Taste Test (4 page)

As we head for the second floor, Benny points down a long hallway.

“Down there is the entrance to the arena.”

At the end is a heavy-looking set of metal double doors. Two security guards stand on either side of them.

“What are
they
for?” a girl asks, nodding toward the uniformed men.

“Just a precaution. One season we had a little scuffle with some press disguised as guests of a contestant. We don’t let anyone down there except the competitors, the judges, and the film crew.”

You wouldn’t think that a TV show would need that much security, but as we head upstairs, it becomes more and more
obvious that armed guards are only one strategy used to keep tabs on the building—and on the contestants. There are cameras monitoring us in the stairwells, in the hallways, in the elevators until 10 p.m. every night. I don’t know if they’re really for safety purposes, or for catching juicy footage for the show.

When we arrive on the second floor, Benny glances down at his clipboard and starts pointing to the doors on either side of us, showing people their assigned rooms. We reach room 212 and he gestures to Joy. She skids to a stop and teeters a bit in her knee-high black patent boots. Compared to everyone else in their jeans and T-shirts, she looks like the Abominable Fashionista.

“Joy Kennedy-Swanson, we have arrived at your destination.”

Joy shifts her Louis Vuitton train case from one hand to the other. “It’s about time. I can’t carry this heavy thing for one more second.”

Benny is looking back at his paperwork.

“And your roommate is …”

He runs a finger down the page, then looks up … at me.

“Nora Henderson.”

Aw, crap.

“Try not to have too much fun, girls,” he says, grinning.

I’m tempted to say something snarky back to him, but instead, I shove my key in the lock and push the wood-paneled door open. The room is dark and I grope for the light switch.

I’ve seen dorm rooms before. Cinder blocks, eggshell paint, pressboard furniture.

This is
not
that kind of dorm room.

I guess I should have realized our rooms wouldn’t be the dorms I was expecting. Instead, there’s a big bay window in the center of the far wall and a large sitting area right in the middle of the room. On each side, there is a bedroom-like setup that is identical to the one across from it. Each of us has a laptop computer sitting on a dark wood desk. The queen-sized beds are covered in pale-green duvets filled with thick feather blankets. It’s like staying at a hotel—except better, because I get to actually
live
here, in the lap of Egyptian cotton luxury, for five months!

I turn to Joy, expecting her to be equally impressed, but she walks right into the shared bathroom and shuts the door. She’s tossed her purse on one of the beds, and her shoes are kicked off in front of the nearest closet.

Okay, then. I guess she’s chosen which side
she
wants …

She reemerges, a disgusted look on her face.

“I cannot
believe
we have to share a bathroom. I mean, HELLO? They can’t actually expect us to cohabitate in
here
.”

She says it like this room is some dirty shack instead of a presidential-style suite. I gawk at her.

“You’re kidding, right? I mean, this place is gorgeous.”

She gives me a slow once-over.

“It would be a lot more gorgeous with separate bathrooms.”

She picks up her purse and begins rummaging through it. Finding a tube of lipstick, she applies the cotton-candy color with a practiced hand. I imagine shoving it up her surgically altered nose.

“Well”—I toss my duffel up on the table next to me—“I guess you can try to switch rooms.” I’m half-hopeful she might consider it. The less time I have to spend with this chick, the better.

“What, and risk looking like the spoiled rich girl on the show? Not a chance.”

A little too late for that.

She turns her back to me, which I take as a signal that our conversation is over. A little relieved, I start pulling my far-too-lightweight clothing out of my bag and cram it into the dresser drawers. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Joy hanging a shiny sequined dress in her closet. I look down again at my balled-up T-shirts. Maybe I should at least lay them flat and try to get some of the wrinkles out.

I pull out two framed pictures from the bottom of my bag—the only mementos I bothered bringing from home. One is of Dad and me at a barbecue competition last summer. We’re wearing our matching Smoke Signals aprons and holding spatulas. I remember it like it was yesterday—how we’d woken up before dawn to make sure the meat would be perfect, how excited we were when we won first place.

The other one, a smaller gold frame, is of Billy and me at last year’s junior formal. We’re in one of those contrived, ridiculous poses that school dance photographers force you into. Billy’s standing behind me and he’s got his arms around my waist. Both of us are laughing.

“Who’s the hottie?” Joy is peering over my shoulder. I set both pictures down and give her a sweet smile.

“That’s my dad, Joy. He’s taken, though. Sorry.”

“You’re hilarious—I was talking about your Rent-a-Date. I can’t imagine a guy like
that
would actually go to a dance with you for free.”

“His name’s Billy and, I promise you, his attendance was completely voluntary.”

“Is he your boyfriend?”

“No,” I say slowly, narrowing my eyes. “Just a friend.”

“Hmmm.”

Joy is twirling her hair again and I feel the not-so-sudden desire to yank it out of her head.

“Well, I hope
he’ll
be coming to visit. He’d be a much-needed distraction from this place.”

“Um, don’t you think your
boyfriend
might mind?”

“What boyfriend?” She looks genuinely confused. I roll my eyes.

“The jerk-off on the bus? Big muscles, blue eyes, huge ego? The one who was kind enough to come to your rescue when I committed the colossal mistake of speaking to you?”

“Oh, him.”

She waves a hand dismissively.

“He’s not my boyfriend. Not that I would mind some quality time with Christian Van Lorton, believe me.”

Christian Van Lorton … why does that name sound so familiar?

“Anyway,” Joy says, glancing at her diamond-encrusted wristwatch, “I’m going to find some fun in this building if it kills me. And until your friend Billy joins our happy home, I need to find someone to occupy my—”

“Bed?” I ask innocently.

“Time,” she corrects me, tossing her hair over one tan shoulder.

She flounces out, letting the door slam behind her. The room reverberates in her wake. Joy knows how to make an exit. Sort of reminds me of those old Godzilla movies—you know, the whole city is demolished, but they’re relieved the worst is over. At least until the sequel.

An hour later, I’m freshly showered and in an old T-shirt and pajama pants, curled up in one of the overstuffed silk armchairs. I’ve decided that the best possible use of my time will be to read through the paperwork I’ve been given. If I can memorize the schedule and learn the campus map, hopefully I’ll have a leg up on my roommate and her beefcake boy toy.

There are three floors in the
Taste Test
dorm, as far as I can tell. I’ve seen what the first and second have to offer; apparently the third is where the magic happens and the show gets made. All our classes are in two lecture halls—both across campus—and all our meals, meetings, and production interviews are in the dorm itself. Along with the competition, of course.

When my stomach growls, I remember that I haven’t eaten anything since my farewell BLT at Smoke Signals. According to my “Dorm Life” handout, the kitchen is open twenty-four hours and is fully stocked with “various snack foods.” Visions of fruit snacks, kettle chips, and grilled cheese dance in my head. I yank my hair up into a ponytail and tuck my room key in my pocket before heading out the door. A successful fridge raid will do me a world of good right now.

Wow.

They weren’t kidding when they said “stocked.”

I’m peering up into a kitchen cabinet like it’s a Nabisco Narnia: there are a dozen kinds of sugary cereal; twenty-five types of candy are lined up in colorful rows; and countless bags of chips threaten to tumble off the top shelf. I’m kind of surprised the producers are encouraging binge eating, but I guess it’ll make for good footage. Eventually, they’ll catch some depressed, homesick sap gulping down chocolate bars and sobbing into a napkin. But hell if it’s gonna be me. I pull down a box of cornflakes and start searching for a bowl.

“Last cabinet on the right.”

I turn to see two girls perched at one of the nearby bar tables. One is a chubby redhead with short hair and a face full of freckles. She’s wearing a blindingly pink pajama set—think Pepto Bismol on steroids—and is smiling.

The other girl has pale eyes and very long, very blond hair. She gets up from her seat and walks over, holding an empty ceramic bowl in one hand. She can’t be more than five feet tall and she reminds me of a girl I babysit for at home, which means she looks about nine years old, give or take.

“I already opened the Sugar O’s, if you’re interested,” she says, setting her bowl in the sink. She wipes one hand on her blue cotton robe before reaching to shake mine. Her fingers feel ice-cold and tiny in my palm.

“I’m Giada,” she says. “Giada Orsoni. But everyone calls me Gigi.” She gestures to the other girl. “And this is Angela Moore.”

Angela gives me a wave as she polishes off her cereal.

“Nora Henderson.”

“Ah, yes.
Joy’s
roommate.”

Angela and Gigi exchange a look.

“I can’t blame you for escaping down here and drowning your sorrows in carbohydrates,” Gigi says sympathetically.

“Actually, she took off an hour ago to find someone more interesting.” I shake some cereal into my bowl. “I obviously do
not
meet her standards.”

“No one does,” Angela says, getting up to join us. “I wouldn’t worry about it.”

“You make it sound like you know her.”

She shrugs.

“When you live in New York City and you run in the culinary circle, there are certain people you just know by reputation.”

“So, you’re from New York?”

Angela shakes her head. “New Jersey, but I go in to the city all the time. I practically live there.”

“How about you?” I ask Gigi.

“Here, actually. Connecticut, I mean.”

I nod and chew my cornflakes. I guess these girls won’t be too impressed with stories of Weston—the Little League parades, the basket bingo, the tractor pulls.

“You’re from Georgia, right?” Angela asks.

I take a sip of orange juice and shake my head.

“North Carolina.”

Gigi cocks her head. “You don’t really have an accent.”

“Should I?”

She shrugs.

“Everyone I’ve met from the South had that twang when they talked, you know?”

“Some do. My dad, his girlfriend—they both say things like ‘warsh’ and ‘y’all.’ But I think most people our age have tried to avoid the stereotype.”

Angela grimaces. “I know what you mean. When you’re from Jersey, people assume that you’re either related to Tony Soprano or the cast of
Jersey Shore
.”

“So, here’s an important question,” Gigi says as she leans in conspiratorially, chewing on a Twizzler. “What do you think of the
guy
contestants so far?”

“I’ve only met one of them, really.” I shrug. “Well, I don’t even know if ‘met’ is the word for it. He decided that the best way to mark his territory was by insulting me in every way he could.”

Angela nods. “The blond guy on the bus, right?”

“Yeah, Christian Vonder-Shmookin, or something like that.”

“It’s Christian Van Lorton,” she corrects me.

“You know him?”

“Sort of. More like know
of
him.”

“Whatever, he’s obviously one of those people who thinks he’s the greatest thing to happen to the kitchen since the blender. Maybe even since the fork.”

“Yeah, well,” Gigi pipes up, raising her eyebrows, “I don’t know about that, but I do know that he’s freakin’ fine. Seriously hot.”

I roll my eyes. “Ugh. How can you tell? His massive ego blocks his face.”

“And there are a few others worth a second look,” Gigi muses. “Pierce something-or-other—did you see him? He’s got that eyebrow ring—super sexy.”

“Um, super
cliché
,” Angela points out. “That is
so
five years ago.”

“Well, the less competition for his attention, the better—and, since
I
don’t have a roommate to contend with, I’m thinking my odds are looking pretty good.”

“You snagged a single room? How in the world did you manage that?” I ask, my mouth full.

Gigi grins. “I’m not sure. But I’m definitely not complaining!”

On the other hand, Angela’s roommate, Sky, is giving Joyzilla some competition for the World’s Least Likable Person award. She’s some kind of vegan tai chi instructor who developed her own biodynamic veggie burgers and apparently spent her first two hours here meditating with gongs, then filled the bathroom cabinets with all kinds of elixirs and supplements.