Not Grandma’s Cookies

The black rubber steps leading up to their apartment looked especially dreary this evening. Malcolm felt his feet get heavier and heavier from the day with each step he took upwards until he had to foist his keys out of his coat pocket and into the brass lock. After fiddling for the usual ninety seconds, the door jerked open, and he trudged inside, closing it behind him. 

“We have that thing tonight, dear,” a tiny voice echoed from the bathroom, which was in the kitchen. Malcolm’s eyes rolled so far back in his head he almost lost them.

“You still want to do that?” he braced for her response, already knowing what it was. 

“Do you not?” The voice seemed much less tiny now and much more stern.

“Of course, I do. I just… had a long day I had to cover Ken’s register, he didn’t show up.” He fell backward onto the couch and breathed out a labored sigh. “We also ran out of unsalted butter, and this one lady looked like she wanted to douse me in gasoline over it.” She strolled out of the bathroom, hands on her hips. At five-foot-one with a voice reminiscent of a baby mouse, she wasn’t the most intimidating, but she struck fear into her 180-pound boyfriend with ease. 

“Mac, you swore up and down, back and forth and around in circles that you were going to go and that you wanted to go,” her eyes softened, and she let her hands go up and then fall in front of her, “but if you had an awful day we can try to get a refund.” The look of disappointment on her face was enough to fuel him through a couple of hours more of being on his feet. 

“I’ll be fine, I’m just wining. Plus I’m hungry, how much effort can a cooking class be?”Her face lit up, and she gave him a drive-by smooch on the way back to the bathroom. 

“I’ll be ready in two!” she squeaked through the closing bathroom door. And in two, they were stepping down the rubber steps and bounding past the massage parlor they lived above. 

The cooking class was only three blocks away as Malcolm and Stella couldn’t afford a car to broaden their horizons, not yet at least. Plus, Stella loved to walk absolutely everywhere. Despite her short stature, her legs efficiently carried her all around town. She would walk the five miles to her job at the library and then would take the long way home while the town was soaked in the orange color of the sunset. Malcolm, on the other hand, missed having a car, he missed having the freedom to travel 100 miles if he felt like it and still be home in time for dinner, but that was before the recession, and they never quite found their footing again. Malcolm had worked at the same mechanic garage out of high school; the hours just flew by when he’d have his hands greased up inside an engine. His hair had begun to grey before he lost his job at the garage, and now he was a 50-year-old cashier with clean hands counting the seconds go by. 

“Here we are!” Stella’s voice sang as she put one arm straight up and one by her side to do jazz hands. Malcolm shook his head and grabbed her by the waist to corral her into the building chuckling as he kissed the top of her head. They entered a hallway with a bulletin board directing people to their classes, Stella lifted her finger to scan the list. “‘Cooking Class’ that’s us, weird it's the only one handwritten,” she began to saunter off down the hall, “Room 12.”

“Oh, I thought it was called ‘Learning the Culinary Arts’ or something,” Malcolm squinted at the list and called to Stella, but she didn’t break her stride.

“I booked the class, didn’t I?”She was turning the corner, so he obediently followed her in time for her to slip behind a wooden door with a gold “12” written on it. A piece of printer paper was taped to the door that read ‘“Cooking” Class’ which seemed odd to Malcolm as he pulled the doorknob and moved into the classroom.

Stella was already standing behind one of the stations that looked extremely elaborate for a beginner’s cooking class. There were beakers all over the tables with tubes connecting them and it looked much more like a science lab than a cooking station. He joined her and noticed her eyes were also running over all the equipment in confusion. Before he could open his mouth to say something, four characters entered the room grabbing his attention, and promptly took their spots behind two stations. One was a gentleman that towered over everyone in the room and had little skin left that had not been tattooed. His cooking partner was scrawny and bald, and it appeared that the only fabric he owned was denim. The other pair looked to be mother and son; a woman wearing a pink cardigan and khakis stood behind a young boy, couldn’t have been older than 16, wearing Nike sweatpants and a black hoodie that nearly covered his eyes. 

A woman wearing a purple plaid dress covered by a floral apron danced into the room and stood at the front, smiling from ear to ear. She delicately picked up a piece of chalk and scrawled “Ms. Quartz” in large, loopy letters. 

“Good evening, everyone! We will begin momentarily, we’re just waiting for a few more.” Her smile never wavered once, and when she had finished her sentence, she sat down at the front and began furiously writing in a notebook. 

Malcolm leaned into Stella’s ear and whispered, “Babe, are we in the wrong room?”

“What? No! I think it’s like a gastronomy class or something. She seems nice, right?”

“Yeah, hon, she’s lovely. Just seems weird…” his eyes dart to the other pairs and then scolds himself for being so judgmental. ‘I didn’t shower today,’ he thought to himself, ‘I probably look homeless too.’ Another pair strolled in; two women wearing collegiate sweatshirts and leggings took the station behind Stella and Malcolm. Ms. Quartz abruptly halted her writing to take note of the two additions and then resumed scribbling what could only be a death threat. Malcolm opened the drawer in front of him and saw salt, baking soda, baking powder, flour, vinegar, and some other liquids. He thought they must be baking and secretly hoped for a loaf of bread to take home with them. 

Stella was tapping her foot in impatience as another three minutes scraped by. All of a sudden, a young couple tumbled through the door, barely keeping themselves on their feet.

“The class! Yum!” The girl’s words slurred as she threw her arms above her head, nearly falling backward onto the floor. Her partner chuckled dumbly and walked towards the last empty station in the back of the room, guiding his blonde companion with his arms. When they made it to their station, they both let out a little, “Woohoo,” and then shushed themselves. 

Stella and Malcolm exchanged a look of annoyance mixed with amusement as Ms. Quartz stood to begin the class. 

Speaking with the speed of light, Ms. Quartz began, “Alrighty, welcome, welcome everybody! I am Ms. Quartz, and I will be leading this beginner’s class today. I assume you all heard about this class through Heaton, and I’m sure he’s excited that you’ve all made it. We are going to start today with a standard batch of cookies to give everyone the gist of the process. If you all follow me step by…”

“Psh, I know how to make cookies, “ Stella whispered to Malcolm, “These better be some damn good cookies.” From the back of the classroom, the drunk couple began snickering until it erupted into hysterical laughter, finally resolving to them informing the room they love cookies. 

She instructed everyone to gather the ingredients from their right-side drawer, and then Ms. Quartz gave the step-by-step instructions she had promised, right down to leveling off the flour and swirling the mixture around gently. After about 30 minutes or so of measuring and stirring and transferring between containers, Ms. Quartz congratulated us all. In front of Stella and Malcolm, sitting in one of their beakers was what could only be described as sand. Definitely not a cookie. 

“What the hell?” Stella whispered, “What did we do wrong? This is why you should use an oven like a normal person.” Malcolm glanced around the room and saw many piles of sand, including on Ms. Quartz’s station. 

“What the FUCK hahaha,” the drunk couple were equally displeased with their results and began pointing at one each other, distributing blame and cackling. Malcolm glanced around the room again and noticed no one else seemed disappointed with their sand. In fact, everyone seemed to be giving the drunk couple annoyed looks and then looking about at each other. 

“Well anyway,” Ms. Quartz walked over to the closet that was in the corner of the room, “Great test runs, now let’s gear up and switch to the left drawer ingredients. Please remember to level well! It makes all the difference in the high!” Stella pulled open the drawer in front of her and put her hand over her mouth. The other students began lining up in front of the teacher’s desk as Ms. Quartz rummaged in the darkness in the closet. Malcolm peered over Stella’s shoulder and saw cough medicine, iodine, bleach, and what looked like a tiny container of gasoline. He lifted his eyes upward and saw the students heading back to their stations with a gas mask and bright, yellow hazmat suit. 

“Oh my god, Stel, what did you sign us up for?”

Her neck twisted around to look up at him with her big, round eyes that were beginning to water, “A meth class?” She whispered so lowly he barely heard but he had already pieced it together himself. Stella’s eyes darted back and forth, looking at their classmates with a brand new, criminal lens. She turned her eyes back towards Malcolm, and her stare burned the question ‘what do we do’ into his forehead. He looked around subtly and saw the drunk couple wobbling in the line for hazmat gear. He squeezed Stella’s arm and walked to the front to join the line, casual as could be. 

“Craziest. Cookies. Ever!” The drunk gentleman held the yellow rubber suit in his hands while his girlfriend, now named Amy, jumped up and down while Ms. Quartz fetched her one. “Ames, help me put this o—“ he teetered on one leg, trying to get his foot into the suit until he fell forward, half-catching himself. Malcolm took a suit and mask for both him and Stella and brought them back to their station. 

“We’re just going to do it. And then we’re going to go home.” He looked Stella in the eyes and held her hand for a moment, he didn’t want to overreact, he didn’t want to draw attention, he didn’t want these meth-makers to murder Stella and him. They slipped into their hazmat suits, and Stella’s shaking hands zipped them both up. Malcolm fitted the gas mask over her hair-bun and gave her a confident, single nod to let her know they were going home soon. And then they repeated the process they had just been taught by Ms. Quartz, this time with different ingredients. They measured precisely and dumped one liquid after another into the beaker to swirl together. The colors changed, and the fumes filled the room with a yellow haze, clouding the pairs from one another.

Malcolm couldn’t help but feel the giant, tattooed gentleman was staring at them. And then he felt Ms. Quartz was staring at them. Every move they made, the two were watching, Malcolm was sure of it now. Stella measured water from the faucet and gingerly poured it into the beaker with the other liquids. 

“Hey,” the tattooed man yelled across the room and began lumbering over to their station, “how do you know Heaton?”

“Oh, Heaton? What a guy, we met him a few years ago,” Stella replied cheerfully without missing a beat. He squinted her eyes at her and she added, “At the casino.”

“And he told you about this class?” He stood squarely in front of them with his massive arms folded across his chest. 

“Yep.” Stella continued swirling the beaker like a robot that hit a glitch and couldn’t stop. 

“Hm. Okay.” He stomped back over to his station, and his scrawny partner whispered something to him, pointing at drunk Amy and her boyfriend. 

Stella sighed quietly, and Malcolm reached over to stop her constant swirling. Malcolm mixed in the gas for the next step, and he could feel his bullets of sweat building up in the plastic suit. They added the gasoline and continued to extract the meth. They both were constantly exchanging glances as they prayed for this experience to be over. Ms. Quartz walked over and began complimenting their project.

“My goodness! How pure! I’m surprised Heaton bothered to send you here, you guys seem like pros already!” She sang their praises for the whole room to hear. The mother in the pink cardigan loudly huffed, and Malcolm turned around to see their mixture was a terrifying green color, as opposed to Stella’s and his clear liquid. The hooded son looked embarrassed and rolled his eyes at her. 

“Mom. Just start over. You fucked it up,” he mumbled to her under his breath. She put her hand on his chest and shoved him against the station on her way to empty their beaker of the failed attempt. Ms. Quartz flitted about the room, telling Mr. Tattoo and Scrawnyboy to measure better and remember to level! She wagged her finger at the mother and son as they began their new batch, and she paused at the two women’s station to ask them to please keep their suits zipped up all the way. 

Malcolm leaned over to Stella, “Do you still think she’s nice?” He half chuckled, and she gave him a death glare for a moment before she broke into a giggle herself. They moved onto the heating step and crystallized methamphetamine like it was their job. 

Malcolm felt an odd feeling of satisfaction, and when he turned towards Stella, she lifted her hand in expectation of a high-five. As he swung his arm over to smack her hand, he heard a violent noise. Something knocked him forward, slamming into her, and in turn, she slammed into the station before they both fell to the floor. The room was filled with thick, white smoke and the sound of a crackling fire; Malcolm’s ears were ringing like a school bell. He flailed his arms around in search of Stella until he felt her tiny leg under him. He pulled her up to her feet and began hurrying her out of the room. He turned around at the door for a moment to see a wall of flames at the back of the classroom and to see Ms. Quartz passed out behind her station. 

“Grab her!” Stella yelled at him from the hallway through hacking coughs. He lunged forward from the door and dragged Ms. Quartz by her arms all the way to the steps of the building. 

They both paused to look at the smoke billowing from the window on the right side of the structure. Then, they turned toward each other and realized they still looked like giant bananas. They tore the hazmat suits off of their bodies and shoved them in the trash next to the front door.

“Should we leave?” Stella asked, staring at the smoking building.

“We should call someone, right?”

“Right.” She stood frozen, just staring. Malcolm jogged to a payphone at the end of the street and dialed 911.

“There’s a fire at 44 Cherish Avenue, please send someone right away.” And he hung up. He ran back to Stella and grabbed her hand, “Come on, let’s go home.”

As her feet twisted to follow him, she stopped again and pulled him back, “Look.” Drunk Amy and her boyfriend rolled out of a window on the right side and fell into the bushes. When they stood up, Malcolm could see their hazmat suits were obliterated by the explosion and the front of their gas masks had melted into a terrifying, twisted face. They brushed themselves off and looked at Stella and Malcolm. 

“Woah, those were weird cookies.” The guy started laughing, and Amy stood there looking more confused than a dog being told it can’t have chocolate. 

“I don’t think we were making cookies. Did you guys make cookies?” Amy pointed at Stella and Malcolm, demanding an answer, and she stumbled forward a few steps. The scent of burnt plastic was overwhelming, and the scent of vodka wasn’t too far behind. 

“We did make cookies,” Stella said firmly and grabbed Malcolm’s arm. They briskly walked away, and those three blocks had never been so long. Stella scampered up the stairs, and Malcolm forced his feet upward, thinking he hadn’t known the definition of tired when he had walked up these just a few hours ago. 

He waited while Stella fought with the brass lock frantically until the door gave in, and they were finally home. She rushed over to the fridge as Malcolm paused at the door, confused by what she was doing. She ripped a piece of paper off the fridge door sending a magnet flying across the wood floor. She read the piece of paper and then let it drop by her side as her eyes filled with tears.

“What is it, babe?”

Her quivering face broke into a hysterical sob, and she slumped to the floor as she cried, “'Learning the Culinary Arts' is tomorrow.” He smiled and strolled into the kitchen. He bent over, kissed her on the head, and scooped her up into his arms.

“Bed?” he asked. She nodded solemnly, sniffling through her stream of apologies.