Authors: Kelly Fiore
Back home, whenever I had a major test to study for, Billy and I would make flash cards or facts sheets or some other kind of study strategy. Here, though, our finals are looming and we’ve been overloaded with
far
too much information to possibly copy it on index cards or a sheet of looseleaf. Instead, Gigi and I gather all our notes and handouts into a big pile on my desk. For a minute, we just stare at the two-inch stack.
“There is no way we’re going to get through all this stuff,” I grumble, flicking the ripped spiral edge of the top sheet.
Gigi grabs half the pile and plops onto my bed.
“Well, we can complain or we can get started. I, for one, would like to attempt to pass these tests.”
“That’s the problem—it’s
tests
, not test. Three of them at once.”
“Well, we could join the study group downstairs,” I suggest, watching for her reaction. Gigi’s been super shy since she got on—and off—probation. “I think they’ve put together some sort of
Jeopardy!
review thing. Might actually be fun, you know?”
“I can’t deal with people staring at me. I know everybody still thinks I did it.”
“No, they don’t. You got that apology—”
“Yeah, but the whole ‘innocent until proven guilty’ thing really only works in theory. Once you’ve been accused of something, everyone just assumes you did it.”
I try to convince Gigi she’s wrong, but she won’t budge. In the end, she decides to go back to her room and study on her own. I think I pushed her too hard, but when I ask her to stick around, she shakes her head.
“I really study better on my own, anyway. But you should go downstairs. Do what you gotta do.”
The way she says it, though, I can tell she doesn’t want me to.
But an hour later, I give up. I slam my books shut, grab a soda, and head for the common room.
“Um … um … duck fat!”
I watch from the doorway as Kelsey jumps up and down at her seat. Pierce is standing at the front of the room holding a stack of cards. He nods and points at her.
“That is … CORRECT!”
To his left, Christian is marking a poster with points. I sit down next to Kelsey.
“Hey, Nora. Where’s Gigi?”
“Upstairs. She—uh—she studies better on her own.”
Kelsey just nods but doesn’t say anything. I watch her turn around, wondering if Gigi is right—if people
are
believing the rumors over the truth.
For the next few rounds, I just watch. A couple of times, heated arguments break out. Are sweet potatoes and yams the same thing? Do you need to salt eggplant slices for flavor or just to remove moisture? In the end, though, I know that I’ve reviewed more down here than I ever could have alone.
“Okay, we’re down to the last question,” Pierce announces, looking at me. “And we’re going to have Nora answer it.”
“Me?” I balk. “Why me?”
“Because you haven’t said a word since you got here and you’re preventing us simple folk from benefiting from your endless knowledge.”
“Right.” I roll my eyes. “Fine. What’s the category?”
“The category is … Tools of the Trade,” he says in a mock-hushed voice.
“Okay, shoot.”
“According to our lecture on deep frying, how often should you change the oil in a restaurant-grade fryer?”
That’s an easy one. “Once a week,” I say confidently, just as Christian calls out, “Every three days.”
I glare at him. Pierce glances down at his cards, then back up at the rest of us.
“What do you think, Kels?”
Kelsey looks between me and Christian. “I’m not sure …”
I don’t know if she really isn’t sure or if she’s just afraid to get her head bitten off.
“It’s three days,” Pierce says matter-of-factly. Christian slaps him a high five and I groan.
“That’s such BS and you know it. Half the time you use the fryer, it’s for French fries, and those practically
clean
the oil. If you strain it right, you don’t need to replace it until it changes color. Or starts smoking.”
“Sounds like you’ve got a whole lot of experience frying stuff,” Christian remarks, sitting down and putting his feet up on the table. “You know, the rest of us—we actually
cook
things where we’re from.”
I clench my teeth and glare at him before standing up. I turn to Pierce.
“Thanks for the review.”
Without another word, I walk back out into the wood-paneled hallway and toward the nearest elevator. My face is hot with humiliation and, to my absolute horror, I feel my eyes prick with tears. Why do I let him get to me? Why can’t I realize he’s just a complete—
“Nora, wait up.”
When I hear his voice, I start pressing the up button frantically. I don’t want him to see he got to me. I don’t want to have to look him in the eye right now.
“Hey, wait a second.”
Christian’s standing next to me and tugs my sleeve, turning me around to face him. I refuse to look up.
“What do you want?”
“I wanted to apologize, all right? I know that was messed up—I, uh, I guess I’m just used to you dishing it right back out or something. Obviously I went too far.”
“Wow, an apology from the one and only Christian Van Lorton. Am I supposed to swoon now?”
He shrugs. “If you must.”
“Whatever.” I shake my head. “It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.”
“No, seriously.”
I feel his hand travel up my arm to my shoulder. I want to move away from him but his touch feels magnetic, with a surge of warmth where his hand is resting.
“I’m sorry if I hurt you.”
I look up. I remember saying almost the exact same thing to him a while back—and his reaction was very clear. As the elevator doors pull apart, I draw away from him and walk inside.
“You couldn’t hurt me if you tried.”
I try to sound breezy, but my voice comes out sort of strained. The doors begin to move inward and Christian’s face is screwed up, like he’s making a choice. For a second, it looks like he might throw an arm out, might stop the doors from closing between us. I think about the two of us alone in the small space of the elevator—him standing
this close
to me, his hands at my waist and pulling me toward him.
But the reality is different. The reality is the click of the doors meeting in the middle, the whir of the elevator as it moves us farther and farther apart.
I want to climb right into bed when I get to my room, but there’s an e-mail from my dad and I feel too guilty not reading it. I’d hoped that Billy would e-mail me back; it’s been a few days since he’s written and I could really use someone to talk to—I mean,
really
talk to—who doesn’t have anything to do with this stupid show.
With a sigh, I scan over Dad’s e-mail.
To:
Nora Henderson
[email protected]
From:
Judd Henderson
[email protected]
Subject:
Away
Nora,
Gonna be heading down to Atlanta for an equipment trade show for a few days. Just wanted to give you a heads-up in case you try to e-mail and I don’t answer. Talk to you when I get back.
Love ya,
Dad
Weird.
In all the years my dad’s owned Smoke Signals, and that’s more years than I’ve been alive, I’ve never known him to go to any trade show, especially for equipment. He calls those things “vendor vacuums, only meant to waste a man’s time and money.”
I wonder if I should take this as a sign of something bigger—as in, change is happening everywhere—or if I’m just
being paranoid. I can’t help it; I take a lot of comfort in knowing my dad will always be who he is. In fact, I think I’d feel a lot better about things if he were here with me right now.
For the first time since I got here, I fall asleep feeling homesick, wondering what I’d be doing right now if I were in Weston. What I’d be doing if I hadn’t come here at all.
Contestant Interview
Nora Henderson
Producer (P):
Well, Nora, we’re getting down to it—there are only a handful of contestants left, giving you a greater chance of winning. How are you feeling at this point? Nervous?
NH:
Sure. I’d be an idiot if I weren’t.
P:
There’s definitely some competition you’ll need to confront, mostly by the name of Christian Van Lorton. Do you see him as a worthy opponent?
NH:
If you mean do I think he’s talented, then yes, I do. He knows what he’s doing.
P:
In the kitchen and out?
NH:
Huh?
P:
Well, I mean, he’s quite a good-looking guy, Nora. I would imagine he’s had his fair share of girlfriends.
NH:
I would imagine you’re right.
P:
So, you’re saying he is good-looking?
NH:
[loud exhale] Sure. Fine. He’s good-looking.
P:
Any other thoughts you’d like to share on that subject?
NH:
[pause] On the subject of Christian? Only that his looks aren’t doing him any favors in the kitchen.
P:
Meaning?
NH:
Meaning it doesn’t matter how hot he is—looks can’t cook.
P:
You think Christian is hot?
NH:
[flustered] You know what I mean.
P:
Yes … I believe I do …
Old Home Week
Every time we walk into the arena now, it looks completely different. I don’t know if it’s because of Joy’s accident or because there are less people, but, once again, the stations are rearranged into a different setup from before. The judges, as per usual, are at the front of the room—but this time they’re sitting on tall barstools next to high-hat tables. They smile as we walk in.
“For all intents and purposes,” Ms. Svincek begins, “this is the beginning of the end. I know that we’ve had some very stressful moments in this room; in fact, because of recent events, we’ve decided to dissolve the partnerships in favor of one-on-one challenges. All of you have held yourselves together with poise, with grace. I hope you will show the same maturity with these new changes and as we get closer to the season finale.
“Tonight, however, we have a little surprise for you. We
know that you have been cooking to impress us as judges. We want to know more about how you cook outside of the arena—how you would cook for your family, your friends.”
A door at one side of the arena opens and a woman in a cranberry-colored dress is standing there, blinking into the bright spotlight. I hear someone gasp behind me.
“Mom! Oh my gosh, what are you doing here?”
Kelsey runs past the rest of us and hugs the woman. Other people start coming into the room—a middle-aged couple, an older woman who must be someone’s grandmother, a female version of Pierce who is obviously his sister. Contestants are embracing their family members. Some of them are crying. It’s more emotion than I’ve ever seen in the arena—most of the time we try to hold it all together, to steel ourselves in the face of criticism. Apparently, all it takes is one hug from home to turn that facade into a mercury-like puddle on the floor.
A blond girl with huge sunglasses emerges from the door next. She’s wearing a short black skirt and high-heeled boots. When the spotlight shifts away from her face, she shoves her shades into her platinum-blond curls. She isn’t just nice looking, she’s gorgeous. I wonder who she’s related to, who could possibly be her brother or sister.
And that’s when I notice Christian walking toward her. When he reaches her, she throws both arms around his neck and plants a kiss right on his lips.
I feel my heart stutter and sink, a tiny boat in a sudden storm.
“Christian,” she drawls, her voice sort of gravelly like a smoker’s. “Omigod, I’ve missed you SO much!”
“Mel,” he says, squeezing her hard. “I’ve missed you, too.”
Like it’s the proverbial train wreck, I just can’t stop watching. I hardly even feel the tap on my shoulder.
“Hey there, North Star.”
Seeing my dad here makes me forget about Christian and his visitor. I throw myself at him and he wraps me in his trademark bear hug.
“I knew you weren’t at a trade show!” I say, pulling back to look at him. He ducks his head.
“Yeah. I probably shoulda thought of a better lie, huh?”
I grin and hug him again.
“It’s so good to see you, Daddy.”
“Well now, honey, don’t get all sappy on me. Besides, there’s someone else who wants to say hello.” He untangles himself from me and moves aside.
I watch Billy step forward, his smile both familiar and foreign. It’s something I’ve known my whole life, but I feel like I haven’t seen it in years. I blink over and over, as though to figure out if he’s really here. Laughing, he pulls me into his arms and holds me tight.
“I’m real, Nor. No need to pinch yourself.”
I bury my face into his shoulder. Somehow, he feels the same
and
different.
“God, you look good.” Billy finally pulls away and holds me at arm’s length. “I feel like it’s been forever.”
I nod, still having trouble speaking. He grins.
“I’ve been following the news—I can’t
believe
what happened to that girl Joy. Wasn’t she your roommate?”
“Yeah,” I manage, finally finding my voice. “She’s going to be okay. She went home to New York.”
Ms. Svincek stands up and claps her hands to get everyone’s attention. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch Christian and Blondie turn toward the judges. His arm is still around her waist. I look away and, without much thought, grab Billy’s hand and squeeze. He smiles at me and squeezes back.
“I missed you so much,” he whispers.
“Friends and family of our contestants!” Ms. Svincek calls out over the crowd. “Thank you so much for joining us for this very special night. I hope you are all as excited as we are about the challenge occurring this evening. Contestants—what you
don’t
know is that these surprise guests are actually your critics tonight. You’ll be cooking for your opponents’ loved ones, as well as your own. Their opinions of your dishes will contribute to your chance of remaining in the competition. Four of you will go on to our coveted ‘Final Four’ pre-finale.