Only one seat remains in the cooking room of the recreational center when I arrive. I’ve come fifteen minutes earlier than the start of class because I worried I’d get lost, but with ease, I found the room. Now I stand in the doorway, shocked at all the people I see. How do so many people have such little to do on a Friday night that a cooking class sounds fun? If I didn’t need the practice, I wouldn’t be here.

The open seat is at the second cooking station beside a woman old enough to be my mother. The tan, overweight woman gestures to me with a huge grin plastered across her square face. I shrug and step into the room, aware multiple sets of eyes trail me as I approach the cooking station. I don’t meet any curious gazes but hope I don’t look too much like a bitch. Nicole always told me I look like I have a mile-long pole shoved up my ass when I’m uncomfortable.

“Uh, hi,” I say once I reach the free seat. I smile. “I’m Whitney Davis.”

“Veronica’s niece?” The woman has a soft voice at odds with her large body.

“Yep.”

The woman stands and wraps me in a bear hug that knocks the breath from me. “Nice to meet you, honey. I’m Molly Greeley.”

I pat Molly’s back. “Nice to meet you, too.”

Molly releases me and points at a cubby underneath the cooking station. A cloth bag the size of a toddler and a screaming-red color already takes up much of the space. “You can put your purse there.”

I stuff my purse beside Molly’s, and we take our seats.

Molly hasn’t lost her smile. “What have you been doing with yourself?”

“I got a job.”

“Doing what?”

“I work for the Kings, on Milled Street.”

Molly’s bright tawny eyes widen. “As the housekeeper?”

“Yeah...”

Molly pats my hand. “I’m going to pray for you.”

I frown. “Are they that bad?”

“Jenna is.” Molly’s gaze narrows, and her open expression vanishes. “My cousin worked for them in April. Jenna made her cry every other day. Told her a dozen times, at least, that her cleaning sucked, and she should be ashamed. My cousin ran the cleaning department of a nursing home for ten years. That place sparkled because of her.”

“Yeah, Jenna is...”

I think back to earlier in the day. Jenna came home at noon (same as the past two days) and went through the clothes I folded and put away that morning. I put Adam’s pants in the wrong dresser drawer, and Jenna bitched me out for ten minutes.

Like Jenna, Adam dropped by to check on me all week, though he never inspected my progress, just asked me about my day. Today, he heard Jenna’s rant and pulled her upstairs into their bedroom where they proceeded to yell at each other. I made myself scarce.

An hour later, Adam found me in the basement vacuuming the too-white carpet. He assured me Jenna went back to her office before apologizing for his wife’s obnoxious behavior. I shrugged it off, though Jenna’s overreaction shook me. A sane person didn’t freak out about clothes being in the wrong place.

“Jenna can be...difficult,” I say.

Molly grunts but doesn’t comment on Mrs. Kings further.

Our conversation turns lighter. I listen with half attention as my station partner describes her five children’s hobbies, ages, and school accomplishments. The rest of my focus locks on the rest of the class. Most talk like I and Molly do, but many haven’t stopped looking at me since I entered the room.

At first, I didn’t mind the attention, but now the scrutiny makes the back of my neck itch. I fight the urge to scratch. Nothing has been done to justify my anxiousness.

A few minutes after class is scheduled to start, the teacher strolls into the room, and my nerves relax a fraction. I didn’t expect him, but his presence doesn’t surprise me.

Tyson shrugs off his hoodie and puts it on the coat rack in the corner by the door. He steps before the single cooking station at the front of the room and claps his rough, blemished hands together. The class quiets. “Sorry about the delay, guys. My car argued with me about starting tonight.”

A woman at the station to my right, dressed in a shift dress better suited for a girl under ten, raises her hand. “Bring it to my husband tomorrow.”

Tyson shakes his head, and the red highlights in his light brown hair catch flash in the fluorescent lighting. “Nah, I don’t need to bother Roy. My car’s fine.”

The woman crosses her arms. “Now, boy, you’re going to do it. It’s the least he can do for all you’ve taught me.” She grins around the room. “Roy will agree with me.”

Some of the older people laugh.

“Fine,” Tyson says. “Thank you.”

The woman waves away his graciousness.

Tyson claps his hands again. “Okay. We’re going to practice knife cuts.” His squinted blue gaze travels over the room. “Now, I know some of you are worried about the knives, but I promise—” He pauses when he spies me. “What brings you here?”

Twenty or so pairs of eyes nail me in place. “Well, I, uh, need to learn all this,” I say, almost too low for my own ears.

“Never too late to.” Tyson points at a man older than dirt in the back. “Isn’t that right, Mr. Nelson?”

Mr. Nelson nods. “One of the best things you can do.”

“Right. So, the lesson.” Tyson produces a knife, cutting board, and Spanish onion. First, he explains the different parts of the knife. Then with sure, nimble movements, Tyson shows us how to remove the outer, inedible layer. Afterward, he demonstrates a cutting technique called ‘the slice’. Once done, he passes out an onion to every student as we retrieve the cutting boards and knives from our stations.

Each student has their own tools, and all try our hand at ‘the slice’ when Tyson gives us the order. Right away, the woman in the shift dress loses control of her onion, and it rolls off her station to the floor. It takes a total of five minutes for her to retrieve her onion and to stop laughing.

When everyone manages to strip our onions, we move on to the cutting part. Two people nick their fingers, and the lesson has to pause while Tyson tends to their shallow wounds. A woman just out of high school doesn’t want to touch the knife after that, so she sits out the remainder of the class, and texts on her cell phone.

Forty-five minutes later, all of us that participated have completed ‘the slice’. Most have done all right, me one of them. I didn’t have as difficult of a time as some, but I didn’t do as well as I like. A part of me feels like a failure. If I can’t master a task as simple as cutting an onion, how can I successfully grasp the art of baking?

Half the class asks if they can take off, and Tyson tells them they can leave once they clean their stations. They go, and Tyson passes out more onions to the remaining members. Molly and the ancient man challenge each other to a competition to see who can make the best onion slices in the shortest time. Everyone, I included, cheer them on. Even Tyson partakes, though he remains poised for action in case the event takes a sour turn.

By a few seconds, the old man beats Molly. He grins, and Molly kisses his cheek as she congratulates him. Tyson awards the old man a ten-dollar gift card to Darla’s Eatery and makes the rest of us promise we won’t tell those who left about it.

“On second thought, do it.” Tyson smiles. “Maybe a little jealousy will convince them to stay longer.”

Everyone chuckles and Tyson alerts us to the end of class. While we wash our knives and cutting boards, Tyson gathers all the chopped onion into freezer bags. When he catches me watching him, he explains he’ll repurpose the onions at home.

After the class returns the room to its original state, people file out. Molly hugs me again, wishes me luck with the Kings, and flees the room. I bend down to grab my purse, pull too hard, and its frayed strap brakes. I curse, claim my ruined bag, and sit back in my chair.

“Of course.”

Tyson leans against my cooking station. “Have fun tonight?”

I point at my purse. “Does this look like fun?”

“Yeah, that sucks. But the lesson, you liked it?”

“Actually, I did.”

“Why do you sound surprised?”

I pick at my purse strap. “I don’t have much confidence I can do this—learn to cook and bake.”

“Why? You did great tonight. For your first time, right?”

“Yeah.”

Tyson grins. “Give it a few months, and I bet you’ll be able to run a class better than I can.”

I roll my eyes but smile back. “Maybe I’ll take your job at Darla’s, too.”

Tyson nods. “Maybe. Gran always threatens to replace my annoying ass.”

I laugh, and Tyson joins me. The ease with which we speak makes me regret my earlier thoughts on a community center cooking class. Overall, I love the activity. I was too harsh before, judged it as my father would.

The realization numbs me.

“Well, I should head out.” I clutch my purse and stand.

“Okay. Will I see you next week?”

A shred of glee perks me up. “Oh, most definitely.”

“Good. Good.” Tyson sees me to the door. “Night.”

“Night.”