Page 101 of Cryptic Curse

He sighs lightly.“Maybe I’ll ask Gina.”

“I think she’d like that.”

Thank God, Chef Charleston enters then, clad of course in his chef coat and hat.

He stands at the front of the room like he owns it—which, to be fair, he kind of does.His apron is spotless, his knife gleaming under the fluorescent lights, and when he speaks, the entire kitchen falls silent.

“Today,” he says, holding up a fat yellow onion like it’s the crown jewel of the produce world, “we’re going to talk about respect.”

Respect?

“For your vegetables,” he clarifies.“For yourmise en place.For your knife.And most importantly, for your fingers.”

A couple people chuckle.I don’t.I nearly cut my finger off a few years ago with one of the knives in our kitchen in Colombia.

Chef steps behind the stainless-steel table and sets the onion down in front of him.“First rule—your knife is an extension of your hand.You treat it like one.You don’t wave it around.You don’t leave it in the sink.You don’t cut angry.”

He makes a clean slice through the onion, top to root, like it’s nothing.“Stabilize the vegetable.Always.Roll-away veggies are traitors.”

We all nod.Some scribble notes and others tap on their iPads.

I don’t.I already know how to chop vegetables.

“Second rule,” he says, peeling the outer layer with practiced speed, “your claw grip.If I see a single fingertip sticking out, I swear I’ll replace your carrots with concrete.”

He demonstrates—fingers curled, knuckles forward, blade gliding against them with surgical precision.“This grip saves you.It might feel weird at first, but so did walking.”

Someone sneezes in the back.Probably from the onion.No one dares say bless you.

Chef glances toward the back.“Nothing to be worried about.I have a little sensitivity to onions myself.I usually have my sous take care of them for that reason.”He frowns.“Anyway.Third rule—uniformity.No one cares how fast you chop if yourbrunoiselooks like it went through a paper shredder.Precision over speed.Always.”

He turns the onion and begins to mince, each piece nearly identical.It’s hypnotic, the rhythm of it.Chop, scrape, reset.There’s something almost soothing about the way he moves.

“Your cuts tell a story,” he says.“Sloppy dice?You’re lazy.Ragged edges?You’re rushing.Perfect cubes?”He looks up, eyes scanning the room.“That means you give a damn.”

I swallow hard and glance down at my cutting board, where a green bell pepper is waiting for its fate.I’m not worried.

I can chop the hell out of anything.

My vegetables will always tell the right story.

If only my life could do the same.

* * *

Three Years Earlier…

I stand in front of the mirror, heart thudding.The dress my father gave me is very grown up—soft black satin, short enough to feel bold, but not too short.I smooth it over my hips and turn sideways, pretending not to check myself out but totally doing it.

The room smells like hairspray and vanilla lotion.My playlist is on shuffle—every song making me want to spin in circles.Tonight feels big.Like something’s about to change.

I swipe on lip gloss and pull my hair into a half-up twist I’ve practiced a dozen times.It’s not perfect.A little frizz here, a loose strand there—but it’s me.

“Let me help with that,” my au pair says.

Fifteen is too old for a nanny, but Consuelo is still a huge part of my life.My American au pair returned to the States last year.

Tonight, Consuelo’s eyes look different.

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