Stir It Up by Ramin Ganeshram

into the back room. She comes out holding an envelope.
    The envelope says Scripps on it. That means Food Network. My stomach lurches.
    “It’s from the Food Network, Deema.” My mouth is dry.
    Deema puts down the knife she’s holding.
    “Well, open it.”
    I force the envelope open with my finger, tearing the flap unevenly. I tug at the letter inside.
    Dear Ms. Krishnan:
    It’s my pleasure to inform you that you are the New York finalist for
Super Chef Kids.
     
    I stop reading and scream.
    “What, what is it?” Deema is alarmed. Dad comes running.
    “I made it! I made it!” I’m jumping up and down and waving the letter. “I’m a finalist!”
    “For that show?” my father asks.
    “Yes!” I say, flapping the envelope. “I told you! See? It
was
worth it!”
    Dad crosses his arms. “What else it say?”
    I finish reading the letter. “It says the finals arethree weeks from Saturday and that I’m the kid chef chosen from the New York area.”
    I read further, silently to myself. Like the other letter, it says I have to bring a parent or guardian. I look nervously at my father. I read this part out loud to him.
    Dad storms out of the room.
    “Deema, you’ll go with me, right?” I ask.
    She picks up her knife. “Let’s see what happens, darlin’.”
    I worry for the rest of the evening while I clean tables, help Deema trim vegetables, and dish out food for customers.
    When things get quiet, Deema and I sit down to eat our own dinner. I’m not hungry.
    I get up to bring our plates inside and pass the door to our shop’s office, where my father’s on the phone, behind a closed door. It sounds like he’s talking to my mother.
    “Can you believe it?” he’s saying. “I know that the girl can cook, for true.” He pauses.
    I stand there frozen for a few seconds before I realize I better move or I’ll get caught listening.
    Later, at home, I’m in bed, trying to sleep. It’s way past midnight. Dad has just come from the shop. Mom’s studying. The house is quiet, so I can hear Mom and Dad talking.
    “I’ve been thinking,” Dad says to Mom.
    “Me, too,” says Mom.
    “About Anjali and this cooking show?” Dad asks.
    “It’s been on my mind all day,” says Mom.
    I hear rustling. The floorboards creak. “Nobody invite me to this party,” says Deema. “So I invite myself.”
    Mom says, “We’re talking about Anjali.”
    “Bayti
,” says Deema. “That child has been given to us by the heavens as special gift. She know her way ’round the kitchen — and she full of spice, too.”
    “She gets that from her father,” Mom says.
    “She get that from all of us,” Deema says. “We from the island where everything spicy.”
    Dad says, “Anjali has betrayed us with her dishonesty.”
    “She shouldn’t have lied,” says Deema. “But we betray Anjali by not letting her have her joy, and by denying her the gift heaven has given her to share with others. That is a betrayal worse than lying.”
    There’s silence.
    Deema keeps talking. “You want to be a nurse,” she says to Mom. “You study. You work hard. When you become a nurse, you’ll help people feel good. The same for Anjali. The way she cook — with ideas flowing from her like the sweet water from a coconut — also helps people feel good.”
    Dad tries to get a word in. “But she —”
    Deema stops him. “But she works so hard for you at the shop — serving, wiping tables, smiling at customers. Now it’s our turn to work for her. Our girl. Our
bayti.
”
    “How yuh mean, work?” Dad asks.
    “Work past your stubbornness,” Deema says.
    More quiet.
    Then Dad speaks. “One thing I know,” he says. “We not quitters in this family. Anjali’s started something, and now she must finish it.”
    “For true,” says Deema.
    My mom brushes something only she can see from my shirt and fusses with the tie on my apron. I’m back at the Food Network studios. This time Mom and Deema have come with me, while Dad works at the