The Art of French Kissing

by Brianna Shrum

  Reid and I are the last ones to leave. I want to spend a minute outside with the fireflies, kind of clinging to the last few days in Savannah, so we stop at the bottom of the stairs. He needs to sleep, because apparently he is indeed going to be up in a couple of hours, whether or not he sleeps now. So he just leans in and kisses me right where my neck meets my shoulder.

  And leaves.

  I wait to actually shudder at how good it feels until he’s turned his back.

  Then I head outside. I’m going to miss the humidity, which Addie would possibly actually hit me over the head for saying, but there it is. I’m going to miss it.

  And all the green, and the cicadas, even though they are kind of extremely annoying when they get loud, but they’re peaceful. Almost meditative. Rhythmic.

  I realize now, when tears actually start to fall down my face, how badly I want this. And acknowledging it feels like something.

  It’s terrifying. Wanting it this badly. Knowing that every single person back in that house wants it, too, and they’re all good. Good enough to have gotten here, and good enough to still be here. There’s a one-sixth chance I get it, and I wish . . . I wish I knew how much of a scholarship went to second place. Or third or fourth. Because there’s a chance I get one of those and they’re not enough.

  There’s a chance I fight for this so hard, and let myself want it so so bad, and then it just slips through my fingers and Savannah has already wiggled its way into my heart.

  And it has.

  It’s there already, so deep that it would hurt like hell to extricate it.

  Because the thing is, once you want one impossible thing, it’s very hard not to want two or three or a thousand, and now I want all these big, impossible things at once.

  I want this place for me. I want that scholarship. I want a place here that I am not fighting for every day.

  Something breaks loose from my chest.

  I want.

  I stare up at the sky for a little while longer, listen to the cicadas and the wind in the trees, walk a few steps toward them. Breathe.

  Then I turn back to go inside, and my eye catches on something.

  Two people, the taller one pressed up against the damp brick of the school. The shorter one standing close. Now that I’m focused on it, I think they’re whispering. My eyes adjust to the dark a little more.

  It’s Riya and Will, and she’s against the wall. His hand is pressed over her shoulder and they’re so close I bet they don’t even have to make sound to hear what the other is saying. I’m staring like a creep, but I can’t not.

  There’s a breath, and then Will’s hand is sliding over her cheek and she’s leaning into it. And he kisses her.

  My heart flip flops; I’ve been dying for this. Because Riya has been dying for this, and because cocky, life of the party Will hasn’t been able to stop staring at her from the second they showed up together. His hand tangles in her hair and hers slides down to one of his belt loops and they’re just kissing—slow, languid, like they have all the time in the world.

  He leans into her and she just sinks into him, and then I blink away. Because I think I am intruding on something intensely private.

  It’s not mine to see.

  I practically prance inside and up the stairs.

  And Andrew is still up. He’s brooding.

  “And then there were six,” he says.

  “Yeah.”

  I turn to head toward my room and he stops me just outside Reid’s. “You know they’re taking away the security blanket tomorrow, right?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Means you won’t be able to ride on your boyfriend’s coattails anymore. It’s just gonna be you. No way they head into picking the final four by pairs.” He smiles. He’s a freaking barracuda.

  “Guess we’ll see tomorrow,” I say.

  I turn and he presses his hand to the crook of my elbow. I jerk it away and think for a split-second about kicking Reid’s door. Getting him out here to threaten to kick Andrew’s ass again.

  But then I look up at him, and I don’t. I don’t want to.

  I don’t need Reid to fix this for me, and I don’t need anyone validating my right to be in this competition.

  I puff up and say, “If you touch me again, I swear on everything holy I am gonna teach you firsthand the meaning of Rocky Mountain oysters. And there’s no cows around for me to pull from.”

  He sneers. “I’m terrified.”

  “You think you’re special,” I say. And I just blow out a disbelieving breath through my nose, shake my head, and back away a pace.

  “You just watch tomorrow,” he says. “You and your little karate kid boyfriend—”

  It is stupid.

  But I am mad.

  I reach out with all of my might, which, if we’re going by muscle mass, isn’t a whole lot, and I shove him.

  I don’t actually expect anything to happen. I am David facing Goliath; like the dude is huge and then there’s tiny little lavender-haired, armed-with-naught-but-my-wits me, but he kind of teeters. He’s off balance.

  He falls. Right on his ass. Blinks up at me.

  “I am so sick of your shit. This is not a you can insult me but leave the people I care about of it situation either. Stop insulting me. I’m done. I’m done with you. And as for the people I care about, keep Reid Yamada’s name out of your fucking mouth. If you call him that shit or whatever the hell else you’ve been saying one more time, so help me.”

  He looks like a bull sitting there looking up.

  “How about you just take your bigoted ass back to your room. And you just . . . you think about what you’ve done.”

  Am I trying to put him in time-out? Is that literally the phrase I just went for?

  But here is what happens: Andrew stands up. Shoots me a dirty look. And he leaves.

  He walks straight to his room and shuts the door. I wonder if he’ll . . . if he’ll spend some time thinking about what he’s done.

  I feel about a million miles tall when I walk back to my room.

  And I sleep beautifully.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  The kitchen is buzzing with energy.

  Even Reid, unaffected, above everything Reid, is bouncing on his heels.

  We’re all waiting for the shoe to drop, because we all know. This is the day we get split up. We stand on our own merit.

  The judges walk in a few minutes late and I bet it’s on purpose. Maybe just because I’m looking for something to resent, searching for a place to direct my anxiety. But they walk slow, they sit slow, they smile slow.

  Dr. Pearce stands and says, “The final six.”

  We all look at each other, just these nervous glances that are trying to bely confidence. Trying to posture, scare someone into making a mistake. I don’t think I look particularly scary. No one really looks that scary.

  Except, weirdly, Riya.

  But it’s because she’s not trying to freak anyone out. She’s the only one of us who is just standing there, hands in her pockets, blinking straight ahead at the judges. She looks relaxed. She looks like she is as comfortable in this kitchen as she is at home. She looks like she is calculating.

  Here I am, shaking in my shoes over Riya; what a thing.

  Dr. Pearce says, in that smooth English accent, “You should all be very proud of yourselves for making it this far. You are here because we have seen talent, promise, and technical excellence, in one way or another, from each of you. Of course, each of you is guaranteed admission to the school, as is everyone who has come through the program this summer. But scholarships are reserved for the top four. The amounts, apart from that of the winner, are to be determined. At this point in the competition, all teams are to be dissolved.”

  A little exhalation from everyone even though we all knew this was coming; it was a matter of time.

  “The other change today is the matter of judging. Henceforth, there will be no elimination ceremony. After tod
ay’s round in the kitchen, you will be evaluated, leave the room while we deliberate, and return to be judged immediately. One of you will be heading home today.”

  I swallow hard. I don’t know why that’s so much worse, but the stakes feel about eight hundred times higher, and no one’s even started cooking yet, but I feel like every single oven and stovetop in this room is on.

  I’m sweating; I think I’m sweating.

  Dr. Pearce says, “You will have three and a half hours.”

  I glance over at Reid, and he looks down at me. Three and a half hours is like, astonishingly long for one of these things.

  “You will all be making the same dish.”

  Ah, shit. This is never good.

  “Beef Wellington.”

  Shiiiiiiiiiiit.

  Now even Riya looks nervous. Beef Wellington is cousin to baked Alaska on the impossible-to-master scale. If one of us had chosen it on our own, we could get points for ambition even if it wasn’t perfect, but we all have to do it. Which means each piece of meat will be directly compared to everyone else’s and shit shit shit.

  “You are welcome, and expected, to choose your own side dishes, of course, but the Wellington is non-negotiable.”

  I tap my fingers at my sides. Fine, this is fine, this is fine. I can hold my own without help. And I will.

  “Begin,” he says with no fanfare.

  Every one of us makes a rush for the meat locker, and we come back as a stampede armed with beef tenderloin. Riya is ambitious and going to make her own liver paté, because of course she is, and it looks like Reid may be going that way, too. I’m modifying the pre-made stuff because priorities. I don’t know what Will or Andrew or Addie are doing but it doesn’t matter. Looks like they’re making Duxelles, which is a simple replacement. But I don’t need to focus on anyone else. It’s about the meat and the mushroom, and I’ll be making my own puff pastry to blanket the thing, thank you very much.

  I am determined to make it to the next round.

  Especially after the whole Andrew incident last night. I can’t go down before he does.

  I think it, and then stop. No. This isn’t about Andrew. It’s not about him at all; he doesn’t get to take this from me. Doesn’t get to taint a single second of it.

  I will move to round two for me.

  Not as a screw-you to Andrew, not to Reid, for me.

  I unwrap the tenderloin and throw some water in a pot to boil, then grab for the kosher salt and pepper. I sprinkle them both all over the beef. And wait. It’s all about timing; it’s always all about timing. Andrew is already starting his beef. Because Andrew understands the science of cooking but he is impatient.

  Impatience never made an artist.

  My water starts to boil and I throw all these little dried mushrooms into it. Some of them are sautéing the mushrooms fresh, but I like using the broth this makes.

  I let my oven preheat.

  And slowly, slowly, I start to relax.

  I sear the edges of the beef in butter and fall into a rhythm. No one else is here in this kitchen. It’s just me, and these ingredients, and these pots and pans and this butter, these shallots. It’s a thousand things that have kept me company when the heat went out, when Mom and Dad were up talking too loud about how to pay rent when Dad’s hours were cut at the store. Food and I feel like old friends.

  I am not rushed mixing the paté and mushrooms, spreading it over the beef. Shingling this prosciutto and spreading the paté over it, then overlaying the beef with this beautiful masterpiece of meat. I season the whole thing a little and wrap it in plastic. Then let it rest in the fridge.

  This is the trick to a perfect beef Wellington, among other things (namely, actual cooking skill): patience.

  I wait.

  The flavors seep into the meat while I putter around, grab a few fresh cut green beans, some almonds. Olive oil, sea salt. Sometimes complexity is what you want to go for, but beef Wellington is a million different flavors married into one, and it makes sense to me to pair it with something easy. Simple. Freaking delicious.

  I won’t need to roast them for a while, but they’re ready.

  Those, a pomegranate-based reduction to spread on the plate under the Wellington, and roasted crispy green beans and man, this is going to be good.

  It’s not even approaching plated and I’m already proud. Of what’s in my head, at least.

  I’m waiting for the clock to run down a little before I take the Wellington out; I want it to rest and marinate as long as possible before I make the puff pastry, cover the meat, and pop it in the oven. And I watch.

  I watch Reid.

  He moves through the kitchen with actual grace; I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s like a ballet. He slides around the ovens and hot stoves with a skillet held up by his face, spins here and there to dodge open heat and moving bodies. Not a single burn. I would have scorched my skin eight hundred times moving at that speed.

  He’s just . . . good.

  He sets his skillet down and glances over at me. Catches me watching.

  His mouth tips up. He winks.

  I look away, smiling, and wait a few minutes before I pull out what I need for the puff pastry.

  It’s relaxing, baking, even though I kind of hate it. Because it’s methodical. Anything pastry-related falls into this category. So I can let the numbers do the work here and roll the pastry out and just turn off my brain.

  Time starts to get a little sketchy, so I pull out the beef, wrap it in the pastry, toss it in the oven. The rest goes smoothly. Andrew is running around like a wild man at the last minute, plating, but no one else is, because we had a billion hours. If you’re running at this point, honestly, what have you been doing since the challenge started?

  The timer goes off. Hands off our plates. And every single one of them look amazing. Anxiety that has been beautifully suppressed up until now flares in my chest. Seriously, every. Single. Plate. Is perfect.

  I grasp the edges of the counter as they go down the line. Riya’s is cooked so beautifully I want to cry. It’s that perfect balance between red and pink and the thing cuts like butter. The greens are perfect too, and of course so is the pastry; I swear it’s like she’s already been through a college chef program and back. Will’s is more pink, less red than Riya’s, and they question the sweetness of his side dish as a pairing, but it comes out cooked really well, and they’re overall happy. Andrew’s is too dry. As always. I grin. But they are wildly impressed with his roasted acorn squash, which is a damn work of art, the way it’s laid out like flowers, the little sauce drizzled on it; it’s gorgeous. And the meat has come out good enough. Then it’s Reid. Freaking flawless as always, with these Brussels sprouts that he’s flowered out so they look like crisp little roses. Addie, who has struggled with this meat: it’s the lightest pink of all of ours, looks a little dry. The scalloped potatoes look like something I’d sell my birthright for, but the meat. She is wringing her hands.

  And she should be, I think. Between her and Andrew, I don’t know.

  I am last. My throat closes up.

  They slice into the meat.

  And . . . it’s gorgeous. Almost as beautiful as Riya’s. A tad redder, tender, juicy, and they absolutely rave about the pairing of the meat with the pomegranate sauce. I think I’m supposed to maintain a professional expression, but I don’t.

  I can’t not let this smile just spread across my entire face.

  We are dismissed as they deliberate and the hall is quiet. No one is looking at each other, acknowledging each other, it’s too much. The whole hall is filled with pressure, and I don’t know how any of us can breathe.

  It’s only like five minutes before they call us back in but it feels like it’s been an hour.

  “Admirable effort,” says Dr. Freeman. “This was a difficult dish and we were extremely impressed with all your offerings. Unfortunately, the most important part of this challenge was the meat. After deliberating, we are sorry to have to say go
od-bye to Addie.”

  Addie bites her lip. Her eyes go pink.

  A stab of sadness needles through my chest.

  “Th-thank you,” she says. She gives us all hugs and heads out of the kitchen to pack.

  I look over at Riya; we’ll meet up with her as soon as we are dismissed.

  Dr. Freeman says, “We will see you back in this kitchen the day after tomorrow.” Then nods.

  We leave.

  I feel bad for Addie, but my heart is going a thousand miles an hour.

  And then there were five.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Everyone keeps to themselves for the next day. Tomorrow hangs in the air—electric. Like that day before a storm, when the whole sky is just waiting. Waiting. Waiting.

  Some of them, I have to imagine, are in the kitchens. I don’t know where Reid is, don’t know about Riya or Will or Andrew; apart from meals, I don’t really know where anyone is or what they’re doing. I know my room is empty.

  And I know I absolutely cannot stand being in a kitchen right now. So I stay there by myself. I read. I try to force myself to think about anything but food, anything but tomorrow, anything but one of us going home and what if it’s me what if it’s me I can’t afford this place without some kind of scholarship.

  I lie back on the bed and call Em.

  “She lives!”

  “She does. She’s going to die though.”

  There’s a little swooshing sound, and I think Em is shifting around in her pillows. Getting comfortable. I wish I was there to have her pet my head and say, well, nothing to me because honestly, Em isn’t really the comforting maternal type. But. I could count on the quiet head-petting.

  “Why are you going to die?”

  “Anxiety,” I say.

  “Tell me your woes.”

  “Tomorrow we get cut down to four. And I’ve been reading blogs; I think after that, it’s just the one night’s rest and then it’s all four of you competing and they cut TWO. TWO, EM. And then it’s the end. It’s over and this is all over. And tomorrow? Whoever goes home tomorrow gets nothing. At least if you make it past tomorrow’s round, you get something. I don’t know how much; it could just be like a scholarship for books. Which, obviously that wouldn’t work for me. But. Whatever it is, it’s something. Tomorrow and you just . . . go home. Empty-handed.”