’s a tradition in my dad’s family—the firstborn kid always has Quigley for a middle name. It’s the kind of thing that never comes up, but it’s nice knowing it’s there. It’s like a secret handshake, or an invisible thread that ties Dad and me together. That part was actually okay.
But the rest of it? I just shook my head. Even though I know she worked hard on it. Even though I know it was supposed to be a special surprise.
Of course, I couldn’t say any of that. All I could say was: “Oh.”
Around the fourth time I said it, Kate’s mouth turned down. Then she left the room kind of quickly. Her footsteps echoed as she went down the hall. The door to their bedroom clicked shut.
Dad sighed. “Honestly, Elliott—you should appreciate that Kate made an effort. She spent a lot of time on this.”
Deep in my heart, I know that Kate is actually a nice person. That should make things better, but sometimes it makes it worse. Because maybe I need to be nicer. Maybe I need to do more. But I am trying, whether Dad and Kate see it or not.
I flopped on the bed, pushing aside a pillow that looked like a buoy. “I know she tried. But sailboats, Dad? I hate the ocean. I can barely swim!”
Dad made me apologize to Kate. I didn’t mean to make her feel bad. But I also don’t think I was wrong for wanting the one room in the house that was supposed to be mine to actually feel a little bit like me.
Kate’s next project was the kitchen. This is one project I didn’t mind one bit. Even now, months later, it still makes me catch my breath when I see it. It’s the opposite of Mom’s—there’s nothing warm or wobbly or old happening here.
Walking into this room is like stepping onto the set of one of those food channel kitchens. My favorite famous chef is Griffin Connor, who has his main show, Cheftastic!, along with six other spinoff-type shows—some are competitions, some are more travel related, some are kind of a mix of both. All of them feature Griffin Connor screaming at lots of different kinds of people. Some people think Griffin Connor is obnoxious—Mom can’t stand the way he calls people Muffinheads and throws muffins at them.
“It’s rude and disrespectful,” she says. “And also a waste of food.”
She doesn’t understand that it’s only because he wants everyone to do their best. There’s a price to be paid for brilliance. (That’s what Griffin Connor says anyway.)
Today the house is extra quiet because Dad and Kate are at their class. Usually they go Sunday evenings when I’m already dropped off at Mom’s, but today they held it earlier for some reason.
I trace my hands over the cool marble countertops. Sleek and crisp, not a houseplant to be found. An enormous sink is set into the island. A separate, smaller prep sink is stationed near the fridge.
The best part of all is the professional range. It’s twice as big as the old one and has eight burners with red dials. This is the type of stove that Griffin Connor uses on his show. It’s much better than the stove at Mom’s.
The whole kitchen is spotless. Gleaming. It’s begging to be used.
And here’s the part that really burns me up: no one ever uses it.
Okay, sometimes they make simple foods. I’ve seen Kate boil water for pasta. Occasionally, Dad makes pancakes. But otherwise, most everything is salads or takeout. It’s a complete waste of those super hot burners. With them, I could get a better sear on meats. Sautéing would be a breeze. Don’t even get me started about what it could do for my stir-frying.
Inside the refrigerator are mostly vegetables—lettuces, peppers, and cucumbers. Bottles of fat-free salad dressing. One package of boneless chicken breasts on the bottom shelf. A takeout container sits next to the peach-flavored sparkling water that Kate likes.
I move on to the walk-in pantry. Lots of basics—peanut butter, jelly, pickles, canned salmon, a jar of rice. There’s a whole shelf of energy bars and protein shake stuff, which Dad got into around the time he met Kate. Before that, he was just regular-looking Dad. He had hair that was naturally messy, like mine, and he bought cheese puffs in those big plastic jars.
That Dad is long gone. Now he lifts weights and goes for runs and uses gel that makes his hair crunchy. The kitchen has been cheese-puff-free for at least a year. Maybe longer.
Lately, everything is so serious with Dad. Some of that is my fault, I know. I may have slightly messed up a couple of times this year. And by slightly, I mean even more than the regular, everyday kind of Elliott mess-up. I mean that I messed up in an exceptionally huge way. Twice.
A big mess-up at school—let’s call that Almost Failing Sixth Grade. And a big mess-up here at Dad’s, which I just think of as The Incident.
The Incident was a mess-up that topped every mess-up in the history of Elliott.
It is also why I had to start seeing Dr. Gilmore.
I do not like to talk about it.3
But it’s not just because of the Almost Failing and the Incident. Some of what’s changed is just Dad—the new Dad. The married-to-Kate Dad. The Elliott-better-shape-up Dad. The big-changes-are-coming-soon Dad.
The next shelf has a spice organizer. Most of the jars are still sealed, and the others are barely used. One by one, I examine them. Pink peppercorns, cumin, cinnamon, galangal—I wonder what made them buy that one, sesame seeds, poppy seeds—maybe Kate made muffins, I know she likes the lemon poppy-seed kind at the bakery, and dried basil,4 yuck.
Then there’s about six kinds of pasta. I pick up one of the boxes of the linguine, which reminds me of what Griffin Connor made on Cheftastic! last week—sesame noodles. They were rice noodles—not wheat like these, but they’re about the same size and shape. On the screen, they looked so good I could almost taste them.
The idea comes to me as I start to leave the pantry. I know they don’t really want me to cook while they’re gone. Honestly, they don’t really want me to cook even when they’re here. I tried once, and it was a disaster.
