Taste Test (10 page)

Walter Warwick

Sky Norman

Abby Johnson

Amy Brenner

To:
 Nora Henderson
[email protected]

From:
 Billy Watkins
[email protected]

Subject:
 How’d it go?

1st challenge was last nite, right? Tell me everything.

B

To:
 Billy Watkins
[email protected]

From:
 Nora Henderson
[email protected]

Subject: Re:
 How’d it go?

Well, I’d tell you—but then I’d have to kill you. LOL. Lemme put it to you this way—there’s gonna be a lotta drama. The show’s just started and this place has already become soap-opera worthy. I dunno if I’m coming home with a scholarship or a Daytime Emmy!

N

Chapter Six

Spy-cing Things Up

“Wow, that was intense,” Aaron mutters.

“I can’t believe what Svincek said to Walter,” Emily says to no one in particular. “She was harsh!”

Malcolm kicks a rock, launching it several feet in front of the group.

“What the hell right does Prescott have to interrogate
me
? When’s the last time
he
cooked something instead of posing for magazine covers?”

The walk back to the dorm is completely different from the walk down to the arena a few hours ago. Some people are red faced, tear stained, and stuffy nosed. Others are grumbling or shaking their heads in disbelief. Most, though, are like me—silent. And everyone can’t help but observe the glaring, most obvious change—that there are four less of us heading upstairs. Four people who won’t be back to their rooms tonight. Four of us whose double rooms just became singles in a matter of minutes.

When the judges announced the elimination times four, it was like the atmosphere of the whole contest transformed. Each of us, no matter how sure we were about our dishes, felt as though there were a target on our backs. Even Joy, the queen of supposed self-confidence, started chewing the inside of her cheek, trying to mask her worried expression.

The panel asked each of us questions, but never gave praise—only harped on the mistakes they perceived in what we had done. Had I thought of brining the meat before I grilled it? Did I consider a coarser grind for the coffee beans? A few times, it took all my practically nonexistent self-control to bite my lip, nod, and stay quiet.

But the worst part … the worst part was the handful of devastated people told to say their good-byes, that they’d been “eighty-sixed from
Taste Test
.”

Don’t get me wrong—we all expected eliminations. Everyone knew they were coming, knew they were inevitable. But our chances of being eliminated that first night were far greater than we could have imagined. What made it all the more painful was that the contestants who were cut were actually selected from the bottom
ten
, as decided by the judges. So, not only did four people have to go home, but six more got to stay here knowing that the judges thought their food was bad, just not quite bad enough.

And Gigi was one of those six.

The bulk of us take the stairs to the second floor and I keep my eyes trained on the back of Christian’s head a few steps in front of me. I bet
he’s
feeling cocky as hell. When the judges voted on which dish was the winning one, Christian’s was hands down the favorite.

You know what pisses me off the most, though? It’s the fact that I don’t know if my dish was number
two
or number
ten
on their list. If I let it, that fact will drive me crazy for a long time; it’s a whole lot easier to just spend my time hating Christian Van Legacy and his Merry Band of Bourgeois Brats.

I pause at my door and fumble with the key. I want to take a shower before I go check on Gigi. She seemed to take the judgment in stride, but I know I’d be upset if a judge told me my dish was “a sad example of deconstructive gastronomy,” whatever that means.

“Good game.”

I turn to find Christian behind me, holding out his hand to shake mine. I stare at it, narrowing my eyes.

“This isn’t baseball,” I retort, turning away again. I’m not usually a sore loser, I swear, but I am
so
not shaking his hand right now.

“I wish I could have tried your ribs; they looked delicious.”

I roll my eyes. “Obviously not delicious enough.”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

“Wouldn’t you?” I turn back around, my hand on my hip. “Are you here to gloat? Mission accomplished. You won—this time. Next time you won’t be so lucky.”

“Oh yeah?” He grins at me, eyebrows raised. “What does that mean?”

“It means I’m just getting started,” I say, leaning into him. Our faces are barely an inch apart. “And I have no intention of letting you win again anytime soon.”

“Right.” He takes a step back. “Well, I’m looking forward to your attempt to dethrone me. I’m always up for some comic relief.”

I swing the door open and, with a last glance at his triumphant expression, proceed to slam it in his face.

“Good night, Nora.”

His words are muffled, but I can hear the smugness in them. I pick up a pillow and throw it precisely at the place where his face would have been.

When I knock on Gigi’s door, I try to forget my own frustrations. I think of all the things I’d want to hear if I were in the current “bottom six.”

“What doesn’t kill you only makes you stronger.”

“This too shall pass.”

“You can always just pretend to kick someone in the balls. It made me feel a hell of a lot better.”

As the doorknob turns, I take a deep breath, preparing myself for the swollen eyes and inconsolable tears.

“Hey, Nora. What’s shakin’?”

I blink.

Gigi is in her pajamas, holding a huge bowl of popcorn. Behind her, Angela is sprawled out on the floor and the TV is blasting a high-speed car chase scene. I look at her again, trying to see if she’s just hiding how she’s really feeling. She looks back at me like I’m a nut job.

“Dude, why are you staring at me?”

I shake my head. “I don’t know. I—I guess I thought …”

“That I’d be a sobbing mess lying on the floor in a pool of my own vomit?”

“Not exactly. No vomit, anyway.”

Angela looks up from the magazine she’s flipping through.

“Trust me, I was thinking the same thing—I even brought her tissues.” She gestures to a box of Kleenex on the desk. Gigi laughs.

“I’m fine, guys. Seriously. Don’t worry about me. Tomorrow’s another day, and all that crap. I should have known better than to do a salad, anyway.”

“Wow,” I say, impressed. “Can you be me when I get voted off? I’d like to have
someone
react rationally, since I know I won’t.”

She rolls her eyes. “You have nothing to worry about. You won’t get voted off anytime soon. They loved you.”

“Not so much—not enough, anyway.”

“Sucks that Christian won, huh?” Angela says, taking a sip of her soda.

“Yeah.” I can feel my lip curling. “He was nice enough to stop by my room to gloat.”

“Bastard,” she mutters. “I really wish there was some way for someone besides us to see what an arrogant prick he is.”

“Don’t you think people see it all the time?”

Gigi shakes her head.

“I doubt it. The guys think he’s cool, the girls think he’s hot, and the judges think he’s talented. We’re pretty much the only ones who’ve got him pegged for what he really is.”

I grab a handful of popcorn and settle into the denim beanbag chair in front of the TV. A muscular, half man–half robot attacks a bus on the screen.

“You know, what pisses me off the most is how obvious it is to me—to us—that he’s a total prick. It’s practically written on his forehead or something.”

“Well, we can’t exactly write it on his forehead …” Angela scoots a little closer. “But we
could
write it somewhere else.”

“I’m not tattooing his butt, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

“Shut up, perv. I was thinking more along the lines of his door.”

I meet her eyes. We both turn to look at Gigi.

“You got markers?” I ask her.

“All different colors.”

She digs out a box of art supplies from under her bed.

“Wanna go now?” she asks eagerly.

“Nah, we should wait—at least until after ten so that the hall cameras don’t catch us.”

“Good call.”

It’s actually closer to eleven when we tiptoe past the elevator to the boys’ wing. I look at my friends doubtfully and whisper, “I don’t even know what room he’s in!”

Angela moves ahead and beckons for us to follow her. A second later, we stop in front of a door labeled CHRISTIAN AND PIERCE RULE! GO HOME NOW AND SAVE YOUR DIGNITY!

“Unbelievable. Who
writes
that?” Gigi whispers.

The rest of the door is plastered with pictures of bikini-clad models and beer ads. We uncap our markers and, without so much as a glance at each other, begin to scribble all over the smiling bimbos and their perfect tans.

SQUEAK!

My Sharpie skids across the glossy paper with a horrible squeal. Angela snorts, then claps a hand over her mouth.

“Stop it!” I mutter through clenched teeth.

Just then, we hear the sound of footsteps coming from the
other side of the door. The three of us jump back and press our bodies up against the wall. Moments later, the footsteps fade away and we hear the unmistakable sound of a creaking mattress.

“Let’s make this quick,” Gigi whispers, drawing a green mustache on a redhead in a sailor-suit bikini.

“Okay, just one … more … thing …”

I scrawl,
I don’t date Legacy Losers!
coming out of a big word bubble near a model’s mouth. Angela underlines the word “Legacy” with her purple marker.

“All right, let’s get outta here.”

We break into a sprint, slipping on the marble tile in our socks. As I start to turn the corner, I hear the unmistakable whir of the elevator rising and the muted ding when it arrives on our floor. Angela keeps running, but Gigi and I skid to a stop. Our rooms are too far down for us to make it without being seen.

Just as Angela reaches her door, the elevator opens. Two people enter the darkened hallway as she slips into her room. Gigi and I quickly move back into the shadows.

I feel a surge of panic.
Please, please don’t let them come this way
. One glance around tells me that we’ve got nowhere to hide, unless we want to wake up a male contestant and beg for asylum. And, as a general rule, it probably isn’t a good idea for two girls to show up at a guy’s door around midnight. Silently, Gigi leans forward to peek around the corner. I try to tug her back.

“Gigi, no!”

“I just want to see …” She sucks in a breath. “You’re not gonna believe this.”

“What? Who is it?”

“Joy.”

“So?”

“And
Prescott
.”

My eyes widen. “No
way
!”

“Look!”

Tentatively, I take a peek.

Joy, wearing one of her skanky sequined dresses, is standing with one bronzed leg crossed over the other. Prescott is leaning into her, an arm propped on the wall. I strain to hear their conversation.

“You know I thought your dish was the best, baby,” Prescott purrs. “I just didn’t want to throw us under the bus. We can’t risk being exposed, you know that.”

“How is your voting for me to win a challenge going to expose us?” Joy pouts.

He curls a finger under her chin. “Who cares about the first win, anyway? It doesn’t even mean anything.”

“Um, it could have meant me being
eliminated
tonight!”

Prescott shakes his head. “I’d never let that happen.”

Joy looks unconvinced until he puts his other arm around her waist and pulls her close. He says something that makes her smile and she nuzzles his neck. Slowly, she tilts her head back and starts to kiss him.

“Ugh!” I duck back, rolling my eyes at Gigi. “They’re making out.”

“Shocker,” she whispers sarcastically. She nudges me over and takes another look. Furrowing her eyebrows, she leans further forward.

“Gigi,” I hiss, “you’re going to get us caught!”

“Nah,” she says and looks back at me. “They’re far too into each other at this point. We could probably walk right past them.”

“Let’s not test that theory, please. We just need to wait them out.”

Waiting, however, turns out to be pretty boring. Within a few minutes, we’re practically climbing over each other to view the live Skin-a-Max movie taking place in our dorm.

“You’re stepping on my foot!” I mutter.