Taste Test (5 page)

When we make it back to the second floor, Angela gives us a wink before heading toward her room. “Be sure to look for me in the morning. If I’m not at breakfast, it’s because I strangled her with her Kabbalah bracelet.”

Gigi and I both laugh as she disappears around the corner. I head in the opposite direction toward Casa Nora y Joy(less).

So, I don’t quite feel at home and I’m not
completely
comfortable, but going downstairs helped me loosen up a little bit. It’s nice to actually laugh with some people here—I was a little afraid I was stuck in the land of the snobby and the snobbier.

Before bed, I decide to e-mail Billy. I feel sort of stupid about it, but I already miss him. I really wish I could just hear his voice.

Typing quickly, I tell him about the plane, the shuttle ride, and my confrontation with Joy and Christian. I talk a little more about Joy, purposely leaving out the part when she offered to let him sleep in her bed. And I mention meeting Gigi and Angela.

“They seem like normal people,” I write, “and that’s saying a lot, after what I’ve seen so far.”

After I reread what I wrote, I hesitate at the end. How do I sign off?
Sincerely
?
Your Friend
? Both of those sound stupid, fake. Not how we’d really say good-bye to each other.

I can’t quite figure out why this is bothering me so much. Billy is Billy. Home is home. And I—well, I’m a contestant on one of the most popular reality shows on television. The way I end an e-mail tonight can’t be half as important as the way I begin my first day here tomorrow.

Yawning, I type, “Love, Nora” and press SEND.

To:
 Nora Henderson
[email protected]

From:
 Billy Watkins
[email protected]

Subject: Re:
 I’m here

Nors—

Hey kid—good to hear from u. Glad u made it there in 1 piece. Hope the flight wasn’t bad. Sux you don’t have ur phone—I’d love to hear ur voice.

U aren’t missin much. Ur dad and I hit up the truck rally after you left—brought the smoker on the trailer. Pretty fun, but everyone asked about u. Everyone’s rooting for u down here. Especially me.

Can’t wait to see u on TV. Write back soon.

Billy

Contestant Interview

Nora Henderson

Producer (P):
     So, Nora, tell me, how are you feeling so far about your living arrangements?

Nora Henderson (NH):
     Um, they’re fine …

P:
     It seems like you’re having some trouble with your roommate.

NH:
     [hesitation] No, no. It’s okay. We’re a little different, that’s all.

P:
     That’s all?

NH:
     [shrug] Sure.

P:
     Nora, you can be honest with me. These interviews are a chance for you to vent your frustrations. To tell the truth.

NH:
     But [looks at camera] aren’t these being filmed?

P:
     Of course. Everything is filmed. It’s a television show.

NH:
     [long pause]

P:
     Nora?

NH:
     Sorry. [hesitates again] No, like I said, everything is fine. Joy seems
great
.

P:
     And there’s nothing she’s done to annoy you? To bother you?

NH:
     Of course not. We’re roommates. I’m sure we’ll be best friends in no time.

Chapter Three

Jerk Ain’t Just a Type of Chicken

“Are you finished yet?” I yell at the closed bathroom door.

A moment later, Joy emerges, followed by a cloud of perfume and wearing a smug smile.

“It’s all yours.”

“Thanks a lot,” I grumble, glancing at the clock.

It’s the first day of classes and I have approximately twenty minutes to get showered, dressed, and across campus to orientation. I gave up the hope of makeup and a blow-dryer about ten minutes ago. At this point, I’m just hoping I can brush my teeth in time.

“See you in class,” Joy says sweetly, grabbing a disgustingly large designer bag off her desk chair and sweeping out of the room.

Just when I think I can’t dislike her more, she figures out a way to prove me wrong.

Fifteen minutes later, I’m sprinting along the brick path
that weaves through the academy grounds. Wet clumps of hair cling to my face, and the collar of my shirt is soaked. I hope orientation doesn’t involve a lab component because if I get anywhere near sharp implements, I might attack my selfish excuse for a roommate.

BEEP. BEEP.

I jump into the grass just as a black golf cart, sleeker than any I’ve seen before, flies up next to me. I take one look at the driver and groan.

Wonderful. Just my freaking luck.

“Morning.”

Christian’s hair is perfectly combed, his shirt and pants pressed and wrinkle-free. He’s holding a cup of coffee in one hand and the steering wheel in the other. He gives me a once-over.

“So. How are things?”

“How do they look?” I snap, pushing the wet strands of hair off my forehead.

“Damp. Disheveled. All around, pretty sloppy,” he muses, cocking his head at me.

“Thanks. Thanks a lot.”

I start walking faster, attempting to get away from him as quickly as possible. Christian paces me and I try to ignore him.

“You know, if you just asked nicely, I’d be happy to give you a ride.”

I glare at him. “I’m not asking
you
for
anything
, and if I did, it sure as hell wouldn’t be
nicely
.”

He accelerates briefly, then shifts into park. By the time I
reach him, he’s rotated his seat to face me. I think about taking that hot coffee he’s holding and pouring it all over his impeccable designer shirt.

“Look,” I say, rolling my eyes, “I realize you’re having a blast making me feel like crap and wasting my time, but I’d like to get to class as quickly as possible.”

“If you don’t get in, you’re going to be late.”

“I am
not
getting in a vehicle with you.”

“Why not?”

“Because!”

I say it with conviction, but a voice in the back of my head is raising a meek objection. “
You want to be on time, don’t you? It’s the first day
,” it says.

“All right, suit yourself.”

Christian pushes on the accelerator and begins to pull away.

Dammit.
The last thing I want to do is rely on this jerk for anything.

“Wait.”

He turns to look at me, his left eyebrow raised. “Yes?”

I come around the side of the golf cart and slide in beside him. From the corner of my eye, I can see him looking at me expectantly.

“Just go,” I grumble, crossing my arms over my chest.

“I didn’t hear ‘please.’”

“You’re right, you didn’t.”

“Ah, I love it when girls are surly in the morning.”

Moments later, we’re flying across the tree-lined grounds. I hate to admit it, but this
is
a much faster way to get to class
in the morning. If I had unlimited cash at my fingertips like he clearly does, I can see how one of these would be an intelligent investment.

“How did you get this thing, anyway?” I ask, running a hand over the glossy dash.

“It was delivered this morning.”

“No, I mean, we aren’t allowed to have cars or bikes or anything. How did you get it approved?”

He shrugged. “I didn’t.”

I shake my head. Figures.

“So, you’re an only child?” Christian asks. He has one arm resting across the back of my seat. I scoot further away from him.

“How do you know that?”

He shrugs. “Obviously someone isn’t sizing up the competition like I am. Besides, if you ever get to the end of that packet Benny gave us, you’ll find profiles on all of us.”

I just nod, not sure what to say. I’m surprised that he’s had time to read through any of the information, let alone gotten through the whole stack. I figured he would have spent all his free time partying with Joy and the rest of the
Gossip Girl
cast.

We glide up to a bike rack in front of a white columned building. Christian shifts into park and pulls the key from the ignition.

“Thanks,” I say, practically choking on the word.

“Don’t mention it.” He slides out from the driver’s seat. “I’m often coming to the rescue of damsels in distress.”

He pulls a messenger bag from the rack behind the seat. I grab my books and hurry behind him.

“I wasn’t in distress.”

He grins. Even his teeth are perfectly straight and annoyingly white. “Sure you were. Just admit it. I saved you.”

I snort. “You do understand I have legs, right? I would have made it here on my own.”

“Maybe.” Christian pulls open the door. “I guess we’ll never know.”

He gestures for me to enter the building. Annoyed, I grip my books harder and stomp past him.

The lecture hall is a vast, high-ceilinged room with seats like a movie theater and a huge screen in front. A data projector is running a slide show of colorful photographs—all different types of foods from various foreign countries:

Pints of beer at an English pub.

A tray of rising bread dough in a French bakery.

Barrels of spices at a Turkish bazaar.

I see Angela and Gigi waving at me from one of the middle rows. Breathless, I collapse into the seat next to them. Gigi raises her eyebrows.

“Did I just see you walk in with Preppy McPrepperson?”

I glance back at Christian. He’s sitting next to Pierce Johnson, whose eyebrow ring and multiple tattoos are on full display. They’re both laughing when Christian glances up, meeting my gaze. He winks.

Quickly, I turn away and shake my head.

“Just a coincidence,” I mutter, digging a pen out of my purse.

The lights begin to dim and a heavy woman in a bright-blue suit and silk scarf walks across the front of the room to the podium. I recognize her right away and, from the way the
crowd falls silent, everyone else does, too. Kathryn Svincek is more than just the President of NACA, she’s also the head judge of
Taste Test
. Everyone remembers her for her honest critiques and sharp tongue, made sharper somehow by her sophisticated accent.

She raises both her hands for quiet, despite the fact that no one’s uttered a word since she hit the stage.

“Hello,” she says into the microphone. “And welcome to the North American Culinary Academy!”

There is some polite applause and she looks around appraisingly as though checking to see who isn’t clapping.

“I trust that you’ve found your quarters adequate.”

There’s a more enthusiastic response this time. I look back and see Joy, who has a disgusted expression on her face. What could Her Highness be upset about now?

Ms. Svincek begins to discuss the history of the academy—how the greatest chefs in the nation wanted to found a school for the most elite young cooks around the country, how the school has partnered with the International School of Cuisine in Paris since its inception.

“And here you are—a new generation of food lovers committed to creating the finest dishes and the tastiest concoctions. Likewise, the professors at NACA are equally committed to assisting you with your studies.”

The Academy faculty files out onto the stage, their tweed blazers and stern expressions both a little cliché and totally intimidating. They stand in a long line as, one by one, they introduce themselves. Some are doctoral professors; others are professional chefs or nutritional scientists.

“We are, of course, missing a very important member of
the NACA community,” Ms. Svincek says, her voice a little wobbly. “My late husband, Ronald, was an integral part of the NACA faculty and was instrumental in developing this reality program. The entire NACA and
Taste Test
community is indebted to him. May he rest in peace.”

There is polite applause and Ms. Svincek wipes her eyes. It must be difficult for her to come here every day, knowing that her husband can no longer enjoy what he worked so hard for.

“Well, moving along. All competitors,” she continues, clearing her throat, “are entering their final semester of high school. The classes you take at the academy will satisfy English, science, and history credit requirements needed for graduation. Please remember, however, that these are
college-level
courses. We will expect the same amount of discipline and will hold you to the same standards expected of our traditional first-year students. In return, your time at the academy will ensure you a spot in one of many prestigious culinary programs.

“But only one,” she booms, her volume increasing, “will be leaving here with a full ride to ISC-Paris and a check for $50,000.”

She beams as the crowd breaks into joyous whoops and hollers.

When we leave the lecture hall a few minutes later, we’re handed an updated class schedule. Three times a week we have Modern World Cuisines, Classic Techniques, and Flavor Foundations. On Tuesdays and Thursdays, we attend longer labs for Chemistry of Cooking and Tools of the Trade. I’ve never
been that into school, but here, with
these
courses, I feel sort of excited about going to class.

“So, you guys want to grab a coffee before class?” I ask, suddenly needing a jolt of caffeine. Gigi peers at the schedule in her hand.

“We’ve got, what, an hour before Modern World?”

“Yep.”

“Sure.” Angela nods. “Sounds good.”

The three of us start toward the exit just as Christian is walking out. He holds the door open for us with a flourish. I roll my eyes.

But once Angela and Gigi have walked through ahead of me, the jerk proceeds to let go of the handle. Without warning, the whole door flies backward, almost smashing me in the forehead. I struggle to push open the heavy plate glass and ignore the people around me as I stomp past the golf cart.