Chapter 1
Mini intro
Some stories begin with fame — bright kitchens, critics whispering your name, your face on the cover of glossy magazines.
Ella Brooks’ story doesn’t start like that at all.
It starts in a tiny kitchen on a quiet American street, where the air always smelled like cinnamon and old stories.
Where a grandmother hummed while she cooked.
Where nothing was perfect, but everything felt warm.
Nobody back then knew she’d become one of the greatest chefs in the world.
Least of all Ella herself.
And now… I guess this is where she begins.
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I’m standing in my grandma’s kitchen again.
Warm light spills across the counters, and she’s moving around like she always did — soft steps, soft voice, soft hands. She hands me a bowl, smiling like she already knows the joke I haven’t told yet.
“Stir gently, mi cielo,” she says. “Food listens to the hands that make it.”
I laugh. “I don’t think food has ears, Grandma.”
“Oh, it listens,” she insists, tapping my forehead lightly. “Especially when you make it.”
The room smells exactly like it did when I was little — vanilla, butter, and something safe. I don’t realize how much I miss it until my chest feels too full.
She takes my hands in hers, guiding them through the motion.
“See? You already have it in you.”
I open my mouth to answer—
BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!
My alarm screeches like a dying robot, and the whole dream shatters.
I jolt upright so fast I fall straight off my bed and slam onto the floor.
“Ow—okay. Good morning to me.”
My room is a disaster. Clothes everywhere. Shoes stacked like a tiny unstable tower. Magazines, empty water bottles, one sock from 7th grade probably haunting me in a corner.
Before I can even stand, my mom bursts in.
“Ella Brooks! Up! You’re late again!”
My brain freezes.
“Wait—late for what—?”
“Biology test. First period!”
I scream into my pillow for three seconds, roll onto my feet, and start full-on panicking.
I yank open my closet, grab the first shirt I touch (no idea if it’s clean), pull on jeans, and hop into my sneakers without untying them. It’s like trying to shove my feet into two stubborn crocodiles.
No makeup. No mascara. Not even chapstick.
I look like a sleep-deprived raccoon who also lost a fight with gravity.
I race to the bathroom, brush my teeth in 12 seconds, spit, rinse, run, nearly slip on the hallway rug, somehow survive, and skid into the kitchen like it’s a baseball slide.
I grab a piece of toast from the counter—THE toast my mom probably made for herself—and I’m halfway to stuffing it into my mouth when—
“Wow,” my little brother, Marcus, says, leaning on the fridge like a smug gremlin. “You look like someone microwaved a potato and then stepped on it.”
I stare at him. “Good morning to you too, you spawn of the devil.”
He grins. “Mom! Ella called me a devil!”
“I called you spawn of a devil,” I correct, pointing the toast at him like a sword. “Big difference.”
“You look like a deshevled old lady with out your kilouse of make up on.”
“Well you look like the road man form the homless shelter .”
“You look like a adpoted unwated child .”
“Well atleast they wanted me unlike you they had no chose but to stay with you.”
He gasps. Mom yells something about “STOP FIGHTING AND GO TO SCHOOL,” but honestly that’s just white noise by now.
I shove my toast between my teeth, grab my backpack, realize it’s unzipped, zip it while running (skill), and barrel out the front door like a disaster with shoes.
By the time I reach school, I’m sweating like someone who ran a marathon in a trash bag. I slam through the double doors, sprint down the hall, and make it to Biology just in time for—
“Miss Brooks.”
Oh no.
Mr. Harrow stands by his desk like a disappointed owl, arms crossed, glasses lowered to the tip of his nose.
“You’re late. Again.”
I freeze in the doorway, panting. “I—I can explain.”
He raises one eyebrow. The Deadly Teacher Eyebrow™.
“What,” he says slowly, “will be the excuse this time?”
My brain scrambles for something—anything—then blurts out:
“My… uh… goldfish escaped last night and staged a rebellion? I had to negotiate a peace treaty so it wouldn’t—uh—flood the house.”
The entire class goes silent.
Mr. Harrow closes his eyes like he’s begging some higher power for patience.
“Miss Brooks,” he says, “go sit down and take a test paper before you invent an international incident.”
“Right. Yes. Absolutely.”
I power-walk to an empty seat, trying not to die from embarrassment.
He slaps a packet on my desk.
BIOLOGY—CELL STRUCTURE AND FUNCTION TEST.
I swallow. I am so cooked.
Question 1: Explain the function of the mitochondria.
I stare at the words.
They stare back.
The mitochondria… the power… house? House of power? Power home?
Whatever. Moving on.
Question 2: Name two differences between plant and animal cells.
Um. One is green? Sometimes?
Two… uh… plants don’t talk?
Yeah, this isn’t going well.
I look up.
Mr. Harrow is grading another class’s assignments, red pen slashing like he’s fencing invisible enemies.
Okay. Left side. Sarah.
She’s already halfway through her test, hair in a neat braid, pencil moving like she’s writing a love letter to education itself.
I tear off a tiny scrap of paper, write: I’m dying help, and flick it at her.
It hits her arm. She looks over, sees my panic, snorts quietly, and mouths:
You should’ve revised instead of goofing off, silly girl.
I mouth back: PLEASE.
She shrugs. I don’t even know if mine are right. Ask Alex.
Great. Perfect. Alex—the science genius.
I slowly turn around and wave at her like a dying fish.
She notices. She frowns. She looks like she wants to help but also like she respects rules too much to become a criminal for me.
Before she can decide, Mr. Harrow snaps his head up.
“Miss Brooks.”
Uh oh.
“That is enough. Detention. After school. For disrupting the test.”
I slump in my seat, melting into academic death.
Detention. Great. My favorite thing ever. Said no one, ever.
I slump in my chair for the rest of class, trying not to stare at Sarah and Alex doing their tests like responsible humans.
I wonder if mitochondria actually have feelings, because I’m pretty sure mine are judging me.
Finally, the bell rings and I drag my backpack behind me like it’s a bag of rocks. I meet up with Sarah in the hallway.
“Biology was murder,” I mutter.
She grins. “You do know the mitochondria isn’t a pet, right?”
I throw her a look. “I panicked! And honestly… who even cares? It’s a power house. That’s good enough!”
She chuckles. “Sure. Power house. That’ll get you into college.”
I roll my eyes and glance down at my empty stomach. Shoot. I forgot my lunch money again.
“Looks like I’m eating air today,” I groan.
“Non-sense,” Sarah says, grabbing my arm. “We’ll share mine. You’re not starving on my watch.”
I grin weakly, shoving my bag onto the bench and letting her pull me toward the cafeteria.
The smell of pizza, fresh bread, and… some unidentifiable mystery meat hits me like a freight train. Kids are laughing, spilling things, and I feel my anxiety spike.
I plop down next to Sarah. “Thanks,” I whisper.
“You forgot your lunch money again?” she asks.
“Uh… yes,” I admit. “At least I have, like, zero chance of surviving high school.”
She laughs. “You’ll survive. You always do, somehow.”
We start sharing her food. I nibble cautiously, still thinking about my test disaster.
Suddenly, the cafeteria hushes. The PA clicks on.
“Good afternoon, students,” Principal Granger’s voice booms. He clears his throat. “I have an announcement for all students ages sixteen to eighteen. The Académie de l’Art Culinaire Royale — an international culinary academy in France — is offering a limited number of scholarships. Applicants will train to become professional chefs and pastry artists. Talented students with determination, creativity, and a passion for food are encouraged to apply.”
My fork freezes halfway to my mouth.
Sarah elbows me. “Uh… did you hear that?”
I nod, eyes wide. “I did. And I think… I might actually throw up from excitement.”
She grins. “Well… if anyone can do it, it’s you. Messy, chaotic, late-to-everything-you-do-you Brooks.”
I blink at her, heart hammering. Maybe… just maybe… this is the kind of thing that can actually change everything.
