Secret Sauce

I always hated the grandfather clock. Hated it. Who needs a gigantic piece of furniture to do a fraction of what my phone does? But tonight, as our family ate dinner, its incessant ticking was beyond annoying, it was foreboding – every click counting down my impending doom. Mrs. Klunk was going to call on our hall phone (I know, who has one of those?) after dinner and tell my parents everything. Ev-er-y-thing.

6:00. My secret is not the sauce.

Usually, my mom would be happily chatting about next-to-nothing at dinner, but tonight she was silently sulking over her meatball sauce – she burned the onions and thought it ruined the whole meal. I honestly thought it tasted fine, but this sauce was irrationally important to her. Like the impractical clock, both were out-sized family heirlooms. The tradition, carried across the Atlantic by our ancestors, says the meatball sauce recipe is given to the oldest daughter when she has her first child. At least that’s what we’ve been told. My brother, Bert, and I always joke that our mom found it on a Ragu can and uses the story to one-up our Aunt Linda. 

Bert, who is 20 and in college, is short for Albert, as in Einstein. My parents picked names that are very aspirational, which I think takes a certain amount of nerve. I’m Jane, as in Austen, Eyre, and the girl from the iconic rock song “Jane Says”. They were almost asking for a sociopath. It’s a lot for a 7^th grader to live up to. My sister is Bella, which literally translates to beautiful. Did they consider that she might turn out to be horrifically ugly?

But Bella is, indeed, beautiful like her name. And her looks pale in comparison to her brain. She’s the proverbial student in the front row at school who raises her hand at every question, a real try hard. But she doesn’t really try that hard – she’s naturally a genius. She’s a junior in high school and I know the next two years of my life will be 24/7 discussion about Ivy League colleges. And my mom, besides being the secret sauce recipe owner, is a college counselor. Yale, Harvard, and Princeton, oh my.

6:10. The infuriating sounds of silence.

The clink of the silverware, the ice cracking in my water, my mom’s sigh at every bite, my dad’s cell phone set to vibrate, the tick-tock. Bella was uncharacteristically quiet too. Funny thing is, I know she’s been sneaking out at night because I caught her a week ago. I can’t even imagine where she’s going – probably to the library. Her friends are all teacher’s pets, captains of debate clubs and straight-A students. I’m not a mathlete, but I know the chances that she’s out partying or having any fun is absolutely zero.

6:15. Would someone please just talk? 

Not a chance. My dad is always the quietest, a scientist who doesn’t appreciate, or even understand, idle chatter. And since there’s none of that tonight, I should probably come clean now. That way, I could control the narrative. I know from experience that our parents do NOT respond well when they find out bad news about us from other adults. So, when Mrs. Klunk calls to tell them how Kaitlyn and I almost burned their house down, it’s not going to go well. And my parents do not like the Klunks.

Every neighborhood, school, town, or city has that family. The one whose kids are semi-dirty, trouble at school and what my mom calls “feral” – always hanging around the neighborhood, the convenience store, riding their bikes late at night. Almost anywhere you go, there’s a Klunk -- five kids and a single mom who are all unmistakably related. Each has shocking black hair, piercing blue eyes and pale skin (accentuating the grime). Their names all start with “K” – like trailer-park Kardashians. My mom accuses them of being the patient-zeros of every school lice outbreak and my dad refers to them as “trouble”.

But I really like Kaitlyn. She’s unlike my other school friends, who I’ve mostly made through soccer, clubs, and honors classes. Since 7^th grade started, they are all trying to jump on the latest trend and competing in a who-has-the-latest-fashion-first contest. Kaitlyn makes whatever she wears look cool because she is cool. She’s more mischievous than “trouble”, afraid of nothing and always up for an adventure. She doesn’t talk about grades and organized sports because she knows she is never going to college (or maybe even graduate high school), so why not just enjoy every day? Carpe diem, right?

6:20. No one has broken the silence. Unreal--not one word.

I called Bert, who is away at college, for advice earlier tonight. He said there’s no way around it – you just have to come clean with Mom and Dad. I love my brother and miss how he lightened our family dynamic, particularly absent tonight. He was in trouble a lot growing up, yet always managed to charm his way out of my parents’ punishments.  I know that he’s right and I just need to blurt it out, so I review the story in my mind first. 

We were walking home from school and Kaitlyn had an idea to try to find her mom’s hidden cigarette stash. She had apparently stopped smoking years ago, but Kaitlyn knew she was sneaking one every now and then. So, we head to the Klunks.

Their house was like a wonderland to me. My house was so neat and contemporary, “mid-century” and beige, dark brown and angular - boring. But nothing at the Klunks was in its proper place (or even had a proper place). The furniture was completely mis-matched, a green sofa, a leather armchair with stuffing coming out and a kidney-bean-shaped coffee table. Kaitlyn was the only girl, so the main floor was riddled with boy’s clothes, toys, games, action figures. But her room was like a sanctuary from the rest of the chaos. It was super-organized and girly with pink bean bag chairs, lilac bedspread, and an old-school canopy bed. Like straight out of the 80s. I bet she bought the stuff for really cheap and fixed it up. She was super creative about making something out of nothing. To keep her brothers out, she locked her room from the outside when she left – in her own house. I knew my parents didn’t like me hanging out with her, but they never saw this ingenious side.

I don’t know what happened to Kaitlyn’s dad, but I know her mom was just outnumbered by the kids. Her room is as neat and clean, but with only necessities. It looks like she ran out of the money, time, and energy to decorate her own space. So, it didn’t take us long to rifle through her things and figure out there no cigarettes. But Kaitlyn’s pyromaniacal bright blue eyes lit up when she discovered an awesome Zippo lighter – the old-fashioned silver kind with a flip top and a roller that sparked the flame.

6:25. Keep my story tight. Fast. To the point. That’s what Bert said. 

After a few attempts to get the dried-out wheel rolling again, a dancing blue and yellow flame appeared. We head to the bathroom to see how it worked. The tissue lit so fast that we really didn’t have time to think through the next step. I tried to drop the flaming tissue in the sink when it started burning my fingers, but a tiny piece burned off and hit the tissue box. Wow--there’s a reason “it spread like wildfire” is an expression. As luck would have it, the Kleenex sat on a wicker cabinet that ignited immediately. We panicked and started screaming as the flames spread to the curtains. 

Kaitlyn’s brother, Kurt, came to our rescue. He was 19 and the most “together” of the boys.  He had a job and helped their mom, nothing like the 17-year-old twins, Kyle and Kevin, who we all knew were headed right to juvie hall. Kurt had the quick thinking to run downstairs and grab the fire extinguisher.  As he put the flames out, he kept saying “you idiots, Mom is going to kill you.” Yet he managed to extinguish the flames and berate us simultaneously -- successfully averting a complete disaster. The house smelled like a gigantic fireplace and black smoke hung over the clutter and second-hand furniture. Kurt opened the windows and smoke billowed out attracting neighbors. He said “Jane, you better get home” as we coughed and gagged our way out the door. I ran as fast as I could, hearing only my heart beating – and the faintest sound of a fire engine in the distance.

6:30. The stupid clock plays its half-hour chime, a beautiful dainty melody that’s absolutely mocking me.

I know this is when Mrs. Klunk gets home from work because Kaitlyn is always threatening her brothers, “wait until Mom gets home at 6:30.” I remind myself of Bert’s advice to lighten it up if I can. I don’t think I can pull off like Bert’s charm, but I plan to try and start with “I like the meatballs but speaking of burnt”.

My palms are sweating, and my mouth feels like sandpaper. The final chime seems to accentuate the restored silence. As I open my mouth, another voice comes out. It’s Bella, who is quietly speaking, in what seems like slow motion. “I guess there’s really no easy way to say this, but I need to tell you all that I’m pregnant.” I freeze in my seat, my mom’s face is awash in pure shock, anger, and embarrassment all in one. My quiet, cerebral, stoic father has the wherewithal to immediately ask “who’s the DNA match?”

I’m still dizzy with disbelief when Bella-the-perfect goes for the second bomb. I have to bite my lip from screaming when the next two words, Kyle Klunk, are dropped. My mother gasps for air, my father just stares at the table, head in his hands. My own voice seems to come out of absolutely nowhere, “well, at least you’ll get the sauce recipe”. 

6:35. The landline rings, but no one bothers to answer it.