How Sweet It Is - Alice J. Wisler [26]
“White sauce?” asks the one who I think is named Bobby. He is stocky, and his shirt keeps rising up to show his soft and generous white tummy.
“Why can’t we make a brown sauce?” asks the girl named Rainy as she adjusts a pair of sunglasses over her large, round eyes.
“How about French fries? Can we make them?” A girl with long brown hair jumps out of her chair. I think her name is Lisa.
After that everyone talks at once.
“Let’s just go get some at Burger King.”
“Yeah, their fries are good.”
“Duh!”
“No, you have to go to McDonald’s. They have the best fries.”
“No way!”
“You’re making me hungry.”
“Kids!” I am amazed at the power of my own voice. I have their attention; now what do I do? “Sit down.” I point to the chairs as if they don’t know where to sit. My tone is like a tractor leveling the ground on a spring day. “We are going to listen.” I measure milk and butter with yellow plastic cups I pull out of the paper bag. I turn the heat on low under the saucepan and add butter, flour, then milk. Suddenly I realize I have brought nothing with which to stir the sauce. I open a drawer and find knives. I slide over to another and find forks. “I need a spoon,” I say. The sauce is going to burn if I don’t stir it soon.
“Look to your left,” says Lisa.
“No, her right, dummy!” Bobby’s voice booms across the room.
I look in both directions and find a wooden spoon in a canister filled with utensils. If the canister had been a snake, it would have just had to slither once to make it into the saucepan. Quickly, I stir the melted butter and bubbly milk. I lower the heat.
“Can I go to the bathroom?” asks the girl named Charlotte. This is the first time she has spoken. I tell her she may go.
“Are you Mr. Livingston’s granddaughter?” Joy asks. Flatly, she adds, “He never told us about you.”
“Can we play basketball now?” Bobby asks. I try not to roll my eyes at the group, or scold them like my mother would. “Please come here and watch this sauce.”
“Where do you live? Are you from here?” Joy seems to have a lot of questions.
“Dummy, didn’t you hear? She’s from Atlanta!” This is from the boy with the buzz cut. I now realize his name is Dougy because I see that DOUGY is printed across his green shirt.
“Please get out of your chairs and come here. Now!” I hope my voice sounds authoritative.
They all leave their seats to form a circle around the stove as I stir the white sauce. “It will thicken soon,” I say and just then I notice one child is still seated and shading in some drawing on a notebook page.
“Please come here.” I eye Darren, but he refuses to budge.
“Darren never participates during the inside stuff,” Lisa tells me.
“He’s afraid,” says another.
“He’s scared of stoves,” says Bubba.
Darren looks up. With fire in his eyes he shouts at me, “Cooking is a waste of time! Why did you come here? We don’t need you!”
His words slice a part of my heart.
thirteen
Do not cry, I say to myself, which makes it harder not to cry. I am the only adult in the room— I can’t let them see me fall apart. I focus on the pan on the stove.
“It does get thick,” Lisa observes, chewing on a strand of her brown hair.
“What do you use it for?” Bubba is suddenly interested. I’m not sure why he’s called Bubba; he is one of the scrawniest boys I’ve ever seen, looking no older than a third grader.
“You can add cheese to it and pour it over broccoli or pasta.” I work hard to make my voice even and steady.
The kids don’t care. They just want to go outside. And find the nearest McDonald’s for the best fries.
I wonder what to do next. The clock on the wall says it’s 3:14. How long was this lesson supposed to be? “What do you all make at home?” I ask, hoping to take up some time.
“My grandma doesn’t like to cook.”
“We eat McDonald’s!”
“I like onion rings better than fries,” Dougy informs us.
Darren just sits and draws. When I