Free Pinpoint (Point #4) by Olivia Luck Page A

the case. In the kitchen, there are two kinds of people: cooks and bakers. For cooks, recipes are suggestions, flexible in their ingredients and proportions. For bakers, on the other hand, recipes are gospel, strict in their measurements and techniques.”
    “Then how are we supposed to write our own recipes if it’s so scientific?” Michael asks. Choosing favorites is probably against some unwritten rule of teaching, but this boy is quickly becoming mine.
    I give him a reassuring smile. “Let’s not worry about that quite yet. We’ll start with the basics. Rather than having me stand here and explain everything, you are going to practice the techniques in real time at your stations. For this first recipe, we are going to work together step by step. Next week, you’ll have more autonomy.”
    “What’s autonomy?” Amber asks.
    “It basically means I won’t make you measure things together. You’ll have the freedom to work as a group and make your own decisions. Why don’t you go to your stations and look at your recipe card? The first thing you do, no matter if you’re cooking or baking, is read the entire recipe through. There’s new vocabulary for you to learn. Do I have a volunteer to read the ingredient list?”
    Michael raises his hand, and I flash him a grateful smile.
    An hour later, the final batch of cookies is baking, and I’m nearly wringing my hands with anxiety. In my haste to write the syllabus, purchase ingredients, select aprons, and all the other details, I didn’t think of how to entertain the teenagers during the time everything was baking. The kids want to play on their phones and gripe about my terrible taste in music. They don’t engage with me. In fact, none of them, even Michael, gives me their attention. I can’t believe I didn’t think of this ahead of time.
    So stupid!
    A sharp, synchronized buzzing from both ovens sound—we put the batches in at the same time. At least the delicious scent streaming from the appliance pulls their attention from their phones and gossip. “Make sure the edges are golden brown like you did with the first tray. Then let’s transfer the finished cookies to the cooling racks.”
    “Do we get to eat any now?” London chirps.
    “The cool ones are ready for your consumption,” I say. The kids eagerly take the cookies, and to my blessed relief, I hear noises of appreciation.
    “Iris, you got a funny way of talking.” Cookie crumbs linger around the corner of Amber’s lips when she speaks, and I move to hand her a napkin. She disregards the white paper and waits for my response.
    “Yes, I suppose we do sound different. I grew up in a very strict home. My father is a pastor.” One look at the wall clock and I realize we have two minutes left in this session. “Let’s get baggies for you to take the extras home. Oh, and leave your aprons behind. I’ll wash them.”
    The kids rush around the room, grabbing their treats and book bags. All of a sudden, the room is empty, leaving me with flour-sprinkled countertops to clean. A heap of crumpled aprons is piled next to the classroom door. No one said good-bye or thank you or see ya .
    “Congratulations, Iris. Job well done,” I mutter sarcastically.
     
    Oscar
    Dejection hangs around her like a cape. Her shoulders crouch inward while she scrubs the countertops of one of the kitchens. I’m watching a completely different woman from the one who danced and sang to herself while she set up the room. That woman was adorable and enticing, swaying her hips to the beat of the Motown music.
    Observing her unnoticed makes me feel like a voyeur, but I had no idea she was volunteering for Mentoring Chicago. When I arrived at Grover a few hours ago and saw Bruce coming from the second classroom, I stopped to talk to him. That’s when I noticed Iris bouncing around with unapologetic exuberance.
    The defeat radiating from her slumped frame elicits a bizarre desire to stride into the classroom, collect her in my