Tardy

No quiet entry after a Mr. Toad wild ride through town to get here on time. My tardiness goes noticed. People turn their heads. I smile and place my bum on the last empty stool. The others have glasses full with red or white fermented grape juice in front of their notebooks. "Where's the wine?" I whisper to my neighbor. She points to an assistant who, like me, flanks the far left. I wave my hand. "Pee-noh gree-gzee-oh," I plead as low as possible while still being audible. He takes five dollars and returns with my beverage. A few sips build my confidence. I shimmy across the bar and stand behind those who arrive early and grab spots in the center. We watch as the instructor pours apple cider over chicken thighs cooking in a deep sauté pan. "What brand are you using?"asks a student whose ample view includes the mirror hanging above the stove. The chef gives a name and everyone jots it down. I return to my place still thirsty, feeling the embarrassment of being late and not knowing how to behave in what's my first cooking class since eighth grade home economics. With a check mark already on my report card for being tardy, I open my mouth and without raising my hand blurt out the label of another local orchard.