The Bake-Off (21 page)

“I
am
relaxed,” Linnie snapped. A droplet of sweat trickled down her nose and plopped onto the chilled marble pastry slab she was using to roll out her dough.

“Here, let me help you.” Amy gently removed Linnie's fingers from their death grip on the maple dowel and replaced them with her own. She flattened the dough with firm, steady strokes, all the while humming under her breath.

Linnie stood back for a moment, tying and retying the strings on her Delicious Duet–mandated green-striped apron. “What's up with you? You have a crazed glint in your eye.”

Amy looked up with a grin. “I never thought I'd say this, but I'm in my element right now. The time limits, the intensity . . . it makes me feel alive.”

“Well, something definitely clicked with you,” Linnie said as she started to peel the apples. “Your rolling technique is flawless.”

“Yeah, I'm actually kind of flattered that Tai tried to poison me. I've never been so good at something that someone else would feel the need to
kill
me to put me out of commission. Talk about high praise.”

Linnie winced as she peeled the first layer of her thumb off. “Seek help.”

“I'm starting to see why you kept entering all those science fairs and essay contests and chess tournaments when we were growing up. Pressure is kind of awesome when you're at the top of your game.” Amy paused, took a good look at Linnie's face, and put down the rolling pin. “What's up with the flop sweat? I thought you said the Zone was your permanent address?”

“I lied.” Linnie swiped at the back of her neck. “I think I'm going to pass out. I'm serious. You need to talk to Brandon tonight and tell him to phone in an antianxiety prescription for me. Valium, Xanax, Ativan, whatever. I need it.”

“Don't psych yourself out.” Amy resumed work on the crust. “Repeat after me: We got this.”

Linnie mumbled something unintelligible.

“I can't hear you!”

“We got this,” Linine said, but it came out more of a question than a pronouncement.

Amy shook her head. “I hear you, but I don't believe you.”

“We got this!”
Linnie yelled, just as all the nearby teams turned off their food processors.

“That's more like it.” Amy nodded. She gave a friendly wave to the onlookers. “Now peel those apples. Peel like you've never peeled before.”

Linnie had to laugh. “If only that weren't so close to the truth.” She sliced her thumb again, slapped on a Band-Aid, and demanded a labor shake-up.

Amy was happy to relinquish crust duties, and the sisters worked side by side until Linnie grabbed the paring knife from Amy. “Whoa. What do you think you're doing?”

“Cutting each apple into thirty-six chunks.” Amy referred to the annotated legal pad. “That was your edict. Says so right here.”

“That was only half of my edict. Yes, we need thirty-six chunks per apple, but even more important is that each chunk be of uniform size.”

“I'm doing it this way on purpose.” Amy grabbed back the paring knife. “I want some to be thicker than others so there's a little crisp in every bite. Szarlotka is supposed to look rustic and homemade.”

“ ‘Homemade' is just another word for sloppy,” Linnie argued. “I don't like inconsistency.”

“I know, I know. You're an excellent driver. You worry about your duties, Rain Man, and let me worry about mine.”

Amy braced herself for a fight, but Linnie backed down and went back to draping the dough into the pie plate.

When the pie was assembled and ready to bake, Amy sprinkled a thin layer of grated pie dough across the top to give the finished product a textured, confettilike effect, then stepped back to assess the result. “Does it look okay?”

“It looks like the cover of
Bon Appétit
,” Linnie said. “I hope it tastes okay.”

Amy licked the spoon they'd used to scoop the apple filling into the pie plate. “It tastes like we swiped it off Martha Stewart's windowsill.” She placed the pie plate on the silicone mat atop the baking tray. “What now?”

Linnie slid the baking tray into the oven, set the Delicious Duet automated kitchen timer, and clicked her thumb on the stopwatch she carried for backup. “Now we wait.”

 

“
W
hy does judging take so long?” Two hours later, Linnie wiped down their prep station for the umpteenth time and started fraying the threads on the edge of the fluffy greenlogoed dish towel. “Are they cleansing their palates with an entire gallon of milk between each piece of pie?”

“They have fifty entries to taste and discuss,” Amy pointed out. “Stop scrubbing the same section of counter over and over. You're making me nervous.”

“What if something's gone wrong?” Linnie's dish towel was quickly unraveling. “What if our runner dropped the szarlotka on the way to the judges' room? That kid looked like he had bad knees and the grip of a newborn.”

“ ‘That kid' probably has ten years' worth of experience working in Manhattan's finest restaurants.” Amy popped a leftover apple peel into her mouth and chewed, hardly tasting the browned and shriveled fruit skin. “I'm sure everything's fine. I'd tell you to have a drink and relax, but I don't want to end up arrested again.” Amy sniffed the air, then motioned Linnie closer. “Come here. We both still reek of booze and bodily fluid.” She grabbed the bottle of vanilla extract and shook a few drops into her palm.

“What are you doing?”

“Freshening us up.” Amy dabbed the sweet-smelling liquid on the pulse points behind her ears and wrists, then did the same to Linnie. “It'll have to do until we can go back upstairs and shower again. Plus, men love the scent of vanilla extract.”

“Says who?”

“Some women's magazine we had in the waiting room of the dental office. But in my personal experience, it's true. You should try wearing some to work—you might see a significant increase in tips.”

“I'll keep that in mind.” Linnie checked the clock again. “Argh. The suspense is killing me.”

The big double doors at the ballroom's main entrance swung wide, and a supercharged silence settled over the room as an elderly gentleman in a three-piece suit and a green Delicious Duet necktie walked through.

“Moment of truth.” Amy wrapped her fingers around one end of Linnie's dish towel. Linnie held tight to her end until the cloth was stretched taut between them.

The contest coordinator stepped up onto the dais, which was draped in green-and-white bunting, then cleared his throat once more before speaking. “Will contestant Vas”—he frowned down at the name printed on the index card in his hand and tried again—“Vasylina Bialek please step forward?”

“Oh my God,” Amy squeaked. “What's going on?”

“People are
looking
at me,” Linnie whispered back. “Hide me.”

Amy's mind raced. “That guy is the one who went over all the contest rules on the first day. Snowley What's-his-face. Do you think he knows something?”

Linnie's big brown eyes filled with panic. “What could he know?”

“Uh, let's see: That our recipe isn't ours? That you were recently jailed for criminal mischief? Shall I go on?” Amy waited for Linnie to come through with her usual snooty self-assurance, but her sister just kept staring at her with those terrified, Bambi-in-the-forest-fire eyes.

“Vasylina Bialek?” Snowley What's-his-face's voice boomed through the hall once more.

“Let's go.” Amy raised her hand and called out, “That's us.” She took Linnie's elbow and guided her toward the front of the room.

“What are you doing?” Linnie asked.

“I'm coming with you, obviously. If you're in trouble, so am I.”

This show of allegiance seemed to jolt Linnie back to her senses. “Listen to me very carefully. If they try to interview us separately, do not waver. Admit nothing, Amy.”

“I'll admit nothing.”

“You swear? Don't forget what game theory says about the prisoner's dilemma and the Pareto-suboptimal solution.”

“I have no idea what you're talking about, but they'll never break me,” Amy assured her.

Amy greeted Snowley with a big smile and a hearty handshake. “Hi. I'm Amy Nichols and this is Vasylina Bialek. We're team number thirteen.”

The official frowned down at his paperwork. “I'm to understand that you two are sisters?”

“Yes, sir, righty-o.” Amy's tone was so cheery, she was setting her own teeth on edge.

“And you have prepared the apple szarlotka this afternoon?”

“That's correct.”

“I see.” The contest coordinator put on a pair of spectacles and peered closely at Linnie's face. “Ms. Bialek, do you mind if I ask how old you are?”

Linnie cast a confused, sidelong glance over at Amy before replying, “I'm twenty-eight.”

“I see.” Snowley nodded to the assistant two steps behind him, who scribbled something on her clipboard. “Ms. Bialek, would you mind stepping into the next room for a moment? We'd like to have a word with you in private.”

Amy started to offer to accompany her, but Linnie cut her off with a quick shake of her head.

“I can handle this,” she muttered. “Just remember what I said about game theory.”

With her posture resolute and her head held high, Linnie went with the officials into a small conference room at the end of the exhibition hall. Amy trailed after them until the door closed.

Then all she could do was wait.

And fidget.

And pace.

Finally, after what seemed like hours, Linnie emerged by herself and closed the door behind her. Her perfect posture had devolved into a slouch, with her hair hiding most of her face from Amy's view.

“Well? What happened?” It was all Amy could do to restrain herself from grabbing Linnie by her apron strings and shaking her. “Are we busted? Are we facing disqualification and public humiliation?”

Linnie remained determinedly detached. “We're going to the finals.”

Amy's hands dropped to her sides. “What?”

“The finals. We're in.”

“But why . . .? How . . .? What . . .?”

Linnie strode toward the exit. “Let's go. Everyone's staring.”

“Hello?!” Amy chased after her. “I asked you a question.”

“I heard you.” Linnie blew through the double doors, rounded the corner, and buttonhooked into a secluded little alcove, where the sound of their voices was nearly drowned out by the gurgle of the lobby's fountain.

“So why won't you answer me?”

“Because.” Long, gusty sigh. “It's stupid.”

“I know you did not just
sigh
at me. Sell that supercilious crap somewhere else,” Amy warned. “You either start talking right now, or I'll—”

Linnie crossed her arms and looked up at the ceiling. “They asked me if I wanted to do some media promotion for Delicious sugar.”

“Media promotion? Like what? Interviews?” Amy envisioned hours of the same question on an endless, repeating loop:
How did you come up with this recipe?

“No, more like print work.”

Amy could see an angry pink blotch appearing at the hollow of her sister's throat. “You mean modeling?” she pressed.

“I don't know.” Linnie blinked up at the emergency fire sprinklers. “I guess.”

“Well, what exactly did they say in there?”

“Just that they're trying to update their corporate image and they want to produce some ads featuring contestants who are young and fresh. ‘The new face of the Delicious Duet Dessert Championship' or whatever.” Linnie shrugged one shoulder. “I told you, it's stupid.” As an afterthought, she added, “Oh, and they said you could do it, too. Since you're the other half of my duo.”

“I see.” Amy's voice was high and tight.

Linnie finally looked her in the face. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“You're mad.”

“Of course I'm not.” Amy turned away. “Why would I be mad?”

“I don't know, but you look like you're about to go on a bloody rampage with an apple corer.”

Amy pressed the heel of her palm to her forehead and tried to articulate her frustration. “I'm not angry, Linnie. I'm just sick of being the runner-up. When there are two sisters, one is supposed to be pretty, and the other one's supposed to be smart. Smart
or
pretty. You don't get to be both. Everybody knows that.”

“You're pretty,” Linnie said.

“I'm cute.
You
got stopped in the airport when you were twelve by a modeling scout.”

“Oh yeah.” Linnie nibbled her lower lip. “I forgot about that.”

“Well, I remember. Vividly. You ripped up the poor woman's business card right in her face and went off on a rant about how the modeling industry dehumanizes young girls and undermines the fundamental tenets of feminism.”

“I stand by my rant.” Linnie lifted her fist to indicate power to the people. “So let me get this straight: You'd actually want to be the face of Betty Crocker two-point-oh?”

“Who wouldn't?”

“Me.” Linnie slouched even further into the depths of her striped apron. “But, I mean, if you want to . . .”

“Well, they're going to pay us, right?” Amy tried a different tack. “I thought you agreed to all this because you need money.”

“I need at least forty grand. They're only offering to pay ‘union scale,' whatever that is.” She paused. “But it's up to you.”