The Art of French Kissing

by Brianna Shrum

  “I made beignets.” She sighs and raises her hand to her forehead in a mock swoon.

  “How could one lose on beignets?”

  “Right?” She spares one last scowl for Will, then looks back at me. “You?”

  “Grilled cheese,” I say.

  She laughs then. “Without cheese? That is unfortunate.”

  “Well. I substituted. But yeah. A problem.” I laugh, then, because Riya is laughing and the absurdity of it isn’t lost on me. Riya’s laugh is kind of infectious.

  “Well, just make sure today in the kitchen—” Riya pauses and stares at me meaningfully, and I look back.

  “What?”

  “Uh.”

  “Let me take your plate.” Reid’s voice startles me badly enough that I jump, and apple juice sloshes over the side of my cup.

  I narrow my eyes. “What?”

  “Your fruit plate. It’s empty.”

  I snort. “Why? Planning on poisoning it when I’m not looking?”

  “Well it’s empty so that wouldn’t be very effective.”

  My eyes narrow further. They are slits and I am pissed.

  “Did you seriously walk all the way over here just to take my fruit plate?”

  Reid’s lips thin into a line and he runs a hand through the wild tuft of hair on top of his head, thumb brushing the shaved sides. “Yeah. That and . . .” He glances over at Riya, who is doing a terrible job of pretending not to eavesdrop, and Will, who is not pretending not to at all. Reid looks back at me and his fingers drop to brush my elbow. “Can I talk to you?” He inclines his head toward the hall.

  Riya takes a bite of her cinnamon roll, and it is clear that chewing is an effort. She’s not even faking disinterest anymore.

  I blow out a breath through my nose and bite into my French toast with butter pecan syrup. I do not hurry. Let the jerk wait.

  He does.

  “Lord,” I breathe, then I stand in a huff. “Fine.”

  “What the hell?” Will breathes just before I’m out of earshot.

  And I follow Reid out into the empty, close hallway.

  I force myself not to look straight at him, because he may be Satan’s cheese-loving stepchild, but the darkness of his eyes is frustratingly distracting. So I take in the old burgundy carpet on the floor, the flowered wallpaper on the walls wherever there isn’t wood. Anything but him.

  “I wanted to say I was . . .”

  I glance up at his face. “Yeah?” I do my best to make my voice sound flat. Disinterested. Removed completely, which is not my way. But it is today.

  Reid swallows and glances up at the ceiling then back down at my face. “I was an asshole yesterday.”

  “Yes.”

  “Like, a giant asshole. I shouldn’t have taken your stuff. Just heat in the kitchen or whatever. Competition. You get it, right?”

  “I don’t need this,” I say. “You don’t owe me anything. Not like we’re friends.”

  “I know.”

  “You know?”

  He raises an eyebrow. “Yes, I know we’re not friends. Yes, I know I don’t owe you. But yes, I also know it was shitty. Okay?”

  My instinct is to say, “Fine! All is forgiven!” But I think so much of that comes from my difficult-to-control desire to run my hands through his unruly hair—on a purely physical level—that I don’t trust it. My own body has betrayed me. I school my features into boredom and cross my arms. “Why’d you do it?” I say.

  And now he is flustered. Reid Yamada is full of surprises. In the last eighteen hours, I had deemed him unflusterable.

  “I don’t know,” he says. “I just . . .” Then he kind of furrows his brow and straightens, and his voice changes into something matter-of-fact, resolute. “I want to win this. I saw an opportunity. I took it. I shouldn’t have. It was a mistake.”

  “A mistake.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you’re what?”

  Now it’s Reid’s turn to narrow his eyes. He stands taller—lord, he looks tall in this hallway—and when he moves, I can smell the scent of syrup and waffles coming off him. “Come on,” he says.

  “You. Are. What?”

  Reid says nothing, he just hardens his jaw. So I turn and grab the door handle. He reaches out, hand gentle but very present on my elbow. I turn.

  “I’m sorry,” he says. He grits it out like a foreign language, like something he has never had the occasion to say before. And the syllables sound wrong in his mouth.

  I purse my lips and look down at the ground. He’s sorry. Maybe being this pissed over provolone is unreasonable. Maybe I’m being ridiculous. So I say, “Okay.”

  “Are we good?” he says.

  I scrape my teeth over my bottom lip. “I don’t get why it matters. But yeah. Yeah, we’re fine.” It tastes like a lie the moment it lands on my tongue, but it’s said. It’s done. We’re good.

  I push back into the little dining hall and, for whatever reason, I almost feel more angry than I did this morning. But then Reid waits at his table until I’m done eating and sweeps my plate and fruit bowl away to get them washed, and comes back with a fresh cup of juice, so it’s unreasonable. He’s being nice. He looks like he would rather be doing anything else, but he’s clearly feeling guilty because resting bitch face or not, he’s being so nice.

  Will has already left the table when I get back. But Riya stands with me after we finish breakfast and we head in the direction of our room to get dressed before the first challenge. When we see the team lists have been posted, we stop briefly to examine them.

  Twelve on one, twelve on the other. Will is on the other team. Riya is on my team, and Reid isn’t. Who gives a shit? I forgave him. We’re cool. We’re fine. It’s fine.

  But the cool rage is still flickering in my chest even when I shut the door to my room and don’t have to think about him at all.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  This kitchen feels hotter today, which probably has something to do with all the nervous energy crackling through everyone. We’re all in aprons, buzzing with anticipation. Sweating—partially because it’s Savannah, and partially because there are literally too many cooks in this kitchen and there’s just a lot of pressure and body heat. I’m suddenly worried I didn’t put on enough deodorant. Which is concerning. But there’s no subtle way to check, and either way I should be pretty easily disguised by the ten other people in this room who clearly didn’t.

  Dr. Kapoor stands and says, “Chefs, you will be judged individually, based on your dishes from last night, on your performance we observe in this kitchen, and as a group. For this challenge, you will be working in your assigned teams.”

  Everyone glances around at their team members, like we haven’t been doing that since the lists were posted. But I’m looking at the competition. Because Reid is staring at me, dark eyebrows raised. There’s an almost-smile on his lips and suddenly I’m on fire. Because here we are in this kitchen where he intentionally screwed me over less than twenty-four hours ago, and he may be sorry, but I can’t stand the injustice of it.

  I’ll have to, though. This is not about him; it’s about me, and that scholarship, and our team. I narrow my eyes at him and look back at Dr. Kapoor.

  “You will present your dishes when the time runs down, after which we will discuss. Three of you will be returning home tomorrow.”

  A ripple of nerves runs down my spine, because what if. What if, what if.

  What if I get sent home tomorrow and it’s like this whole thing was a fluke? Then I’ll know I should never have been here, never belonged here, it had been a total waste to apply, which was what my brain was screaming at me through every sentence I typed in the essay.

  This is not for you. When have things like this ever been for you?

  And I’ll have to go back there and face everyone who’s too nice to say, Dream smaller, kiddo.

  What if.

  Nervous energy rumbles through the group as fast as it runs through me. Come on, deodorant, do wha
t you were made to do.

  “You will have forty minutes,” Dr. Kapoor says. “Forty minutes to prepare an appetizer, a main course, and a dessert.”

  “Forty minutes?” Riya squeaks beside me.

  “We’ll have to split up,” I mumble to her, and a boy with dirty blond surfer hair and shockingly pale skin leans in to listen. “Four on desserts, four on apps, four on main.”

  “You will be given three ingredients. One per course. You may choose which course you would like to use each in, but they must be divided so that one mystery ingredient appears in each. Is that understood?”

  A murmured chorus of yeses and yes, sirs goes up from us all.

  “Open your boxes. The three ingredients for this round are: black garlic.”

  “What the hell is that?” I say under my breath, and Surfer Dude tosses his hair out of his eyes and smirks. He knows exactly what it is.

  “Bok choy.”

  Okay. Okay, bok choy I think I can take.

  “And jackfruit.”

  I raise an eyebrow at Riya, who says, “I know jack shit about jackfruit.”

  I laugh.

  Dr. Kapoor looks down at the timer in his hand.

  “Time begins . . . now.”

  And the kitchen devolves into chaos.

  Everyone is shouting over each other on the red team, clawing for control, and on blue, it’s totally quiet. We’re frozen.

  I glance back over my shoulder, eyes landing on Reid. Some tiny girl on his team says, “So, bok choy. Stir fry maybe?”

  She looks straight at him and Reid hisses, “I don’t know how the hell to cook bok choy.”

  The girl goes bright red and I raise my eyebrows, and Reid’s gaze lands on mine. It’s burning up.

  “I think—” I start, but then Bowl Cut Surfer steps smoothly in.

  “We’ll divide into three groups of four. You, you, you, and you.” He sections off one group, then another, then steps in with mine. I am instantly frustrated, but his voice is so smooth and commanding that everyone is listening, and he took my idea. I’m sure it’s an idea half of us had, and I’m sure it’s what Team Red will do, but still. “You guys, take apps and the bok choy. Dessert, take the jackfruit. We’ll take the main course and black garlic.”

  No one protests, but I say, voice way too quiet in a kitchen that, on Team B’s half, is ridiculously loud, “Jackfruit in the dessert is kind of non-risky, though, right? Like creatively, maybe we should—”

  “Get going, guys,” he says, and I clench my teeth, fist curling at my side.

  “We need to at least discuss the freaking dishes so we know they complement each other.”

  “Fine,” he says, spinning and looking down his nose at me. “You go poll everyone, the three of us will start actually cooking. We’re low on time.”

  I’m actually vibrating with rage when the group splits and he heads for the food. I don’t even know what we’re making. “Listen!” I say.

  “What?”

  It doesn’t matter; the whole group is just doing whatever they want to do at this point, but it’s so frustrating. “What’s your name?”

  “Andrew.”

  “Well. Andrew. What are we even going to ma—”

  “Go get the balsamic vinegar and parsley. And you”—he nods at Riya—“get me some scallops. I’ll heat the pan.” The other girl with us heads straight for the refrigerator so this is clearly a recipe she’s familiar with. And I want to argue, but there’s no time. Dammit. Dammit. I blow out a breath and just follow his instructions. Even if maybe he’s wrong.

  He shouldn’t even be cooking the scallops yet; it’s too early. They’ll go rubbery. But I can bring that up later. Right now, I’m an errand girl. I need balsamic and parsley. I shove my way across the kitchen as smells start wafting around and get the parsley without a problem. I shoulder-bump Reid when I reach for the balsamic vinegar and he says, “Find what you need?”

  “You think I’m telling you what I need?”

  He lets out this little laugh and says, “Fair.”

  And I snatch the vinegar, then head back to the stove. There’s already butter sizzling in the pan.

  “Don’t start these yet,” I say. “You’ll—”

  “I know how to cook scallops, good lord.”

  Riya puts a hand on my elbow then shoots a glare at the guy. “Show a little respect, Boy Band.”

  Andrew cocks his head, jaw clenched. Then he just rolls his eyes and goes back to the sauté pan. I get to chopping garlic hard enough that I am briefly concerned I might slip and whack off a finger. But I control it. Focus.

  I am chopping black garlic.

  This is important.

  I am here doing something that matters, and who cares if some guy is being the worst? Riya gets to coating the scallops in whatever spices and the other girl in our group is just standing there, worshiping Tall, Blond, and Arrogant.

  The timer starts to really run down, and the smells in the kitchen are all running together. Everyone is moving so quickly, and I feel like I’m doing nothing, and in this instant, I am pure fury. Because Andrew is doing everything, and there’s no time to coordinate our dishes so everything is random, and no one will listen to me so I’m sure I am more than underwhelming the judging panel. And on top of everything, my stupid grilled cheese from last night was probably not a perfect ten. I could be going home. Everything is out of my control and I could be going home.

  Andrew starts cooking the scallops.

  I have literally nothing to do. So I get out the plates.

  I glance over at Team Red, who is working so smoothly; they’re like greased cogs, a big, efficient machine. And Reid is bending over his counter, making these chocolate cages that are so perfect I want to cry. He has this furrow between his eyebrows, jaw clamped shut. So focused I bet I could stare at him like this for minutes on end and he wouldn’t even notice.

  His fingers are moving with absolute precision over the chocolate, and yeah . . . it’s flawless.

  Meanwhile, someone over here seems to have gotten the bright idea to make jackfruit ice cream and gotten it out too late so it’s jackfruit butter, basically, and Andrew is doing what does seem like a beautiful job on those scallops. I have no idea what our appetizer even is.

  “Two minutes! Start looking at plates, people!”

  That, I’ve gotten down. I am the master of the plates.

  Everyone starts plating. And once again, I am left to do nothing with my hands. I mentally kick myself for not being louder, not being authoritative. I wish I stood out as much as the purple in my hair.

  I hate feeling powerless.

  Less than.

  And here we are.

  I catch a glimpse of Reid, finishing those last cages. He sets them gently over these little cakes someone brought him, on a single plate to carry them to the presentation area, and yesterday’s Reid flashes in a wicked photograph behind my eyes.

  Pumpkin, I will destroy you.

  My lips curls with my hands.

  I am not powerless.

  Reid brushes right past me, and I don’t think about it. I just move. Make like I’m reaching for another utensil in front of me, but slide my foot just in front of his.

  He stumbles. And for one split-second, I think he’s going to recover.

  He doesn’t.

  Reid’s eyes widen and his mouth makes a little O, just before he, and every one of those cakes and cages, crashes to the ground.

  I lean back.

  The kitchen goes briefly silent.

  Then there is an absolute flurry of activity. Our food is going on plates, Team B is frantic. And I cannot decide between feeling elated and guilty.

  Dr. Kapoor calls time.

  We stand in a group by our dishes.

  Andrew, of course, takes charge of ours, introducing the most disjointed meal of all time. A thick Thai bok choy soup, black garlic scallops, jackfruit ice cream. A curl of shame rises in my stomach. The food looks good on its own, at le
ast.

  The judges take bites of each. “Altogether this meal is not cohesive. Nothing . . . nothing fits. But individually, this soup is delicious, truly. The scallops are overdone—”

  “Mine were slightly undercooked.”

  Dr. Freeman says, “My scallops were done to perfection. But can we talk about the ice cream?”

  And it is at that point that their voices start to fade. Because I can feel it. I can feel Reid’s eyes boring holes in the side of my head. I grit my teeth and curl my fingers, then uncurl them. Do not look. I cannot look over at him. I cannot let him have this.

  But it almost hurts not to.

  I break my rule. I look.

  Reid is practically smoking out his ears. He’s got chocolate and crumbs all over his apron, and I can see him working hard trying to control his breathing. His jaw is hard, nostrils flared. His gaze is hot and wicked, and I swear he wants to walk right over to our side of the kitchen and put his hands around my throat.

  I stare back at him. Don’t let him see your guilt. Don’t let him stare you down. My face wears a mask of boredom and I turn back to the judges. They are what matters.

  Our reception is mixed. Because Andrew is good at commanding control of a room and terrible at knowing what exactly to do once he gets it.

  The red team presents their dishes—Will takes the bok choy stir fry over crostinis, and this tiny pale boy with Harry Potter glasses takes the black garlic tofu, both of which fit perfectly with one another. And they look incredible. They smell so good, I want to snatch a plate from the judges and devour it all.

  Then Reid steps forward. He’s sweating. “Your . . . your dessert is a jackfruit reduction. It was originally going to be Chinese egg cakes and chocolate cages with a jackfruit reduction drizzle.” He swallows hard, stands straighter. I can see his fingers tapping at his sides.

  I do not feel guilty. I refuse to feel guilty. He started this.

  “Unfortunately,” he says, “as I was moving to plate the dessert, I tripped. So what you have is the . . . the jackfruit. Reduction.”

  Cocky, self-assured Reid. Reduced to pure nerves.

  My chest squeezes and I blink past it.