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concerned.
    â€œHi, Dea!”
    â€œIt’s my grandbaby! How are you?”
    â€œI’m all right. How are you?” I settle back into the couch cushions with a blanket, waiting for my grandmother to update me on her “stories,” the endless list of soap operas she watches.
    â€œI’m just getting ready to head out the door,” my grandmother says. “I’m going over to Eppie’s next door to watch
Oprah.
”
    â€œOh.” I sniffle involuntarily. Is it just me, or does it seem like even a seventy-three-year-old can find more of a social life than I can?
    â€œWell, I won’t keep you. I just wanted to say hi.”
    â€œI don’t have to rush off. You sure you’re all right?”
    â€œI’m fine, Dee. I just have a little cold. I’m fixing some garlic, though.”
    â€œOh, and some chicken soup. You know you should have some of that.”
    I swear, MaDea thinks chicken is a vegetable. There’s no point in reminding her about “the vegetarian thing” unless I want to worry her. “Chicken soup. Right.”
    â€œWell, you get yourself some rest this weekend, you hear? Tell your mother I’ve got some sweet peas up here for you-all. Soon as it stops raining, you can put ’em out on your front porch.”
    â€œOkay, Dee. Have fun with
Oprah.
”
    â€œYou take care, now. Be sweet.”
    â€œYes, ma’am.”
    I flip channels awhile morosely. Friday afternoons used to be the best time of the week. Sim would come over for kindergarten, and we’d polish off leftovers from the restaurant while watching old movies to kick off the weekend. Other people have plans for the weekend and lives to lead. Why don’t I have anything better to do?
    I saw Sim at school today. He actually came to physics, which was a minor miracle, and while I was talking to Cheryl, he walked by my desk and knocked on it like he used to do when we were friends. It’s weird. I keep wondering what he was going to say to me yesterday before Mom came in with the gingerbread. I’m still not sure why he came by. He said it was for gingerbread, but I still can’t believe he really needed my notes. I wonder if it means something.
    Stop, Lainey. Go cook something.
    I’ve gotten good at cooking when I don’t want to think about Sim anymore, when I need to fill up empty time and keep myself from drowning in my own head. My contest entries have more than doubled since he’s been gone. Something good came out of being left alone long enough to get creative.
    I’ll make a new salad. Maybe Mom will put it on the restaurant menu.
    Carefully, I take a soft, slippery head of roasted garlic out of the dish on the counter and slide it into the oven to warm through. Next, I open the fridge and find some salad greens to wash and tear. As I begin, I address an invisible studio audience with my best Martha Stewart impression.
    â€œA small head of
butter
lettuce is preferable for this dish, but if you have a bit of leafy romaine, that will work just as well. Add to it a bit of arugula with the tough stems removed, some watercress for a peppery flavor, and maybe some mustard blossoms. If you don’t have access to the fresh flowers, add some Dijon to your dressing, and you’ll be surprised at what a difference it makes.”
    I snatch a mouthful of watercress and hum a bit of song from the CD. Maybe I’ll use guitar music for my cooking show.
    â€œTest and see if your beets are ready,” I continue to lecture my audience as I open the oven and slide out the pan. I stick a fork into the biggest beet and decide it is done. “If they are, you’ll want to add your garlic right away. If you want to skin your beets, wait until they cool, and rub the skin away and then proceed. However, if you want to preserve the vitamins below the skin, simply cut the beets into wedges and eat them skin on.”
    I grab a plate out of