Someone is standing outside my door.
I flip on the lamp and grab the pepper spray from my suitcase. Maybe I should call campus security. I pull the phone closer to me and check for the sticker the woman mentioned. Light rolls in from under the door because the feet, or whatever blocked it is gone.
When I lay back down, I’m shaking and I can’t get warm enough. My breath rolls in and out, so loud I’m almost grateful I can’t hear anything else. The clinical room feels like a hospital or jail. My brain won’t turn off and I worry that sleepiness will strike me in the middle of the contest tomorrow.
I HAVE NIGHTMARES.
I pipe out white royal icing and it crawls, slithering and curling into a thousand maggots. A shadow hovers above my work area. I’m handling a fat hunk of slippery, moldy cookie dough. My rolling pin slips along the slimy surface so I press down harder, trying to flatten it, but I press too hard on the pin and blood explodes from inside the dough, splattering my face and arms. I hear a tsk-tsk and the scratching of a pen against paper as the shadow moves away.
I win the contest. My faceless stalker hands me my prize and then reaches out to slice my throat.
SNOWFLAKE SUGAR HOSTS A
breakfast for all contestants before our official 10:00
A.M.
check in. When I arrive at the hotel it’s beautiful and pompous and fussy. The contestants are given IDs on lanyards to wear around our necks, and I see lots of people my age, going into one of the auditoriums where breakfast is served. Everyone but me seems to have a supportive mom or dad with them, even the other poor kids who slept in the dorm. I grab a bagel and a yogurt and head to the bathroom. I don’t want to call attention to myself by sitting unaccompanied at a table. Besides, the buzz of excitement and chatter just makes me feel emptier.
An eternity later, it’s my turn to check in. I give my name and the registration official smiles sweetly and gives me a map of the stations, highlighting where I’m to work.
I walk around carefully, hunting for my station. The judges’ tables line the wall and I can’t look directly at them. They are royalty, unapproachable, ticket holders to my future.
Everyone’s dressed in the white chef coats that match the ones us contestants wear, right down to the tiny Snowflake Sugar logo embroidered on the chest. It’s almost comical how we all look the same. But at least now I’m not alone. I’m part of the pack. Still, my coat feels big and bulky and I don’t know how I’ll function in it. Why couldn’t they just give us aprons? Usually when I bake I wear a T-shirt.
Not hard to find my station. My name is printed in big red letters on a sign underneath the Snowflake Sugar logo. Seeing my galley-style workspace makes my mouth drop open—so tiny. Down the line are at least a dozen identical stations. My neighbor—a girl my age with a messy bun piled on top of her head—nods and smiles because I think she understands. I smile and nod back, but say nothing. Mr. King told me not to talk to my competition. Stay focused.
As I set out my decorating tools my hands shake. Please God make it stop by the time I have to pipe out icing or I’ll be in trouble. The KitchenAid mixer of my dreams towers over my station like a queen.
When I look around the giant auditorium, I notice I was mistaken: I am alone. Every baker has an adult hovering over them. Bun-head next to me nods frantically at a woman with a giant purse slung over her shoulder. When I look back a few moments later, the two are actually bent over the counter, head-to-head, hands clasped together and I know they are praying.
I feel a pang, albeit a small one, of missing Mom. If she was here now, and I had her blessing, she’d close her eyes and raise her hands to heaven before she’d wave them over my station. I can almost hear her, asking for the Holy Spirit to come down and bless my butter.
Over the loudspeaker, contestants are directed to report to their stations; spectators must please find a seat and silence their cell phones. We have a few minutes to orient ourselves before the clock starts, so I organize all my tools and ingredients in the order I’ll use them. The room buzzes from the cheering section.
Doubts tiptoe through me as I scan the room. Everyone looks like they belong there, even though they’re all close to my age. They can’t have more knowledge than I do. Or can they? Mr. King would never have recommended me if he didn’t think I could cut it, right?
I glance at the judges’ tables again and a wave of nausea folds around me. I feel hot and my forehead is sweaty. As if reading my mind, a man with a cart of water bottles in ice rolls up and offers me one. I thank him quickly and drink, but not too much because I don’t want to waste one second running off to pee.
The clock reverberates in my ears, ticking down the last few minutes until our four-hour time allotment starts. I run my hand over the glossy top of the KitchenAid mixer. I wish I could fold it up and sneak it home in my carry-on.
The girl next to me clenches hers fists and goes up and down on her toes.
All at once, I feel better. I’m not alone. These are my people, and suddenly I’m awed to be in their midst. Pride bubbles up in me. So many people with the same dream as me. I know I need to see them all as my competition—to be hated—but I can’t. How can I fear or loathe people who love what I love? Are they like me, counting on this contest to make things better? To get away from a crappy life? Or do they just do it for the trip, the excuse to get out of school?
The CEO of Snowflake Sugar looks as if he eats a little too much of it. But his smiling face is full of kindness as he wishes us luck before he counts backwards from twenty to signal our begin time. “Twenty . . . nineteen . . . eighteen . . .”
TIME HAS FROZEN, BUT
at the word “Go,” I bolt around my station. Since the contest organizers didn’t make sure the butter came to room temperature, I stick mine in the microwave. Every ten seconds I check because it has to be perfect. I pour in sugar and vanilla. My mind starts tormenting me like it did all night, and I’m thinking of the last note I got. Who asked for me at the dorm? Where is he now? In the audience? Watching and waiting until I’m alone?
I stir sugar and butter and vanilla.
But there’s something that doesn’t belong. I hear a rattle and clink on the bottom of the bowl. When I turn the dough with my spatula, I see them: teeth. The dough clings to the roots of the teeth like torn, ragged flesh.
When I crack the egg into the bowl, blood spills out of it.
The bottom of the bowl is Kellen’s dead, gray face. Blood splashes up the sides of the bowl, coating it, and onto Kellen’s eyes and nose and mouth.
Eight-Year-Old Carrot
I’m eight and Kellen is twelve. I’m sitting in the tree again because I’m upset. Kellen is in her room.
They didn’t know I was home; they thought I was still with Jen but her mom dropped me off early. They didn’t hear me listening because it sounded like Kellen was in trouble so I stayed on the stairs. I didn’t want to be in trouble, too.
“I hate it! Why do you make me do it? I wanted to try out for cheerleading.”
“You’re so talented, Kell Bells, we don’t want you to throw away your future. Stick with piano a few more years and if you want to go out for cheerleading in high school then we’ll support you.”
“Dad’s right. You’ve been at it too long to give up now.”
“I already told them all I was quitting.”
“What?”
Silence.
“Yeah, I did. Why do you make me keep doing it when you let Kara quit everything. You let her quit ballet and piano!”
“Oh stop. Your sister is, well, she’s not a natural like you are. Things don’t come to her as easily.”
“Mom’s right. She’s . . .” Dad stops and chuckles. “Listen, kiddo, she’s not like you. She gives up on everything. That’s just her nature. It’s something we’ve gotten used to. But you, you’re so naturally talented. We won’t let you give up on yourself.”
“You baby her, and she gets away with everything.”
“Hey, we’re talking about you here not your sister,” Dad says.
“We expect great things from you Kell Bells, we can’t let you quit and give up on yourself,” Mom agrees.
“So you’re making me do it even though I hate it?”
“Kellen you also need something to keep you out of trouble.”
“Why, Mom? What have I ever done?”
“You always have to push it, you always have to fight us on everything! Why is that? Your sister doesn’t do that. Now get downstairs! One hour on that damn piano, right now!”
“No.”
“What did you say?”
“You heard me, Mom.”
Silence.
Silence.
Silence.
“Meg—”
“No, I’m done reasoning with her. Done!”
“You heard your mom, Kellen. We’ll talk about this when you’re not upset.”
“But for now, go, get to your room! You’re grounded.”
“Meg, really?”
I hear the squeak of the floor as they approach Kellen’s door so I bolt, out the front door and up into the tree.
I wait and watch for Kellen. It’s starting to get dark. Mom’s not expecting me until after dinner and I’m not going in the house until I have to, even though it’s so cold out.
Kellen’s blinds go up after a while and she opens her window. She sticks one leg out and looks back inside before tiptoeing across the roof and around the side of the house. A few seconds later she’s making her way to the front walk where a boy stands even though I never saw him appear. I can’t hear what they talk about, but she shrugs and rocks back on her heels.
He does something with his hands and I see a cigarette glowing as he offers it to her. My sister takes it and doesn’t even cough. Then he puts his hand out and she takes it, and they disappear down the street, into the dark.
19.
Watch carefully so you don’t burn the nuts.
..........................................................
I stand back and close my eyes. I tell myself the horrible vision isn’t real. My mind races so fast I think I’m forgetting to breathe. When I look back into the bowl I see a bright yellow egg yolk, sliding into the crevices left by beaten butter, sugar, and vanilla. I decide to switch my brain off. I blend the mixture to the right consistency, listening to the hum of mixers from all the other contestants. Only the music of baking. No talking, nothing else. I start sifting my flour mixture into the bowl and set the mixer to the lowest speed, while a judge with short gray hair, huge earrings, and a ton of makeup walks up to my station.
My gut plunges. I’m caught.
Mom must have called. Or maybe she’s here! Oh God, I’m in trouble. It’s a cruel joke: I’m finally praying like Mom wanted. Please, God, no, if you ever cared about me please let me stay here and finish this—my life depends on it.
But the judge only jots a note on her clipboard before she moves on to the next station.
I shove everything else from my mind. I’m back into action, finishing off my mixture by hand and turning the dough out onto my floured board. Five minutes later it’s covered and chilling in the tiny fridge and I start on the royal icing. I need four shades.
Very carefully I dab food color gels into four bowls of icing. I have to go slow with my tinting to get it just right. The red tint is the most difficult. I add gel, but it’s not perfect. It looks like an orangey-tomato red and I realize it might be the bright fluorescent lighting overhead, which I’m not used to. A rush of panic courses through me because I’m not sure how to fix it. I work on the other colors while trying not to freak out.
We are to be judged based on design, presentation, and of course, taste. I speed through the last bowl of icing, and I take a second to peek around, relieved when I see others still in the final stages of dough-making.
I’m ahead, just a little.
My confidence lasts only for a few seconds because now I’m back to dealing with crappy red icing. We have access to the pantries and refrigerators lining the wall on the far side. I walk quickly over there to figure what I can do to solve my problem. I feel my heartbeat, ticking away precious minutes while I stare at the various supplies laid out for our use.
I pass every fridge and shelf twice. On my third scan I see a basket of raspberries and remember last year when Mr. King taught us to make sauce for cheesecake out of the berries. I grab them, a saucepan, some cheesecloth, and a squeeze bottle and run back to my station.
As fast as I can, I get raspberries, water, and sugar boiling into a puree. I pour it through cheesecloth to strain out the seeds and stick it into the tiny fridge for later.
Will it solve the problem? When I start rolling out a disk of sugar cookie dough, I have the feeling that I’m being watched again. Of course the spectators are watching me; they’re watching all of us. Ready to cut out dough, I look up because the feeling is so strong.
Maybe it’s Mom. If she somehow made it here, I hope she’d at least let me finish before she kills me. I scan the crowd—Mom isn’t there.
But Kellen is; she stands out in her red hoodie. It’s like she’s dancing through the crowd, not even aware of me. Until she turns and stares. At least I think she’s staring. I can’t make out her face too clearly.