Taste Test (2 page)

“That’s because it’s gross.”

“Of course it’s gross. It’s
school
food. What do you expect?”

I just shrugged and took a sip of milk. Billy shook his head, his auburn, too-long-for-varsity-sports hair sort of shifting over his eyes.

“I can’t believe you’re wasting money on this crap when
your family owns one of the best ’cue joints in town. There must be leftovers you could bring—”

“Um, excuse me?
One
of the best?”

“Okay, fine—
the
best.”

“That’s what I thought. Still, I’m not eating that stuff for lunch.”

“Are you crazy? Why the hell not?”

Billy swiped away my fork, the tines still coated in potato puree. I lunged forward to take it back, but he held it high above his head and kept me back with his other hand. I fell back into my seat, pouting.

“Because.”

Billy rolled his eyes. “Because why?”

“Because it’s what I cook
every day
. It’s what I smell like; it’s all I see. It’s everywhere. Half the time I think I might end up being a vegetarian in protest.”

Billy looked unsympathetic. “Then if I were you, I’d be slurping down slaw at lunch every day.”

“I can start bringing you some.”

“I might take you up on that.” He cocked his head at me. “Speaking of cooking, did you watch
Taste Test
last night?”

I perked up. “Of course—you know I never miss an episode. Did you see Brian’s glazed pork loin?”

He grinned. “Looked familiar, huh?”

“Duh—I’ve done that dish a dozen times. The only difference is that I don’t use froufrou Meyer lemon preserves. Orange marmalade works just fine.”

“You know,” Billy said, toying with a Ho Hos wrapper, “they’re accepting applications.”

“Who is?”

He looked irritated. “The
show
, Nora.
Taste Test
. There was an ad at the end of the show.”

“So?”

“So, what if you applied?”

“Are you kidding?” I scoffed, crumpling a napkin in one hand and tossing it across the table at him. It landed in his lap. “I am the least likely, least interesting potential contestant ever.”

“I’m serious! You should do it. Remember Felicia, from season two? Her family owned that diner in Georgia, the one that was in an old bus? It wasn’t like she grew up sautéing lobster in Paris or whatever—she was raised in a local dive just like you were. And she almost won!”

“Yeah, until Roman came out swingin’ with that lamb shank flambé.”

I fingered the edge of my disposable tray before scooting it off the side of the table and into the trash can.

“Look, Billy, I get what you’re saying. I need to be proud of where I come from and all—”

“No—well, I mean, yeah, you do—but, no, I’m serious about the audition thing!”

His green eyes were sort of sparkling. It’s what I remember most about that day—how intent Billy was. How sure.

“Think about it, Nora. Think about the people who win
Taste Test
. Okay, season two it was that douche bag Roman, but since then? Tressa, the surfer chick from Baja? And Jacob—what was he? A line cook at an
Applebee’s
? These are
regular kids
. They work hard, they cook good food, and they win crazy money. Tressa’s even got that show now on Eat TV.”

I shrugged again, but I’d started to feel a tug of interest, as if a fishing line were reeling me upward in my chair.

It was true. They
were
just everyday, average teenagers. And, hell, half of what Jacob made was amateur stuff. Shockvalue crap like caviar ice cream or avocado cheesecake. When it came down to it, the food was always creative, and that’s how he won. I’m just not sure if how the dishes
tasted
was ever really measured against his fun ideas and witty banter.

I didn’t hear the bell ring until Billy was standing up, slinging his backpack over one shoulder. Hastily, I scooped up my books.

“So, let’s just say, hypothetically”—I was practically running to keep up with his freakishly long legs—“that I
might
want to send in a tape. Just for fun or whatever.”

He smirked but kept looking forward, weaving through a crowd of giggly freshmen. I stifled the urge to groan. Those kinds of girls always reminded me of rock-star groupies with unlimited access to Lip Smackers. I bypassed the ones batting their sparkly lashes at him, ignoring my desire to warn them of retinal scarring caused by glitter. Billy and I have been friends since middle school, but it’s only been in the last year or so that girls started noticing him in
that
way. I blame his hair—it’s deceivingly cool.

“Okay, sure. Hypothetically.”

He was watching a platinum blonde adjust her miniskirt. I snapped my fingers in front of his face.

“Hello?! Are you paying attention?”

“Jesus, Nora, yes. I heard you. You’re hypothetically applying to
Taste Test
.”

“Right—I mean, what would I even
say
?”

I thought about my stats. Born and raised in North Carolina by a single dad. Mom died when I was a little more than a year old, so it’s not like I remember her. And then there’s Smoke Signals. I blew out air between my lips.

Forget it. No big-city judge is going to be interested in how I learned to use grape jelly and chili sauce to shellac chicken skin until it’s crispy or how I figured out that you need to let the onion sweat out its juice before adding it to slaw. There’s nothing fancy about barbecue.

Billy frowned down at me as we reached his locker. “Stop it.”

“Stop what?”

“Stop talking yourself out of even trying. What’s the worst possible outcome? They reject you? You continue living the same life here? You’d be doing that anyway, you know.”

It took a day and a half for him to finally persuade me to sit down in front of his mom’s computer while he fiddled with the camera perched at the top of the monitor.

“Can’t we just use a normal video camera?” I grumbled, fixing my hair in the dark reflection of the screen.

“No.”

The monitor flashed briefly and my face, a little blueish, popped up.

“Besides,” Billy said, readjusting the angle, “this way we can send it in to the website as a digital file. No getting lost in the mail.”

I knew what he was getting at—he thought I wouldn’t send it if I had the option. That I’d convince myself that the whole idea was a moronic waste of time. Too bad he’s such a techie-geek. Wonder what the girls at school would think of the half dozen computer programming books next to his bed and his nights playing weirdo online warfare games until 3 a.m.

I can’t help but smile now as I run my fingers over the slightly raised, crimson emblem at the top of my acceptance letter. Everyone’s heard of NACA—the North American Culinary Academy is where the best of the best go. It’s like Juilliard for chefs. I went to a college fair last fall at Weston Community and spent the whole time thumbing through a NACA brochure I’d swiped at the transfer office. It’s not like I thought I’d ever get to go there or anything. It was just a dream.

Kind of like the dream I’m living now …

“Y’all packed?”

I jump, dropping the letter.

Joanie, my dad’s girlfriend, is standing in the doorway smiling at me. Her bright-red hair is piled on top of her head like a mound of coiled spaghetti and she’s wearing her cat-eye glasses, the ones with the zebra-striped frames.

Joanie’s been in my life as long as the restaurant has. She was head server before she and Dad started dating and her gruff exterior and high-pitched laugh remind me a lot of Smoke Signals itself—a little rough around the edges, but comfy and warm.

I reach down and snatch the letter off the floor, my cheeks
pink. This isn’t the first time Joanie’s caught me rereading it. She walks over and gives my shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

“Don’t worry, honey. If I’d gotten an opportunity like that at your age, I’d frame that damn thing and wear it around my neck like a medal.”

“I just don’t want my dad walking in and seeing me reading it, you know? I don’t want him to think I’m … ,” I trail off.

“Counting the seconds?”

“Right.”

Joanie sticks a long-handled spoon in the simmering pot and gives it a good stir.

“You know, Nora, your daddy wants nothing but the best for you.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Do you?” Her eyes are uncharacteristically serious behind her funky frames. “I know he’s been giving you a hard time about leaving.”

I give her a half smile.

“That’s just Dad. He likes to make things as difficult as possible.”

Joanie shakes her head.

“He’s just bustin’ your chops, honey. He practically bursts with pride every time someone comes in here asking about you and your trip up North.”

My upcoming TV appearance is a big deal in Weston. Anytime
anyone
gets out of here, it’s news. Even when they’re being shipped up to the State Pen, it’s like they’ve made it big.

“So, anyway, you didn’t answer my question.” Joanie opens
the fridge and starts pulling out ingredients for the macaroni salad.

“What question?”

“Are you all packed?”

I shrug, wiping my hands on a nearby rag.

“Sort of. I guess so. I mean, I’m not exactly one of those girls who needs to bring six different purses and shoes to match.”

I glance down at my dirty jeans and scuffed boots. My thick chestnut hair is knotted on top of my head, and it hasn’t been washed since yesterday morning. I’m what you’d call low maintenance.

“You said they gave you a list or something?”

“Yeah.” I grimace. “Don’t remind me.”

A few days after I sent in my acceptance, FedEx delivered a thick envelope of rules and requirements. There was a moment there when I was paging through the dress code and behavioral contract that I felt a stab of panic and the urge to run. I’d read some of the rules out loud to a couple of the servers.

“Think about it.” Mary, a junior at my school, pointed to the photo of two NACA students on the cover of a brochure. “Everyone wears aprons over their clothes during class. You won’t have to think about what to wear, Nora. It’s like the mother ship’s calling you home!”

“Yeah, but what about all this?” I showed her the list of commitments I had to sign. “No gum chewing? No fast food? No
phones
? I mean, if I grab a cheeseburger and a pack of Trident, does that mean I’m out on my butt? Am I cut off completely from the outside world? It’s like communist Russia!”

Dad had walked in just as I chucked the folded papers on the counter. He picked them up, frowning at me, but I couldn’t meet his gaze. When he realized what they were, he tossed them back down. A stab of guilt sliced through me then—the same guilt that’s set up shop in the center of my chest for the last few days.

But this afternoon, when I head back out to the smoker and watch Dad adjust the thermostat, I can’t help but smile. I guess I’ve been pretty lucky to be raised here. Of course, it’s not like barbecue is all that sophisticated or whatever. But it’s what I know—a legacy of my own, I guess you could say. I just wish my dad understood—wanting to go away doesn’t have to change where I came from.

“You about ready?”

Dad’s body tenses a little when he hears my voice. He turns around slowly and I wait for the inevitable last-ditch effort to get me to stay.

Maybe he’ll offer me a raise.

Or a car.

Hey, that one’s actually tempting …

But the expression on his face is one I haven’t seen before. It’s hard to put into words, but if I had to, I think I’d call it resignation.

“You get Billy to load your bags in the truck?”

His tone is gruff. He doesn’t look me in the eye.

“He’s helping Dottie clean the fryer, and then he’s going to do it.”

“I can grab ’em for you.”

“It’s okay, Dad. Billy’ll do it.”

We slip into an uncomfortable silence. The only sound is
the crunch of driveway gravel beneath our shoes. I try to think of what to say.

I’m sorry?

I’ll miss you?

In the end, I just listen to the
whoosh
of cars passing on Route 19, a sound as familiar to me as breathing.

Dad fishes his keys out of his pocket and tosses them through the window of the truck and onto the front seat. He shoves both hands in his jeans pockets and looks at me.

“You better get the rest of your good-byes said, kiddo. No plane’s gonna wait for you.”

Joanie and Billy, along with a handful of other people from the restaurant, have gathered out in the dusty parking lot. I give a few hugs and shake a few hands, slap a high five here and there and say a lot of “thank yous” and “yessirs.”

When I get to Joanie, she puts both hands on my shoulders and looks me in the eye.

“Remember what I said,” she urges. “Your daddy sure does love you. And I couldn’t be prouder of you if you were my own daughter.”

I gulp down that lump again as Billy walks me to the passenger side of the truck. I squint through the sun at his face. He’s looking out at the road, away from me.