Marcus, Tim, and I were called into the Chef’s tiny two-chair office.
All three of us were told we were failing and that she was going to recommend that we quit.
I had so much pressure at home, that I had flunked most of the tests. I couldn’t tell her that I was living on the financial aid and that I was only there in school for the money.
I didn’t want to tell her. I respected her. She was right. We were not taking the class seriously and she demanded that we would.
I apologized profusely. I told her how much I enjoyed cooking and wanted to learn these new skills. Would she please put me off probation and give me another chance?
She leaned back in her chair; her dark hair cropped off inside her Chef hat. Her face was always without makeup.
Chef was surprisingly strong. I saw her pick up restaurant-sized rice bags off the floor and fling them onto the countertop.
She knew I was an older student, and I am pretty sure she also knew that I had some sort of problems at home.
“Ok.” She stood up.
”One more time. Please tell the next student to come in.”
I told Marcus and Tim to say the same thing.
And they did.
We had another day.