Taste Test (12 page)

“Well, isn’t that nice?”

Prescott comes up behind me and leans against the counter.

“I think it’s wonderful to see contestants supporting one another. Making friends.”

I give him a forced smile before turning back to my cutting board.

“So, tell us about your dish, Nora.” Chef Mason peers over my shoulder. “You’ve got a good julienne on those peppers.”

As the judges move toward Coral’s station, I notice Joy heading for the communal sink. When she sees the line of our fellow contestants, all holding empty pots, she rolls her eyes and stomps across the kitchen to the other sink—the one reserved for that side of the arena. I narrow my eyes. Leave it to my selfish roommate to think that she’s too good to wait her turn like the rest of us.

Stop it
, I tell myself.
Wasting time hating Joy isn’t going to help anyone. Especially not you.

I redirect my attention to my dish, which, if I’m not careful, could easily become tough and decidedly un-delicious. I cube
the cold butter for my alfredo, then flip my chicken breasts in the grill pan. Realizing I still need to boil the pasta water, I glance over at the closest sink, where Coral is busy shucking her oysters. Hmm. Well, better to steal Joy’s idea and use the sink on the other side than risk a fishy water bath for my fresh fettuccini. Pasta pot in hand, I head across the kitchen.

I’m only a few feet away from the sink when someone blocks my path.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

I look up. Christian’s staring at me, his arms crossed.

“Getting water,” I say, stepping to the side. He moves to block me again.

“What’s wrong with
your
sink?”

He points to the one closer to my station on the other side of the arena.

“It’s filled with crustaceans.”

I try to move again, but he’s like my shadow. I glare at him.

“What’s your deal, Van Lorton?”

“Oh, breaking out the last names now, are we?”

“Look, I’m going to fill this pot with water. Get out of my way.”

“No.” He shakes his head. “Not a chance. Use your own sink, Henderson. There are rules here.”

“Rules? About the sink?”

“No, rules about trespassing.”

“
Trespassing
?” I look at him incredulously.

As we stand there arguing, Angela passes by holding a saucepan. She puts one hand on her hip and shakes her head.

“Christian, can’t you stop being an idiot for once?”

“Or what? You’ll join the ‘I Hate Christian’ club, too?”

“I don’t need to join.” She smiles sweetly. “I’m a founding member.”

“Just forget it,” I grumble. “Thanks, anyway, Ang.”

I spin on my heel and stomp back toward my station. Jeez, who really cares which sink we use? And besides, aren’t some rules meant to be broken?

BOOM!

The explosion happens so fast that, for a second, I think I’ve just imagined it. It’s the roar of something unrecognizable that has me drop to the floor. I look around; in between the kitchen stations, I see three or four other people in similar positions. I can hear the overwhelming sound of what I think is rushing water and someone moaning.

“Judy.” I hear a man’s voice—Benny, I think—call out to the assistant producer. “Call security. Have them send in the EMTs.”

Slowly, I pull myself to kneeling and look over the counter. Half a dozen people are crowded around something—or someone—lying on the ground in front of the sink. The faucet above them looks like a half-peeled banana, the metal folded back on itself like skin. Water is gushing out into the basin and onto the floor, along with steady streams that are spraying in all directions.

Two paramedics enter through the double doors and race across the room. I start to move over toward my station, but I’m unable to tear my eyes away from the portable stretcher they’ve laid across a counter. Seconds later, I watch in horror as the men lift Angela up onto the stretcher and carry her toward
the doors. She’s holding one hand against her shoulder. Blood has seeped down the sleeve of her shirt.

“Oh my God—Angela!” I tear off my apron and run toward the door, with Gigi right on my heels. A production assistant holds an arm out to prevent us from following them to the ambulance.

“Guys, she’ll be okay. It’s an arm injury—we think she just needs a few stitches.”

I try to push him away with little luck. “I want to go with them—she shouldn’t be alone.”

One of the producers, Monica, joins him. She gives us a sympathetic smile. “Ladies, are you telling us you’re ready to leave the competition?”

I stand up a little straighter.

“You can’t be serious,” says Gigi incredulously.

“If you don’t finish your dishes for the judges, you forfeit your spot and you’ll go home. Period.”

“But—but what about Angela?”

“I’m sure Angela would want you to do your best to win.” Monica pats me on the shoulder. “Come on, girls, let’s finish up. She’d want you to go on without her.”

Reluctantly, I walk back to my stove and halfheartedly adjust the burners. All around me, people are talking quietly—the low, incoherent hum of shock. That’s when Joy’s voice rings out loud and clear.

“What a total inconvenience. Now my dish is completely overcooked.”

I turn to stare at her. As though a movie screen has lowered in front of me, I see Joy just as she was last night—draped all
over Prescott and completely enamored. I see Prescott, too, holding Joy’s chin and kissing her hard—just before he urged her to trust him to take care of everything.

I blink, trying to take stock. Joy broke the rules to use the other sink. Joy was the last one to use that sink before Angela. That sink just exploded in Angela’s face. And Joy is standing here, indignant and unharmed. I can feel my lip curl up with rage and I start to move toward her. It takes Joy a second to notice me, but when she does, she throws her shoulders back and narrows her eyes.

“What?” she asks defensively.

“You know what,” I practically growl, walking around my station and out into the open arena.

“Nora … ,” Gigi says quietly.

Joy tosses her hair over her shoulder and turns her back to me. Before I realize what I’m doing, I’ve crossed the space between us. I reach out and grab her arm, a little harder than I mean to.

“Oww!” Joy whips around and glares at me. “What is your
problem
?”

“
You
are my problem.”

“You better get your hands off me.”

I squeeze harder and feel her flinch beneath my hand.

“Someone is hurt, and all you care about is your precious dish. You are the most self-centered, back-stabbing, two-faced—”

“All right, that’s enough.” Benny pulls the two of us apart, but Joy refuses to back down. She reaches over Benny’s shoulder, grasping for me.

“If you ever touch me again, I swear to God, I’ll sue you so fast, your backwoods, white-trash head will spin,” she shrieks.

I lunge for her just as a director’s assistant yanks Joy to one side, forcing her to the opposite end of the set. I run a hand back through my hair, which is now sticking up in multiple directions. Benny has his arms crossed and is looking down at me. Angry Santa-Shrek is a pretty scary sight.

“Nora—you know better. You all signed a no-contact clause—physical force equals elimination.”

“But, Benny, it’s her fault! I know she did it, I know she—”

Gigi grabs my shoulder and smiles at Benny.

“She’s just upset, Benny. It won’t happen again.”

I open my mouth to protest, but Gigi squeezes harder and I wince.

Benny still looks skeptical. He glances at his watch and sighs. “All right—but you’ve had your warning, Nora. You won’t get another one.”

As he walks away, I turn to stare at Gigi and she shakes her head.

“You want to tell him that Joy blew up the sink when you have absolutely
no
proof? It’ll be her word against yours, Nora. And she has a judge who’ll back her up.”

We stand there, silently, looking at the exit as though we can still see Angela being rushed through it.

“Do you—do you think she’s okay?” I ask quietly.

Gigi shakes her head.

“I don’t know. It … it was a lot of blood.”

“The production guy—he said she’d just need a few stitches. That it was just her arm …”

“Let’s just finish up so we can get the hell out of here. Maybe then we can figure out a way to get to the hospital.”

“Absolutely.” I nod. “I’m not above hitchhiking in a time of crisis.”

During the inevitable lull between Judging and Elimination, all anyone can talk about is what happened to Angela.

“Did you see what it was?”

“I didn’t even know she was hurt.”

“That sound—it was like a bomb went off!”

“She was bleeding so much!”

Only Gigi and I sit quietly, watching the time creep by on the clock above us.

The judges agreed to give us five extra prep minutes tacked onto our remaining time, so everyone scraped together a hasty version of the dish they originally intended. No matter the recipe, no one was really happy with the end result—ingredients had hardened or overcooked and a perfect meal just wasn’t possible.

On top of that, the judges tasted our dishes without us there this time. None of us has a clue what any of them think about what we’ve made, not like we could have defended ourselves even if we did. Rule one—no talking back during judging. You know, I actually thought it wasn’t possible for me to be more nervous than I was at the last challenge. I was really, really wrong.

Just before we line up in front of the judges, we get word that Angela will be back in the dorm tonight. According to
one of the set techs, a washer—that metal donut thingy inside a faucet—had corroded or something, forcing the whole end cap of the unit to blow off when the water was turned on. I don’t buy it, not for a second—those faucets are brand new and meticulously inspected by the crew before being used. Not to mention—I mean, I don’t know much about plumbing, but why would a rusty piece of metal make a faucet blow up?

The entire time I’m waiting to go into Elimination, I’m focused on Joy—her movements, her facial expressions, her posture. Her face is blank, unconcerned. I bite down hard on my lip.

I know she did it—I know she did
something
to that sink, something that caused that explosion. There’s just no way for me to prove it. At least, not yet.

In the darkened surroundings of Elimination Table, the judges somehow look older. I don’t know if it’s the powerful spotlights or the deeper shadows, but Ms. Svincek’s forehead creases are extra pronounced, despite an obvious brush with Botox. Even Prescott looks a little haggard. I wonder what his girlfriend thinks of him looking a little less like a playboy and a little more like Hugh Hefner.

“We’ll begin with our three favorites,” Ms. Svincek pipes up, smoothing the skirt of her burgundy dress. “First, we have Kelsey Dison’s spicy fajita casserole.”

Kelsey’s reddish curls bounce with her excitement. She runs her tongue over her full set of old-school metal braces.

“We loved your use of the pepper as a key component—the layers were distinct and flavorful. Well done.”

Kelsey gives the judges a silvery smile and I think I see Svincek wince.

“Next is Christian Van Lorton.”

“Of course,” I mutter to Gigi. She pinches my arm.

“Christian,” Madame Bouchon begins, “your Southern fried steak with red pepper relish was like a trip to the Deep South. Tell me, how did you come up with such a specific regional dish?”

I stare at him, mouth gaping involuntarily. Southern fried steak? Red pepper relish? It’s like he walked into my gran’s house on a Sunday afternoon and took a page out of one of her cookbooks.

He glances over at me smugly before looking back at the judges.

“I’ve found myself inspired by the different regions and cultures represented on this season of
Taste Test
.”

“How fascinating,” Madame Bouchon gushes.

I wonder how fascinating it would be if I projectile vomited all over her hideous paisley dress …

“Nora?”

My head snaps up. Oh God, did I really puke on her? Panicked, I run my eyes over the blue-green fabric. Nope. It looks heinous, but that has nothing to do with me.

“Nora, your red pepper pasta was not only delicious; it was full of texture and cost-effective. When thinking of the audience, you really made your food accessible. Bravo. We’ve unanimously given you the highest marks—you are tonight’s challenge winner!”

The group applauds politely and the clapping rings in my
ears. Ms. Svincek moves forward to shake my hand and I feel a little dazed. I actually won a challenge—the challenge I
told
Christian I’d win. As I accept a hug from Gigi, I look over her shoulder at him. He’s wearing a little half smile. It’s actually, sort of … well, sexy. Not that I’d ever admit it out loud.

The three of us—Christian, Kelsey, and I—shuffle out of the room, leaving the rest of the contestants behind to face Elimination. It’s a different experience—being at the top, I mean. The publicist takes some pictures of the three of us for the website. She poses us strategically—since Christian’s the tallest, he stands in the middle.