The Hidden Tray -- flash fiction by Kavya Chacko

Michelle swept the door open, her smile as polished as the brass doorknob she’d buffed that morning. “You're late,” she announced, though her guests  had arrived exactly on time. She ushered them inside, taking the tray of cookies from their hands.“Oh, how thoughtful!” Michelle said, examining the cookies as if they were modern art. “I’ll just pop these into one of my better dishes. You know, for presentation.” The cookies vanished into the pantry with a vague promise of being served later when they’d fit the theme.

By mid-afternoon, the patio was filled with guests, drinks in hand, conversations flowing. Michelle fluttered among them like a hummingbird, adjusting cushions, realigning drinks, and interrupting conversations with stories no one had asked for. “Did I ever tell you the time I saved the neighborhood block party?” Michelle began, settling into her seat, ready for her performance. “The organizer called me last minute—desperate, of course—and I whipped it into shape. Everyone said it was the best party in years.” Her niece, who stood by the grill, leaned toward her cousin. “Wasn’t she just in charge of the lemonade stand?” “That's what my mom told me,” he replied. Michelle didn’t hear the encounter. She was recounting another tale, this one about her supposed friendship with a celebrity chef. “He said my palate was extraordinary and practically insisted I come and taste his new menu.” Guests exchanged knowing glances as Michelle moved to reposition a vase that had been slightly bumped off-center.

As conversations started, Michelle had always found herself in the middle of them. A French class her niece had started taking, and how it had been difficult to learn, turned into Michelle's story as the French club president. "You know, I think the actual French kids were jealous of how much the professor liked me and how good I was." Her sister-in-law's recent trip to Mexico City had turned into Michelle's opinion of the city as dangerous. “Is it safe to go out at night? I saw on the news that it’s so unsafe.” And talk about her cousin’s recent kitchen venture had turned into a lesson in pronunciation. A missed vowel in piccata turned into Michelle’s laugh and, “It’s pic-CA-ta, not piccta.” Her guest just smiled and nodded, not wanting to cause an issue.

As the afternoon wore on, Michelle floated through the crowd, seamlessly—or so she liked to think. While inspecting the grill, she caught snippets of a conversation between her mother and sister. Standing over her uncle’s shoulder, eyes fixed on the burgers, she listened intently.

“Next time the whole family will be together is Thanksgiving,” their mother said.

“I know. I’ll make sure to have everyone’s favorites at the table,” her sister replied. “You always do. You’re such a great host.”

Michelle stiffened but quickly recovered, tossing a breezy comment to her uncle about smashing the burgers “like that trendy new place does it.” Excusing herself, she headed inside to refill the drinks. 

In the quiet of the kitchen, Michelle leaned against the counter, her shoulders sagging as she let out a slow breath. For a moment, she just stood there, her eyes closed, her face unguarded. Her gaze drifted to the tray of cookies she’d stashed away earlier. She hesitated before snatching one, then another, shoving them into her mouth. Crumbs fell onto the counter as she chewed hurriedly, her hand hovering over the tray like she might take more. Her cheeks flushed as though someone might walk in and catch her. She swallowed hard, brushing the crumbs into the sink and straightening her blouse, her mask slipping firmly back into place.

The laughter and clinking glasses from the patio pulled Michelle back to the present. She straightened, picked up the tray of drinks, and stepped outside, forcing out a cheerful, “Who’s ready for a top-off?” Her movements were precise but slower, the strain noticeable only to her in the way she adjusted drinks and cushions, even when no one saw.

Michelle began setting the table, holding a pile of forks. They slipped, and Michelle’s laugh was too loud, too bright. “Butterfingers!” she said, picking them up with a practiced smile, though her hands trembled. As she straightened, her eyes drifted to the far end of the patio, where her mother and sister stood talking, their conversation flowing so effortlessly. Their laughter rang out, and Michelle’s chest tightened. She adjusted the tray in her hands and smiled again, though it felt stretched and unfamiliar, like a mask she’d forgotten she was wearing. For a moment, she thought about setting the tray down, just to breathe. But the guests needed her, and Michelle kept moving, her smile never wavering.

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Kavya Chacko is a junior in high school living in New York City and an editor at Polyphony Lit. She loves writing flash fiction and creating complex characters. When she’s not writing, she’s out exploring the city or spending time with friends. She hopes to turn her passion for storytelling into a career and can’t wait to share her work with the world."