The teacher claps her hands. She doesn’t seem particularly bothered by the reactions. “Calm down, girls. Yes, this is salmon, and we’re going to be learning different ways of preparing it. We’ll then divide into groups, you’ll each prepare your fish with a different recipe, and then we’ll compare results.”

I space out while the teacher talks. I really must find out her name, it’s so awkward not knowing. Like for today it’s fine, but what happens two months from now when I have to admit that I still don’t know what to call her? In the meantime, though, she’s telling the class about the difference between baking and grilling, heat and oven settings and all, and I’m wondering why I’m the only one who seems to already know everything she’s saying.

We review a few recipes, and Shevi, Miri, Tova, and I form one group. We’re breading the salmon and baking it — pretty straightforward, if a little boring. Shevi pours the breadcrumbs into a large dish and I squirt some mustard and honey into a bowl of oil for the sauce.

“Wait, you didn’t measure the amounts,” Miri says. She holds out her quarter-cup measuring cup. “It’s supposed to be a quarter cup of honey, and—”

Um, this is a salmon marinade.

“It’s fine. I know this recipe.”

“You’ve made salmon before?” Shevi asks. Her tone of voice makes it sound like making salmon is as exotic as scuba diving off the coast of Australia.

I give her a funny look. “Sure. I’ve made salmon tons of times. And gefilte fish, and tuna steaks, and tilapia….”

Back in India, preparing for Shabbos is a huge project. We start early in the week, and I’ve always helped Ima prepare the food. During the week, we often have fish on the menu; it’s easier to source than kosher chicken. And honestly, I don’t really get what the big deal is.

I sprinkle some paprika and garlic over the sauce, shrugging off Miri’s worried, “But that isn’t in the recipe!”

“It’s fine, it’ll taste good,” I tell her.

“She knows what she’s doing, I think we should trust her,” Shevi says, with a giggle.

“Have you not done this before?” I ask, as I bread my fillet and place it on the parchment-lined tray.

“Not fish,” Tova says. “We did cakes and stuff… and fruit pies and vegetable dishes. This year we’re doing mains, I guess.”

Shevi sighs dramatically. “What a shame we can’t make a menu of cheesecake and apple crumble for the GCSE, huh?”

“GCSE?” I look around, but none of them are making a move to touch their pieces of fish. I shrug and bread Miri’s for her, then Shevi’s.

“Exams. You know, big… tests. Like, from the government.”

“Oh, like the Regents in New York.”

“Yeah, something like that.” Tova looks at me, curiously. “How do you know about school in New York? Didn’t you live in India or something?”

“I have cousins there,” I say. Okay, so cooking class means I’m having a longer conversation with classmates than I’ve had since I started school, but I still can’t be bothered explaining the whole online-schooling situation. I also can’t really get over these girls and how narrow their world seems to be. Like, they don’t know how to make fish? Isn’t that, like, pretty basic life skills?

Shevi claps her hands as we slide our tray into the oven. “You’re the best, Ashira! I can’t believe we didn’t have to touch that yucky raw stuff.”

I want to ask her how she plans to make fish once she’s married, but I keep the question to myself.

Shevi makes sure to let everyone know how I just knew how to cook (“without even looking at the recipe once!”), so after class I’m inundated with girls who want to know where I picked up my culinary expertise from and if I’ve ever skinned raw chicken.

I have, as it happens — I’ve made entire Shabbos meals, for 30 people, no less — but I just shrug.

“Wow, you’re gonna get the best mark in the GCSE,” a girl with dark, curly hair and dangly earrings (probably not allowed in school) tells me.

“Thanks,” I say blandly. GCSE marks don’t excite me that much, to be honest.

But I’ve been in school long enough to realize that’s not a sentiment to share with my classmates.

***

School’s out for the day, and I’m a block away from my grandparents’ house when I suddenly feel… done. Drained.

I just can’t face it, another long evening, my family blissfully sleeping a million miles away, without my stuff, without anything to do, with Bubby hovering to bake rugelach together if I hang around in the kitchen….

On impulse, I turn and walk in the opposite direction, until I hit a main street. Storefronts beckon. It’s high time I get to know the area I live in.

Half a dozen stores later, I step out of the bakery into the chilly early evening, tucking a muffin into my bag to enjoy at home. I feel refreshed and energized now that I’ve explored a little. Checked out the grocery stores and created a mental wish list in the bookstore; picked up a fruit-scented shower gel at a mini supermarket that’s surprisingly large on the inside (Bubby has bars of soap in her bathroom; yes, I know).

It takes me a moment or two to get my bearings and figure out which direction I came from, but my sense of direction takes over and a few minutes later, I’m back on my grandparents’ quiet, residential block.

Or not so quiet.

I squint up the road in the gathering dimness. Flashing lights? There seem to be several cars gathered near my grandparents’ house… is everything okay?

Abruptly, I break into a run.

The cars… they are parked outside my grandparents’ house. And there are a few people huddled in a group, talking urgently. Men, with radios clipped onto belts—

Hatzalah? Oh my goodness, what happened? Is Bubby okay? Zaidy?

I sprint past the last few houses and skid to a halt. My grandparents are standing at their front gate, talking agitatedly to the men.

“…usually home much earlier, and none of her classmates have seen her,” Bubby is saying agitatedly.

The words catch up with my brain a few seconds later.

“Bubby?” I say. My voice emerges a squeak.

“Ashira?! Oh, my goodness, baruch Hashem, where were you, I don’t believe it….”

My grandparents are both talking at once. A car screeches over, and Aunt Chana flings the door open. “Shomrim are here? Oh, that’s great— wait, Ashira? You’re home?! What on earth happened?”

Oh, Hashem, this is absolutely, literally, mortifying.

The men with the radios aren’t here for my grandparents. They were called for me.

To be continued…

(Originally featured in Mishpacha Jr., Issue 949)