fire and frost | short stories

vi. Storm

s t o r m

Amir glanced at the poster and wondered if he should take it along. 

Four years ago, the blue had been bright, the surface had been gleaming, and the words had been begging for attention. But after all the articles and pictures and recipes he had pasted on top of the poster, in the name of inspiration, the initial appeal had eroded and what was left was a rather shabby-looking square of slowly-decaying patch on his wall. 

It needs to go either way, thought Amir as he unpeeled the poster and threw it on his bed, on top of his well-packed backpack.

In it were a few things Amir had deemed necessary for his survival: some of his mom's best cookies packed in a lunch box, his copy of Laduree: The Sweet Recipes by Philippe Andrieu, the diary with his favorite quotes, his MacBook and cellphone, a currently empty water bottle, a wallet with his savings ($2,364), his toothbrush and toothpaste, and a brochure featuring the best bakeries in Los Angeles. 

Oh, yes. That's where he was off to.

The City of Los Angeles.

The residence of famous celebrities in the entertainment business.

The attraction of Hollywood hills.

The glamour of the Rodeo Drive. 

And, not very coincidentally, the situation of a certain gastronomy school, one which had dreamt of going to since his aunt had first handed him the spatula and a mindful of aspirations about culinary school: Le Cordon Bleu -- the  very words that the poster had held all these years.

It was a world-renowned institution, known for its production of well-trained students and experienced-filled learning. However, to Amir, it had become a symbol of what he wanted from his life. It was a place where his dreams of becoming a pastry chef could materialize. It was a place where he could, at a professional level, pursue making the banana bread, the macaroons, the birthday cakes, and the banoffee pies. It was a place where he could challenge himself as a baker to make even better, tastier food and master the art of baking.

And, unfortunately, it was also a place forbidden by his parents. Sure, they had lived in their Portland home for more than a decade, but this didn't mean that they forgot about their origins as South Asians. 

"You either study law or engineering or business. There is no other way."

That was what his father had said to him earlier today. Amir had (how ignorant of him) brought up the possibility of a culinary arts school again at the dinner table and had immediately regretted it. 

"I know, Dad!" he had protested in response, repeating the same argument for the umpteenth time, "But I'm really not cut out for this. I have no interest, whatsoever, in any of those subjects. They appeal to me in no way. So how can I possibly make a career or succeed like that?"

Amir knew he had lost the argument even before his father spoke up. The way his father's eyebrows pulled together and his nose flared just a little told him so.

"Son, we didn't come all the way here, sacrificing our own futures and comforts, to let you get away to culinary school! That's a hobby, your baking. Most people do not become successful in that area."

Anger, as always, shot through Amir once again at his father's words. He fiddled with his deep-fried chicken and muttered under his breath, "You didn't seem to think that when Mrs. Hudson came over to tell you how amazing my lemon cake was."

This time, Amir's mother spoke up as his father turned a deep shade of pink. Amir smirked, despite how childish he felt as his own actions.

"Darling, we want you to be happy when you're older. We want you to never feel like you let an opportunity pass, that you let your life escape your grips. We don't want you to suffer, honey. We want you to have a full, easy living."

"I know, Mom, but how can I eve-"

"Okay, that's enough, Amir. You are going to apply to UP and get it over with. No more arguing now," snapped his mother, putting an end to the conversation and finally losing her patience.

As Amir had resumed to pick at his dinner, he had decided on something: he was going to run away. Amir had felt the idea sprout in the back of his head ages ago, when he had first realized how his parents would never have been okay with him going off to "cook." 

It was childish, yes. People only ran away in books and movies and other places which generally don't depict real life. But, Amir did remember his father telling him some time ago about his uncle running away when they were kids. They had found him at a nearby motel, where he had checked it only a day before. He had been lying on the floor, drunk, and murmuring "Jason wants to go swing." 

It had been a funny, oh-do-you-remember-that-time-when kind of story. But Amir had used it as a sluggish explanation for his actions: it was hereditary, the running-away business! His reason was pretty baseless, but it was a reason good enough for him.

What was more was that Amir felt like he needed to do this.

For himself.

He didn't know what he would find after stepping out his front door (okay, fine, past the driveway and the fence). He didn't know how he would get to LA. He didn't know where he would stay or how he would survive the rest of summer vacation with just his savings. He didn't even know why he was going to Le Cordon Bleu, as it wasn't admissions time and he was still in his eleventh year. 

Maybe he'd find a small bakery that would accept him as an intern or maybe he's have to spend all his money on a hotel room. Maybe he would stay there all summer, discovering new talents and learning new tricks, or myabe he'd be found (like his uncle was) and would have to return home to his parents to be grounded for life. Maybe he'd go watch the students at Le Cordon Blue, feel jealous of their opportunities, and even sneak in to take a look. Or maybe he would be caught by the LAPD and sent straight to jail. Yikes. 

A lot of maybe. A lot of uncertainties. 

But that was okay by him. Amir needed this time to himself. He needed to get away from tradition, from culture, and immerse himself in a passion entirely his own. He needed to go out and experiment and let himself loose. He needed an escape.

And running away to Los Angeles to learn bakery was going to be it.

Amir looked at his watch and saw that it was 11:00 already. That means his father was asleep, and his mother was probably reading. He wondered which book she was on right now. She had vowed to finish A Game of Thrones within three days. At the back of his mind, something told him to run to her and hug her one last time or have a polite chat with her about the novels that he too had read. But another part, one which was more sensible, knew that if he saw his mother's face right now, her big, brown eyes boring into his, the kindness radiating from them, he would never be able to summon the courage to step out that door.

As his mother wouldn't be asleep for another half an hour or so, Amir decided to fish out his diary full of quotes. The whole idea was sort of sappy in some sense, but Amir had found great comfort in them; they always managed to appeal to him at the right moment. They also calmed down his nerves.

And now, more that ever, he  needed that comfort.

Amir flipped through the diary, searching for a specific quote that he had scribbled down some months ago. Past the Cummings and Twain and Angelou quotes, he finally found it.

Under his breath, Amir read softly, "'And once the storm is over, you won't remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. You won't even be sure, whether the storm is really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm, you won't be the same person who walked in. That's what this storm's all about.'"

It was by one of his favorite authors, Murakami. And right now, yes, he could definitely see how this was going to be a disastrous, life-changing storm for him.

And, truth be told, he couldn't wait for it.