today and try our new Seven-Layer Candied Apples. They’re to die for!”
That’s the commercial dad was filming today. Wow, this goes to show how much people love to gossip and are so happy, actually eager, to think some tragedy has happened. That’s junior high for you. But I guess I got kind of caught-up too. I can’t wait to tell M and Nicki about it. I wonder if people will think I was milking it, acting sad and stuff. This is not a great way to start the school year. I can’t even believe this is only the first day of school.
I rush out of the office, but everyone is still in class. I will have to wait to tell M and Nicki what happened. I’ll be late to my first day of geometry, but Ms. Patel has already given me an excuse slip.
I find the new classroom quickly—I had American history in this room last year—and my new geometry teacher barely looks up as I wave my slip and find a vacant seat. I think over this crazy day, and wonder if the whole year is going to be this full of the unexpected. The earthquake flashes through my mind again, and I wonder why it seems to relate to today’s events. Finally, the bell rings and I head to biology, my last class of the day.
Easy “Certain Death” Orange Chicken1
4 boneless, skinless chicken breasts
1 C. orange juice
2 T. finely chopped orange zest (This is orange peel. You
can use a vegetable peeler to peel it off, but don’t peel
it so hard that the bitter, white pith comes off too.
Chop up the peels really small.)
20 to 30 Ritz crackers, crushed into meal (You can put
them in a ziplock bag, put a towel over the bag and
whack it with the bottom of a heavy pan until the
crackers are pulverized. It can be quite therapeutic
making your own crumbs this way.)
cooking spray
½ C. mustard plus 2 T. orange juice
Put orange juice, zest, and chicken in a 13x9˝ baking pan, cover, and marinate in refrigerator at least a couple hours, but preferably overnight. Preheat oven to 375°. Remove chicken from marinade, but allow some of the zest to remain clinging to it. Put the cracker crumbs in shallow bowl, and dip each chicken piece into the crumbs. Use your hands to pat and mash the crackers onto the surface of the chicken so it is well-coated. Wash out and dry your pan (throw out the marinade) and spray it with cooking spray. Put the chicken in the pan and spray the tops of the chicken breasts with cooking spray as well. Bake it for 40 minutes, or until you can prick it with a fork and the liquid that runs out is clear. Let it sit for a few minutes before serving. While it is sitting, combine the mustard and orange juice and use it for dipping sauce when you serve the chicken.
My Casa de Chaos
M and Nicki are coming over soon so we can do the first day postmortem. (That means “after death,” like an autopsy. I got the word from watching CSI.) We always hang out at my house because M’s mom seems to get nervous if we’re around too much, and Nicki’s house is so quiet and orderly we can’t really cut loose. My house, on the other hand, is generally kind of messy, usually loud, and frequently crowded because Ryan’s friends are always around. I think my parents like the chaos.
Another thing is the food. Our house is wellstocked with snacks and leftovers, and I am constantly making stuff for people to try. M and Nicki enjoy my culinary creations, but Ryan and his friends really devour everything. Sixteen-year-old boys eat like dogs—quantity seems to be the key factor, so I am not necessarily flattered when they inhale something I’ve made. I have seen three of them wipe out a family-size bag of tortilla chips, a vat of salsa, and a large package of Oreos in about three minutes.
As soon as the last bell rang, we had reunited next to the eighth-grade lockers. I explained The Godfather commercial confusion to them as we walked home.
We pile into my house, a bit out of breath from walking fast. I hang my keys on the little hook by the door as I say, “So you can see how it really would look like Dad keeled over in the community garden. I mean, he really did, technically.” By now, M and Nicki are both sort of chuckling about it, but shooting me little cautious looks too.
Nicki goes serious as she looks at me and asks, “You’re okay now?”
“Yes, no. I am totally relieved that Dad’s okay, but I can’t even fathom my embarrassment level about it all . . . the PA announcement, tripping, my Dad’s bad acting . . .” I throw my hand in the air dramatically and collapse onto a chair.
“Air, you’re funny—this whole thing is funny,” M gives me a playful punch on the shoulder.
“Hilarious,” I reply, holding my belly and shrugging my shoulders as though I am cracking up when in fact I am not even smiling.
M rolls her eyes and giggles.
Nicki, sensitive soul that she is, doesn’t laugh with M, but she does smile at me and say, “You really didn’t know what was going on today. It’s not like you made it up for sympathy or something.”
“Nope, I didn’t.” I shrug, fiddling with a loose thread on my cuff. I think about Nicki’s reaction, and ask, “Nicki, when you said something earlier about understanding loss, what were you talking about?”
Nicki cuts me off with a forced laugh. It scrapes out of her throat. “God, I don’t know. I was trying to be sympathetic is all.” She smiles brightly, but I can see that snapping “don’t mess with me” flash in her eyes. I know not to push it.
M pipes up, “Well, Nicki did almost lose her baby brother.”
Nicki looks gratefully at M. “Exactly!”
I say nothing, but I can tell Nicki knows I am still curious.
Nicki goes to the sink to wash her hands and says, “Ariel, this whole thing was just a giant misunderstanding. Maybe M is right, it is a little funny?” She turns off the water and cuts her eyes at me over her shoulder.
My mind flashes to the moment right after the earthquake, that unreal, peaceful silence. Nicki knows that I think she is hiding something. I get up and stand next to her and we both stare out the window. The neighbors have replaced the wind chime that broke in the earthquake, and its tinkling sounds like rain on something metal. I turn away from the window and slump onto a barstool.
M sits next to me as Nicki continues to stare out the window.
Sighing, I admit, “I just feel . . . stupid.” I am beginning to see that it really isn’t a big deal, but I do feel anxious about it still—like I will become a joke at school because of this whole weird thing with my dad, not to mention the klutz jokes coming my way after tripping in front of the whole school.
“Okay then, what’s there to eat?” M gives me a wink and I know we are done talking about it. When M decides to move on from a subject, there’s not much more to say.
“Let’s chow!” I throw open the fridge door dramatically and do a little cha-cha
