Taste Test (11 page)

“Sorry!”

Gigi shifts her tiny body a little.

“You know, this looks really bad,” I mutter.

“I know—I wish someone would walk out and catch them!”

“No.” I shake my head. “I mean this—us. We look like complete psychos.”

She shrugs. “We can’t help that they’ve chosen to do this on
our
floor. There are lots of other places to go—elevators, couches, kitchen tables …”

“Yeah, I get the idea.”

She jerks her head toward the other end of the hall. “How about I see if the stairwell’s unlocked—maybe we can go down to the first floor and back up the other side?”

I shrug. “I guess that’s the only good option at this point.”

She takes off, sliding a little in her socked feet. I turn my attention back just as Prescott pulls away from Joy. He holds her at arm’s length and lowers his gaze.

“Now, you just have to trust me. I’ll take care of everything.”

Joy looks down. “I don’t know, Holden. I—I just—”

“Baby, listen.” He tucks a lock of hair behind her ear. “It’s a foolproof way to keep you in the competition.”

“Okay, okay,” Joy says, crossing her arms. Prescott smiles at her and pushes the elevator button on the wall.

“I knew I could count on you. You’re the best.”

He leans down and gives her a swift peck on the cheek. She looks peeved.

“Don’t you want me to come with you?”

“No.” He shakes his head. “You need to stay here. What if your roommate wakes up and you’re not there?”

“So what?”

“So you should try to protect your innocent reputation.”

He reaches down to grab her thigh before disappearing in the elevator. Once the doors close behind him, she turns on her heel and heads for our room. A few moments later, Gigi is behind me, breathless. She bends over and props her hands on her knees.

“No. Dice,” she heaves. “Downstairs. Door. Locked.”

“I can’t believe you just missed that,” I whisper loudly, pointing to the now empty hallway.

“What, they left? Boo, that’s no fun—things were just starting to get good!”

“Yeah, well, listen to this—Prescott said something to Joy about taking care of everything—”

“Um, I can think of a
dozen
things he wants to take care of for her. Like her tonsils, evidently.”

“Gross. Stop it. Seriously, I think something’s up with that guy—I mean, something shady, you know?”

“What are you talking about?”

I tell her what I heard—about Prescott telling Joy to trust him, about how he said it would keep her in the competition.

“Yeah, but think about it. It might just be something stupid, like giving her an idea for a dish,” Gigi points out.

“Maybe—but what if it’s, like, I don’t know, a secret plan or something. Like a conspiracy!”

“A conspiracy?”

“Yeah.” I nod emphatically. “Like an evil plot to take over the show and …” I trail off, at a loss for what an evil plot would entail when reality TV is involved.

Gigi stares at me, shakes her head, and starts walking toward her room. “Nora, do you hear yourself?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean I think you’re becoming some sort of paranoid weirdo or something. I don’t think a TV chef is out for world domination.”

“Yeah, I guess.” I look at the wall clock, starting to feel a little stupid. “Maybe I’m just tired.”

“Maybe you’re just shocked that your roommate’s a full-blown harlot.”

“Nah.” I grin wickedly. “I’m not shocked by that at all.”

As we head back to our rooms, Gigi glances over her shoulder at Christian’s room. “Man, I wish I could be there in the morning when he opens his door!”

“I know, right?” I grin at her. “Priceless.”

Our vindication is short-lived, even when the phrase “Legacy Loser” seems to travel around the dorm like the best kind of inside joke. Part of the letdown is because of the stern lecture all the contestants receive from the production staff about
vandalism and destruction of property. Words like “misdemeanor” and “immediate dismissal” were thrown around.

I didn’t dare look at the girls until we were walking out. When I finally did, Angela was fixated on her shoes and Gigi looked a little green.

Despite all the drama surrounding the door graffiti, our next challenge is occupying my mind more than my criminal activity. I start brainstorming recipes but nothing feels right—I need a sounding board, a person to bounce ideas off of. Up until recently, that person was always Billy. He’d listen patiently while I rattled off lists of ingredients and directions, cooking methods and temperatures; then, when I’d finished, I could tell just by the cock of his head or twist of his mouth which recipes he liked best. It’s strange—I know his face better than my own, but, somehow, I can hardly picture it in my mind.

I decide that, as long as I’m Billy-less, I should take advantage of my new friends’ cooking expertise. Between classes, I stop by Gigi’s room, but she isn’t there. When I don’t have any luck finding Angela either, I pull on my only sweatshirt and head outside for a walk. I need a distraction and if I can’t be around my friends, I need to get away from the dorm, the cameras, and the competition. I have to admit, too, that the cold air actually feels good. Everything seems sparkly and fresh, like clean laundry.

It isn’t until I’m a few feet away that I see Christian, bundled up in a ski jacket, sitting on a bench. He’s scribbling furiously in a notebook and I stop for a second, mesmerized by his intensity. He glances up and sees me before I have the wherewithal to hurry past him.

“Nora?” He seems surprised. I look down.

“Hi. Sorry, I was just—”

“You wanna sit?”

I blink hard.

“Uh … no. That’s okay.”

“What’s wrong? Don’t want to get too close to a ‘legacy loser’?”

Something inside my stomach twists hard.

Does he know it was me? Is he bluffing?

Either way, if I run from him now, I’ll look totally guilty. Reluctantly, I inch toward the bench and glance at his notebook, covered in writing.

“What’s that? A journal?”

“No.”

“No?”

“Did I stutter?”

I feel a prickle of irritation.

“Dude, you’re writing in a notebook. I could call it a diary but, last time I checked, you weren’t a twelve-year-old girl.”

I’m surprised when he laughs.

“It’s not a diary or a journal. It’s a strategy log.”

“Lemme guess—chess team? No, I got it—it’s Dungeons and Dragons, right?”

He rolls his eyes. “It’s where I write stuff about cooking—recipe ideas I have, how long it takes to cook something, ingredients I need for new dishes …”

“Oh.”

A strategy log, huh?
I wish I weren’t, but I’m actually impressed.

“So, you ready for tonight’s challenge?” he asks, watching me.

I shrug. “Sure. I guess so. It’s not like I have a—a game plan or anything.” I gesture to his notebook.

“It only helps so much. I have no idea
what
we’ll be cooking, just like you.”

“I think that’s the most nerve-racking part,” I admit, sitting down next to him. “That I never know what’s coming.”

“I know,” Christian agrees. “I mean, it could be anything—you can’t possibly strategize. You just have to hope you’re good enough to win.”

I bristle at that, not sure if he’s trying to insult me or make me nervous.

“Well, it’s nice to know you aren’t using your connections to get a leg up on the competition,” I say, my tone a little icy.

“Ah, yes.” He looks at me, eyes narrowed. “People like
me
would really rather cheat than win legitimately. You know, last time I checked, my dishes speak for themselves. It’s not my fault they’re better than yours.”

I glare at him.

“
Better
is a highly debatable evaluation of your work. I can’t think of anything more cliché than poached sea bass.”

“The judges seemed pleased.”

“Maybe they were.” I shrug. “But that kind of Contemporary Cuisine 101 crap isn’t going to get you any further than the next few challenges. Eventually they’ll realize what you really are.”

“Oh yeah? And what’s that?”

His unruffled facade is beginning to give way. I narrow my eyes.

“A daddy’s boy who gets what he wants. A chef’s kid who is using his father’s reputation and wealth to get him something he could already have. Why the hell would you need a scholarship, anyway, Christian? It’s not like you can’t afford to go to Paris.”

“Maybe it’s not about that.”

“Not about what.”

“Not about what I already have. Not about money. Maybe I want something more.”

I scoff. “Of course you do. Guys like you—you’re never happy with what you’ve got. You always want what
other people
have. Well, fortunately, you can’t steal talent.”

“You know what, Nora?” He stands up. His breath looks like smoke in the freezing air. “If you stop wasting so much time hating me, you might actually have a chance to win this thing. As it stands right now, you’ll be lucky to get through the next challenge.”

He turns and starts toward the dorm, his notebook tucked under one arm. I’m frozen in place on the bench, mouth hanging open. I don’t know how he manages to keep leaving me speechless, but it’s getting really old really fast.

FROM THE DESK OF CVL

Chapter Seven

Powder Keg

When the judges walk into the arena, there’s one obvious difference between tonight and the last challenge—they are smiling. Grinning, even.

Somehow, that worries me more than a frown ever could.

“Welcome back, competitors,” Ms. Svincek says. “I trust you are refreshed and ready for tonight’s challenge.”

There’s a murmur throughout the kitchen. It reminds me of the buzzing around a beehive—sort of frantic and filled with energy.

“Tonight, you’ll have the opportunity to do something very special—work with one common ingredient using different techniques and your own style.”

Chef Mason wheels in a large cart covered with a sheet. The top looks lumpy and awkward, like there’s an elementary-school science-fair volcano underneath. With a flourish, he
removes the cloth. A pile of brightly colored bell peppers spills out of a large bushel basket.

“Your task is to create a dish that will appeal to the mainstream American audience using bell peppers, an ingredient that is readily available year-round. It needs to be something viewers will be able, and will want, to cook at home. Whoever wins tonight will have his or her recipe featured on the
Taste Test
website.”

Around me, people are already restless. I see a few of them eyeing the open pantry. Others are inching their way toward the freezers. When the clock starts ticking, everyone takes off.

This time, I don’t trail behind them. I’m in the thick of it, getting jostled by the crowd of people. It’s a madhouse. Two hands reach for one can of green chilies, sparking the first argument of the evening. Most people are gravitating toward the predictable—corn tortillas, cumin, black beans. The obvious choice is Mexican or Tex-Mex or something like that. I snag a bag of semolina flour and slip back out of the pantry.

We’ve got ninety minutes this time instead of sixty, but I don’t feel any more secure. I know the second I do, something will change. Besides, this time the judges will be walking around to talk to us and watch our technique more closely.

After I prep my pasta dough, I start slicing my peppers lengthwise, working to mimic the width of fettuccini noodles. My dish is one I’ve made a thousand times at home, one that Joanie and my dad always request on their days off. Along with the red peppers, andouille sausage and grilled chicken are sautéed in olive oil and garlic. Throw together a simple
alfredo, and you’ve got Chicken Pasta Nora—at least, that’s what Dad calls it.

The nice thing about making something so familiar, so second nature to me, is that I can actually take the time to look around at other people’s work. Next to me, Harvard Coral (that’s how I think of her, at least) is finely chopping her peppers and adding them to a bowl with grated cheese. Across the room, Angela is roasting hers over an open flame. She gives me a quick salute and I shoot her a thumbs-up.