Chapter 5

Matthew sat on a hard plastic chair outside Ms. Winters’ office, his right knee jiggling in an anxious rhythm. The guidance counselor’s office was located in a quiet corner of the high school, far from the clamor of slamming lockers and rowdy students. A bulletin board on the wall across from him was alive with college pennants—Harvard, Stanford, UCLA, Penn State—their bright colors and bold letters promising futures that had always seemed to him to be meant for other people. Regular people.

Not once in the past three years had Matthew voluntarily visited this office. College counseling sessions were mandatory for seniors, of course, but he’d sat through his fifteen-minute slot last fall with noncommittal nods and vague answers. Ms. Winters had given him brochures for the local community college and state university, which he’d tucked into his backpack and later transferred to the drawer in his apartment where he kept important papers—birth certificate, social security card and the creased photograph of his father that had somehow survived nine years of group home life.

But today was different. Today, he had an idea and a hope.

The manila folder in his hands contained information he had downloaded from the Institute of Culinary Education’s website—program descriptions, course catalogs, and most dauntingly, financial information. The numbers made his stomach clench: $25,000 per year for tuition alone. That didn’t count living expenses in one of the most expensive cities in the country. Or the other stuff: books, knives, uniforms. The total was more money than Matthew had ever conceived of having.

His savings account, grown from the wages from his jobs at the farmers’ market and the restaurants. With careful budgeting, it held just over $5,000—impressive for a seventeen-year-old on his own, but barely enough for two months in New York.

The door to Ms. Winters’ office opened, and Nancy Walker, the class valedictorian, emerged.

She gave him a friendly nod, probably wondering what “the ghost” was doing there. Matthew was well aware of what his classmates called him. He didn’t care. He was long inured to being on the outside of all the school activities. He showed up, was friendly but standoffish, and quickly disappeared after school.

He quirked a smile and nodded back. And was shocked to hear her say,

“Good luck in there.” The first time she’d ever talked to him.

The counselor’s voice interrupted them.

“Matthew? Come on in.” Ms. Winters stood in the doorway, a tall woman with silver hair and reading glasses that hung from a beaded chain around her neck. Her expression registered mild surprise; like everyone else at school, she wasn’t accustomed to Matthew asking for help for anything.

Her office was small but tidy, with a desk, two chairs, and walls lined with more college pennants and framed degrees. A desktop computer hummed softly, its screen displaying a spreadsheet of student names and application statuses.

“Have a seat,” she said, gesturing to the chair across from her desk. “This is a pleasant surprise. What can I help you with today?”

Matthew perched on the edge of the seat, his posture rigid. Interactions with authority figures still triggered anxiety. He slid the folder across her desk.

“Yes, ma’am, I want to apply to culinary school,” he said, his voice croaked a bit. Trusting anybody with his fragile dream was a huge step for him. “ICE—the Institute of Culinary Education. In New York.”

Ms. Winters opened the folder, scanning the contents with practiced efficiency. “Impressive program,” she remarked. “One of the best in the country.”

“Yes ma’am. That’s why I want to go there.”

She flipped through the pages, pausing at the tuition information. Her expression didn’t change, but Matthew caught the slight raise of her eyebrows.

“I see. Are you looking for information on how to apply?”

“No ma’am. I know how to apply,” Matthew said. “I need help to understand if there are scholarships or financial aid that I might be able to get to pay for it.” His fingers twisted in his lap. “I have some money saved, but not enough.”

Ms. Winters nodded, setting the folder aside and turning to her computer. “Let’s see what we’re working with here. Your grades are excellent, which is a good start, 3.9 GPA, strong SAT scores, particularly in math.”

“Will that matter for culinary school?”

“Academic achievement always matters, Matthew. It demonstrates discipline and work ethic, both crucial in any specialized field.” She typed something, clicked through several screens. “Have you filled out the FAFSA yet?”

“The what?”

“Free Application for Federal Student Aid. It’s the starting point for any financial assistance. Without it, you can’t access federal grants, work-study programs or most scholarships.”

Matthew shook his head. He’d heard the term in the mandatory college prep sessions but had filed it away as irrelevant in his mind.

“That’s our first step, then.” Ms. Winters pulled a form from a drawer. “You’ll need your tax information, bank statements, and...” She paused, her expression softening as she remembered his situation. “As a former ward of the state who’s been financially independent, you’ll qualify as an independent student. That’s actually advantageous for aid purposes.”

For the next thirty minutes, she walked him through the FAFSA form, explaining terms like “expected family contribution” (zero, in his case) and “cost of attendance” (alarmingly high).

“The good news,” she said, “is that your independent status and income level will probably qualify you for maximum federal aid. The bad news is that even maximum federal aid won’t cover the full cost of a private culinary program plus living expenses in Manhattan.”

Matthew’s shoulders tensed. He’d expected this, but hearing it confirmed made his idea seem glaringly stupid.

“I see Ma’am. So, what do I do?”

Ms. Winters leaned back in her chair, studying him with an appraising look that made him want to squirm. “Tell me why culinary school. Why ICE specifically.”

The question caught him off guard. He’d prepared for forms and figures, not for defending his dream.

“I...” He hesitated, unused to speaking about personal stuff. “My father was a chef. He died when I was eight.”

Ms. Winters nodded, her expression neutral but attentive.

“He used to say that food was magic,” Matthew continued. The words coming easier. “That cooks were like wizards. I remember watching him. He could transform a few simple ingredients into something ... special—magical.” He swallowed hard. “After he died, I lost that magic for a while. But I’ve found it again, working at the farmers’ market, at St. Vincent’s kitchen, at the restaurants.”

His voice grew steadier as he spoke, conviction replacing hesitation. “I’ve learned a lot on my own, but there’s way more to know. Techniques, history, the science behind it all. ICE has the best program for what I want, externship opportunities with top chefs plus all business courses for restaurant management.”

He met her eyes. “I don’t just want to cook. I want to be great at it. The kind of great that would have made my father proud of me...” His voice trailed off, embarrassed at revealing so much of himself.

Ms. Winters held his gaze for a long moment, then nodded as if he’d passed some unspoken test.

“Matthew, that’s exactly what we need,” she said, turning back to her computer with renewed purpose. “Your story, your drive—that’s what scholarship committees look for. Academic achievement gets your foot in the door, but personal narrative is what makes them accept you.”

She began typing rapidly. “There are several culinary-specific scholarships we can target. The James Beard Foundation offers a few, as does the American Culinary Federation. Then there are scholarships for independent students, first-generation college students, students who’ve overcome significant obstacles.”

The printer in the corner hummed to life, spitting out pages that Ms. Winters collected and passed to him. “These are the ones I think you should focus on. Each has different requirements, essays, recommendations, sometimes videos or portfolios of your work.”

Matthew flipped through the stack, overwhelmed by the options but oddly heartened. He hadn’t known such specific support existed.

“The most important thing,” Ms. Winters continued, “is to start now. Many of these have deadlines in the next two to three months. You’ll need to write compelling essays, gather strong recommendations, and document your culinary experience.”

“Recommendations?” Matthew’s mind raced through possibilities. Mrs. Geigle from St. Vincent’s would help. Maybe Mr. Li or Señora Vega.

“Yes, and given this program, I’d suggest focusing on professional references rather than academic ones. Teachers who’ve never seen you work with food can’t speak to your culinary potential. Restaurant owners, kitchen managers—people who’ve seen your passion firsthand will be more valuable.”

She pulled out a calendar and circled several dates. “Let’s set up a schedule. We’ll meet weekly to review your applications. I can help with the essays. Make sure you’re highlighting the right experiences and achievements.”

Matthew stared at her, speechless. He’d expected forms and maybe a list of websites. He had not let himself even dream of this kind of personal investment.

“Why are you helping me like this?” The question slipped out before he could stop it. Years of dealing with institutional bureaucracies had taught him to expect nothing and to keep his mouth shut.

Ms. Winters’ expression softened. “Well, it’s my job, Matthew. But more than that—you’re exactly the kind of kid who should get these opportunities. You’ve overcome more obstacles before graduation than most people face in a lifetime, maintained exceptional grades while supporting yourself, and developed a clear vision for your future.” She smiled. “Do you know how rare that is? Most of the students who come through that door have no idea what they want, even the ones with every advantage.”

“Oh.”

She closed the folder and handed it back to him, along with the stack of scholarship information. “Your father was right, you know. Food is a kind of magic—it brings people together, crosses cultural boundaries, provides comfort and joy in ways nothing else can. Besides, I think the world needs more wizards.”

Something tight in Matthew’s chest loosened at her words, a knot of doubt loosening into hope.

“Thank you,” he said simply. Alarmingly, he felt eyes prickle.

“Don’t thank me yet. We have a mountain of paperwork ahead and probably two dozen essays to write.” She made a note in her planner. “Tuesday after school? We can start with the FAFSA and the ICE application itself.”

Matthew nodded, clutching the folder and scholarship information. “Yes ma’am. I’ll be here.”

As he left the guidance office, the weight of the papers in his hands felt lighter with possibility. The hallway was empty, classes in session, but for once, Matthew didn’t feel the usual sense of separation that had defined his school experience.