Taste Test (14 page)

“Shut up.”

He leads me around to the back of the dorm. The area is overgrown and surrounded by scrubby bushes and a few years’ worth of dead leaves. I take careful steps and pray that there aren’t any snakes like back home.

“Here it is.”

I look up to see a door cracked open, golden light seeping
from the room behind it. Christian motions for me to go first.

Tentatively, I step inside.

The room is as warm as the light looks. I turn around in confusion. It’s a kitchen—not a regular house kitchen and not the arena kitchen either. More like the one at a restaurant or cafeteria. It actually reminds me a lot of the setup at Smoke Signals.

Christian’s leaning against the wall behind me, arms crossed.

“It’s the original dorm kitchen. The basement of this building was a dining hall before they gutted it for the show’s renovations.”

“How did you find this?”

He gives me that smile—the one that makes him look like he’s keeping a secret.

“I’ve made friends with some of the security guards. You’d be surprised how far a few rounds of poker will get you.”

“Of course.” I walk between the well-used cooktops and tray racks, the double-door fridges and wall-mounted broilers. “You know what this reminds me of?”

“Home?”

I turn to stare at him. “How did you—?”

“That’s what I thought, too, the first time I came in here.”

He runs a hand along the counter.

“It doesn’t really matter how big the restaurant or how fancy the food—the back of the house is the same no matter where you are. Same splattered stoves, same banged-up pots.” He pushes himself up and sits next to a stack of cutting boards. “Don’t you think?”

“I guess. I mean, I’ve never really been in any other restaurant kitchens besides my dad’s. But, yeah, it’s just like his.” I touch the lip of an extra-large sheet pan. “Just like what I’m used to.”

“It’s weird, you know,” he says thoughtfully. “Like, the arena kitchens are nice and all, but they’re nothing like working in a real kitchen.”

“I know, right?” I’m shocked that he, of all people, sees it that way. “It’s nice to have the perks, but why bother? You’re never going to use a state-of-the-art mandolin slicer again—you’ll probably never need to.”

“If you can’t do everything you need to with a good knife, you shouldn’t be in the kitchen at all.”

We sort of stare at each other for a minute, as though baffled that we could have this opinion in common. For the first time, I notice the slight bump on the bridge of his nose, the shadow of stubble along his jawline. There’s something about those little imperfections—I don’t know, they make him seem more human. More … palatable.

“Anyway.” He jumps off the counter and walks over to the fridge, swinging the door open with a flourish.

It’s completely stocked—butcher-paper-wrapped packages of meat and bags of every fruit or vegetable I’ve ever seen. Then I notice the bottles of oils, vinegars, and spices lining the counter closest to the stove.

“Jeez, are you making dinner for the whole building?”

He shakes his head. “I figured we needed a place to practice that’s more private than the common areas. Everyone’s been staying up until two in the morning, trying to get time in the
dorm kitchen upstairs. If we work down here, we won’t have to worry about that anymore.”

“We?”

“Yeah, sure. Me, you, Pierce—maybe Gigi. Unless you don’t want to.”

“Are you serious?”

He rolls his eyes. “No, I just made the whole thing up to mess with you.”

Let me get this straight. Christian found a private kitchen and he’s willing to share it? I look at him warily.

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why would you want to offer this up to
me,
or anyone for that matter?”

“Are you saying you don’t want to use it?”

I shrug. “I can use the dorm kitchen like everyone else.”

“Oh, okay. Great. Well, you enjoy that. I think they have a shift free between 4 and 5 a.m.”

I sigh. “All right, all right. I see your point.”

“You really have trouble saying ‘thank you,’ don’t you?”

“No,” I say, defensively.

“Then just accept this for what it is—me being nice.”

“Okay … well, then, that’s really cool of you, I guess.”

I don’t know if I’m supposed to hug him or shake his hand or what. I settle for an awkward high five and I feel like I’m about eight years old. He sort of laughs and shakes his head.

“So, how about a little one-on-one—me and you? We can finally break out the big guns.”

“Um—isn’t that what we’ve been doing? It’s sort of the point of the show, Christian.”

“Oh, are you saying you don’t have any tricks up your sleeve?”

“Okay, I see how this is going to be. Fine. You’re on.”

After some heated negotiations, we decide on a beef tenderloin cook-off. We start pulling stuff out of the fridge and Christian hands me a bottle of Worcestershire sauce.

“Hey, I heard about Angela,” he says. “That really sucks.”

I nod. “Yeah, it does.”

“When does she leave?

“She had until tomorrow, but she took off this morning. I can’t blame her—I’d want nothing to do with this place if they screwed me over like they did her.”

He shrugs. “I mean, honestly, pretty much everyone gets eliminated at some point. She got the shaft, that’s for sure, but it just sped up the inevitable.”

“She could have won, you know. If she’d had the chance.”

Christian doesn’t say anything to that. We work in silence, the only sound the slight whir of the running refrigerator. It’s more soothing than I ever realized appliances could be.

I’m about to sear my filet when I remember I made plans with Gigi to watch a Jacques Pepin special for Modern World Cuisine. I check my watch—I’m supposed to be in her room in fifteen minutes. Maybe I can reschedule with her for tomorrow. I wipe my hands on my apron and untie it before walking toward Christian.

“Hey, I need to run upstairs really quick.”

“Yeah, right,” he scoffs. “I’m not falling for that one. How
do I know you don’t have some special barbecue spice blend stashed away that’ll blow my tenderloin out of the water?”

“What, you think I smuggled in some magic tenderizer or something?”

“You wouldn’t be the first one to try it.”

I roll my eyes. “I’ll be right back down.”

“No cheating!”

“I don’t need to.” I smile. “I could win with my eyes closed.”

I run around the side of the building, pulling both hands up under my sleeves to keep out the biting cold. By the time I make it to Gigi’s room, I’m just beginning to thaw. I lift my hand to knock when I hear her voice through the heavy wooden door.

She sounds angry, yelling about “judges” and “preparedness.” I jump as something hard slams against the other side.

“Look,” she says, her words muffled, “I’m doing the best I can. I don’t know what you want from me.”

There’s a long pause.

“Don’t you think I know that, Mom? Don’t you think I
want
to make it until the end? I’m not doing this on purpose!”

Whoa. I can’t believe her parents would
call
here. The only phone calls we’re allowed to get are if there is an emergency at home or something. And making Gigi feel like crap about being in the bottom of the competition isn’t exactly an emergency.

I straighten up when I hear her bang something else—I assume the receiver—down. I listen for a second before knocking lightly.

At first, there’s no response. I go to knock again when the door swings open.

“Hey.”

Gigi’s eyes are swollen and red, her face splotchy. I don’t say anything, just follow her into her room.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” She gives me a watery smile. “I’m sorry. I’m … just a mess.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

I sit on the bed while she paces in front of me, wishing once again that I could talk to Billy. He’s way better than I am in a crisis. He can always make someone laugh, even when it’s the last thing they want to do.

“This whole thing is just so much pressure, you know?” Gigi is saying. “I mean—like, there’s no way to make everyone happy. You want to win, but the competition’s intense. You’re not good enough no matter what you do. And then you’re in the bottom
again
and you feel like crap and everyone tells you that you aren’t good enough, anyway …”

She trails off and sniffs hard. I shake my head.

“No one thinks you aren’t good enough, Gigi.”

“You’re wrong. There are
definitely
people who think I’m not good enough. They just happen to be related to me.”

“Well, those people have
no idea
what it’s like to fight for your right to be here. To be proving yourself every day, surrounded by amazing chefs.”

“But it’s just so easy for you.” She flops down next to me, wiping her eyes. “You’re always in the top three. It’s like you’re in some sort of secret club I can’t break into.”

I shake my head. “It’s not like that. I promise you. You have so much talent.”

Gigi closes her eyes.

“This place is like a pressure cooker waiting to explode. I feel like there’s never any relief. Can’t we just, like, watch a movie or something? Forget about cooking and competing and all that crap for a while?”

“Of course. Of course we can do that.” I smile at her. I remember the last time I’d had an argument with my dad, Billy put on a ridiculous Adam Sandler movie and spent two hours trying to catch popcorn in his mouth. By the time the credits were rolling, I could hardly remember why Dad and I were fighting at all.

That’s what I need to do for Gigi—I need to make her forgive and forget, the way Billy always does for me.

Then I remember Christian waiting downstairs.

“Um, do you want me to go pop some popcorn or something?” At least then I’d be able to explain the situation to him.

“No, I’m good.” She settles against the wall and starts flipping channels. “Ooh!
Heart Belongs
! I love this movie—Brad Boxer is such a freakin’ hottie, don’t you think?”

What am I supposed to do now? I look at Gigi, who’s smiling at the screen. I sigh.

“He’s all right, I guess. I think I like Levi Gregory better.”

“Levi Gregory—no WAY!”

“Brad Boxer has a funny shaped head.”

She rolls her eyes at me. “You are disturbed, Nora. You know that, right?”

“Yeah, I know.”

I pick up a pillow from the floor and lodge it behind my head. I’ll just explain everything to Christian tomorrow. I’m sure he’ll understand.

“I said I’m sorry.”

I can barely keep up as Christian leaves class the next day. He didn’t show up at breakfast and ducked into Flavor Foundations at the last minute. It doesn’t take a genius to know when someone’s avoiding you.

“I told you, don’t worry about it,” he mutters.

“I didn’t realize—I didn’t think you actually cared if I—”

He stops abruptly to face me. “Nora, it’s fine, it’s done. Let’s move on.”

“Okay,” I say, brows furrowed. “If you’re sure.”

“I’m sure.”

“Well, great—I’m glad you aren’t mad.”

“Look, I’ll see you later, okay?”

He hurries away, leaving me standing alone in the middle of campus and feeling like a total jerk.

It isn’t until our challenge two days later that I manage to corner him outside the arena doors while he’s tying on his apron.

“Can we please talk?”

“Sure. What do you want to talk about?” He doesn’t look at me.

“This sucks, you know? I feel really terrible about the other night. I mean, I thought we were becoming … friends or something.”

Something in his face hardens, like a veil of stone lowering over his blue eyes.

“Nora, you know how things are. Here one minute, gone the next. Don’t kid yourself.”

He brushes some flour off his jeans with one hand.

“We’re here to compete and to win. I’ve been pretty good at that lately. And you’ve been keeping up with me. But that’s going to change tonight.”

“Excuse me?” I take a step back.

“I think you heard me.”

“So, I hurt your feelings and you’re going to try to
punish
me?”

Christian gives a cold laugh and looks at me like I’m demented.

“Trust me. You couldn’t hurt me or my feelings if you tried.”

He walks a few steps toward the arena doors before turning to look at me.

“Get ready for the fight of your life, Henderson. You’re about to find out what losing feels like.”

I put both hands on my hips and narrow my eyes. “Is that a threat?”

He steps forward and gives me a knowing smile.

“Nope. Not a threat. Not a promise, either. It’s a fact.”

“Right.” I finish knotting my apron strings. “You want a battle? It is
so
on.”

A production assistant opens the door and beckons us with one hand.

“C’mon, you two. We’re about to start.”

“May the best chef win,” Christian says, holding his hand
out. Grudgingly, I reach out to shake it, but he quickly pulls away and runs it through his hair instead.

“Smooth move,” I say, rolling my eyes.