Death by Eggplant by Susan Heyboer O'Keefe

said quickly, then weakened, “but . . . ”
    â€œBut what?” he asked, his voice suddenly gentle. “You can say it, Bertram. You can say anything here.”
    â€œIt’s just that a flour sack may be . . . less disappointing than a real kid. Cleo isn’t getting beat up by bullies because she can’t stand up for herself. Of course, she can’t stand up at all, but you know what I mean.” My brief victory over Dekker evaporated. All I could remember were the years of being pounded. “And Cleo isn’t going to shock anyoneby failing math, though I did try to explain I was having trouble. No one seemed to hear me.”
    Dr. Zimmerman nodded over and over.
    â€œYou cry for help, but no one listens, no?”
    â€œYes. I mean, no, no one listens. And Cleo is really small and cute and cuddly, while I’m . . . ”
    â€œYes?”
    â€œI’m . . . I’m me.”
    â€œYes, yes, a very serious fault,” he agreed, still nodding. “I can see now why your mother might have difficulty choosing.”
    â€œWhat?” I sat up straight. “You’re supposed to be on
my
side.”
    â€œWhy should I be? Cleo sounds so much more likable, capable even, for one so young.”
    â€œI’m capable!”
    â€œOf what?” He pointed at Cleo’s face. “Even your artwork is lacking.”
    â€œI don’t have to be an artist. I . . . I can cook,” I said, my face burning. “I love to cook.” How strange, how wonderful the words felt!
    â€œYou mean, it’s easier to take home economics than a harder math course. Cooking, there’s no future in it,” Dr. Zimmerman said.
    â€œNo future?” I yelled. “Tell that to Emeril, Jacques Pépin, Wolfgang Puck—”
    â€œPfffft.”
    â€œâ€”Todd English, Masaharu Morimata, and, and—What if somebody way back had told that to
James Beard
?” My voice dropped reverently and I said, “Father of American cooking.”
    â€œDouble
pfffft
.” The doctor shrugged to dismiss me. “You mean, you will be saying, ‘Would you like fries with that?’”
    â€œThis is exactly why I don’t tell anyone!” I said, jumping to my feet. “I’m going to be a great chef! I’m going to go to the Culinary Institute of America. I’m going to have a prime-time cooking show, and a four-star restaurant, and a best-selling cookbook. I’m also going to have a bed-and-breakfast to fall back on, because I know you shouldn’t put all your eggs in one basket!”
    I collapsed into my chair, panting. I had never said so much about cooking out loud before, and certainly not with so many “I’s” stuck in.
    â€œSo much ambition, so much passion,” Dr. Zimmerman said softly. “
Tch, tch
, who would have suspected it? Your mother thinks you’re going to be a famous psychoanalyst.”
    â€œWhat? When did she say this?”
    â€œOur last session. Something about your being a master of dream interpretation. Who else interprets dreams but psychoanalysts?” The doctor’s eyebrows rose. “So, you would take
my
job, too, yes?”
    â€œI don’t want your job. I’m going to be a chef!”
    â€œI should believe this of a boy who’s failing math? No, no, no.”
    â€œYes, yes, yes!”
How had this gotten so far from whether I had a sister or a flour sack? “It makes perfect sense. I’m too busy cooking to waste time on algebra homework.”
    â€œBut a chef? A restaurant owner? A television star?
Pffft,”
said Dr. Zimmerman, leaning back. “These hopes are so much in the future. You will be old then. Cleo, too, will be old and able to take care of herself. It is
now
that you cannot deal with her,
now
that you concoct all these fantasies.” He stroked the tip of his beard. “Tell me, Bertram Hooks, what is your