“Hey,” she says, drawing the word out. “I’m Lola from Vegas.”
She walks straight toward me with her arms open. Does she expect me to hug to her? Because I am not a hugger. With the camera’s all-seeing lens on us, I awkwardly accept the embrace, patting her on the back while still trying to keep some distance between us.
Personal space may be an issue with her.
She seems unfazed as she moves on to Malik, who opens his arms and matches her enthusiasm.
“Check this place out,” she says as she steps back. “It’s amazing.” Her gaze lands on the pantry and stops. “I think I might die right here and now.” She turns to us, her eyes wider than humanly possible as the camera moves in, loving every minute of her performance.
“I’m pretty sure the health department would consider dying on set a health code violation,” I say, laughing.
Like Malik, Lola is animated and friendly, and as I listen to her and Malik chat with each other, I can’t help but like her. I also can’t help but be a little intimidated. I come from a town where reputations are passed down from one generation to the next. When your dad is the town crook, you get used to trying to blend in. How am I going to have any chance of catching the attention of the judges if everyone on the show is as charismatic as these two? I glance back at the door just as it begins to swing open again.
“Hey, guys,” I say, nodding toward the movement.
The new arrival saunters in with gelled-up black hair and a leather jacket. His eyes are bluebird blue and his jawline looks as sharp as a kitchen knife. If not for the slight scar on his forehead, directly between his eyebrows, he would look perfect.
“A boy,” Lola whispers to me, grabbing my arm and giving it a series of squeezes. “A cute boy.”
She is so close I can smell her, and it’s like powdered sugar and lemons. Great, the only other girl here so far is basically sunshine on legs.
“I see him,” I say as I try to gently reclaim my arm.
After a quick glance at my three castmates, I can’t help but wonder where Food TV found all these people. Is there a talent agency nearby that specializes in super cool teen chefs?
“What’s up? I’m Paulie from Jersey City.”
Lola is the first to speak up. “Hi, Paulie. I’m Lola from Vegas, and this is Malik from Alabama and Peyton from somewhere in Florida.”
“The panhandle,” I say quickly. “So inland, but not too far from the ocean.” It’s more for the camera than the new arrival because if I’m going to fight my inner wallflower, I have to start sometime, right?
Paulie nods. “Cool.”
With the introductions complete, Lola slides right over to Paulie and links her arm with his. She really is one of those touchy-feely people.
“Vegas, huh?” Paulie says, giving her arm a playful nudge. “My uncles go there twice a year.”
“You should go with them next time and I’ll give you the tour.”
“I’m not really the gambling type,” he says.
“And yet you’re here gambling for a future like the rest of us,” I say.
“Nah,” he says, his grin never faltering. “I’m the odds-on favorite.”
“You think so, huh?” Lola says.
She unlinks her arm from Paulie’s and comes to stand next to me in feminine solidarity. “Well, I think Peyton and I might have something to say about that.”
“Good,” Paulie says. “I like cute girls who can cook.”
I roll my eyes and pretend to answer a vintage rotary phone. “Hello?” I pause before covering the imaginary mouthpiece. “The 1950s are calling. It’s for you.”
I expect him to throw some shade, but to my surprise he laughs, and his bravado melts into something more relaxed. “Nice. I thought you were the girl-next-door type, but I might have been wrong.”
I almost laugh. No one has ever thought of me as “the girl next door.” Most of the time they whisper to each other and then laugh. Malik and Lola continue chatting with Paulie as I slip to the edge of the conversation circle. Watching them, I look for what the casting people must have seen. Paulie is the player of the group, and while Lola may look like a character from a fantasy novel, she doesn’t strike me as someone who is afraid of going after what she wants. Malik is a little harder to figure out, but if I had to make a bet, I’d say he’s never met a stranger. He has charisma in spades.
“If you had one showstopper dish, what would it be?” Paulie asks Malik.
The question snaps me back to the present.
“Oh, we don’t know each other well enough for me to share all my secrets,” Malik says, raising his chin just enough to look down on Paulie. “But let’s just say that if barbeque is involved, you’re going down.” Malik pauses just a second before relaxing into a grin and then slapping Paulie on the back.
For his part, Paulie looks like he’s not sure which side of Malik is the real one. I think they both are—and I would like to stay on the nice side. Paulie holds out his hand for a low five and Malik slaps it, grinning.
“Got to respect the sauces,” Paulie says. “I’ve lived in Jersey my entire life, and I thought I knew what barbeque was, but a couple of years ago my family went to Texas, and man oh man.”
“And what did you learn?” Malik asks.
“Turns out, I did not.”
“And you think you know what it’s all about after one trip to Texas?”
“Nope. So I’m more than willing to try whatever you want to share.”
Listening to the two of them is like being a spectator at a tennis match. “So,” I interrupt, “if Malik is the barbeque king, and I’m the baker—” I throw that in, realizing that I haven’t yet established my domain in this competition “—what does that make you?”
Paulie gives me a stunned look. “Are you serious?”
“Um, yeah?”
He chuckles and gives me a little shake of his head. “I’m Italian and from New Jersey—I’m literally a walking stereotype.”
“Aren’t we all?” Malik asks with a knowing grin, before a disembodied voice quietly tells us to limit our conversation to basic biographical facts, food, and the kitchen, and all four of us instantly look like we’ve just been caught cheating on a test.
“Well, I should warn you all,” Paulie says after clearing his throat, “if there is any challenge where we are using pasta, I’m going to wipe the floor with you.”
“Don’t be so sure,” Lola says, rising to his challenge. “My abuela might have taught me everything I know about Cuban cooking, but I’ve got a style that’s all my own.”
The confidence in this room is enough to suffocate me. I hope the mics are picking up everything, because these taglines are priceless. I feel like I should say something about cupcakes and icing, but I have nothing.
“What? Are you some kind of plating junkie?” Paulie says, waggling his eyebrows playfully.
I glance between the two of them. “Was that supposed to be some kind of kitchen insult? If it was, it was weak.”
Lola grins at me and gives a little nod of appreciation. “Presentation is part of the game. Right, Peyton?”
“Part of it,” I agree
Her brows furrow at me. “Are you telling me that as ‘the baker,’ you don’t think presentation is important? No one wants a wedding cake that’s slapped together, do they?”
“Well, no, but if it looks good and tastes horrible, no one’s going to ask you to bake anything for them again.”
Lola looks at me like I’ve broken our silent bond of sisterhood.
“It’s a fair point,” Paulie says. “This is a cooking show, right? So no matter how pretty it looks, if the food on the plate tastes gross, then you’ll be back in Sin City before you know it.”
If I were to say something like that, I’d probably get a death stare in return. But somehow Paulie makes it sound playful and not at all like a betrayal.
Lola gives him a smile and flips her hair over her shoulder. “Oh, I’m not g
oing anywhere.”
Any reply Paulie might want to say is cut off when the doors swing open again and in walks a guy with bleached blond hair and tattoos on one arm.
“The bad boy,” Lola says to me out of the corner of her mouth. “Things just got interesting.”
I turn to agree that he looks like he should be shredding onstage at a punk rock concert after a long day of surfing, not sweating it out in a culinary competition, when I realize that she is already off, giving the new guy a big hug and taking charge. She does know this isn’t a dating show, right?
After a brief exchange, Lola drags the new arrival over to us. “Okay, everyone, this is Adam, and he’s from California.”
“What part?” I ask, trying to sound open and friendly.
“Oceanside. It’s between LA and San Diego.”
“We were just talking about our specialties, so what do you cook?” Paulie asks, throwing a lifeline to Adam, who looks like he’s drowning under Lola’s gaze. “I’m Paulie, the Italian guy,” he adds and then rattles off everyone else’s names and what we like to cook, or in my case, bake.
“I guess that makes me the locally sourced vegetarian?” he answers, and I can read the silent “thank you” in his eyes when he looks at Paulie.
Of course he is, I think as panic starts to bubble in my chest. A bad boy with an environmental streak. Casting nailed it again. I glance quickly at the door and hope that the next person to come through isn’t another picture-perfect competitor, because otherwise I’m not going to stand a chance.
“Are you vegetarian or vegan?” I ask.
“I’m vegan, but in order to become a more well-rounded chef, I’ll use dairy and eggs if I need to. I prefer to stick with plant-based foods, though.”
“Huh,” Malik says. “Aren’t you worried that it could make this competition more challenging for you?”
Adam shrugs. “Maybe, but I like to think I’m pretty versatile. I’m the only vegan in my family, so it was either learn to cook or grow up eating raw vegetables for dinner every night. Wait until you see what I can do with a spaghetti squash.”
The conversation turns to Adam’s preference for meat substitutes, and when Paulie starts asking Adam about how he would make the perfect meatless meatball, I mentally start taking notes. Everyone is so caught up in the discussion that we don’t realize another competitor has entered the room until he is standing next to me.
“Aloha,” he says, giving a quick wave of his hand. “I’m Hakulani.”
“Oh, hi. We didn’t see you come in,” I say quickly.
“Yeah. You guys were having a pretty intense conversation.”
“Well, we should introduce ourselves,” Lola says.
Paulie points toward her. “This is Lola. She’s going to be the entertainment director for our duration. I’m Paulie,” he adds, holding out his hand for Hakulani to shake.
Hakulani accepts it enthusiastically and the introductions begin again. When he turns his back to me to talk to Adam, I make eye contact with Lola, who nods in Hakulani’s direction and mocks fainting. She’s not wrong. He is definitely swoon-worthy.
For the first time since our arrival, the conversation drifts away from cooking as Hakulani and Adam compare West Coast surfing with the waves in Hawaii. They both have very strong opinions on where to catch the best waves.
As they agree to disagree, Hakulani turns around and asks where I’m from.
I somehow manage to say, “I’m from Florida.”
“Oh, cool. Do you surf?”
What would you do if a ridiculously handsome guy was standing in front of you, asking if you surf?
“Um, sometimes.” Yeah, you lie. By sometimes, I mean I have been out on the water, on a board, and have caught exactly one wave that ended with me wiping out hard. And for my effort, I ended up with a nasty case of coral rash. “But it sounds like you surf a lot.”
“Yeah,” he says, “but most of my friends are better than me.”
“Same,” I agree, and that is not a lie. “But the beach is kind of far away; and between work and school, it’s hard to get out there.”
“Have you ever used a longboard?” His eyes light up with excitement, and I feel my stomach do a little flip. “I’m still learning how to control the beast. My buddies think I’m ridiculous, but I saw this picture of my grandfather when he was my age and—” He stops suddenly.
“What?”
“Never mind. It’s stupid.”
“No, seriously. What were you going to say?”
He hesitates, then continues. “It’s just that, when I’m out in the ocean, sitting on the board, waiting for a set, I feel closer to him—like he’s still around.” Hakulani pauses before adding, “He died a few years ago.”
My heart jolts. “I know what you mean,” I say quietly, aware each word is being picked up by my mic. “My Grams was the one who taught me to bake. When I miss her, I head to the kitchen and pull out her recipes. It’s not the same, but it helps.”
“Yeah,” he says, but there is a sadness that is settling between us as we both think about the person we’ve lost.
Before I can think of anything to say to break the silence, Hakulani turns with everyone else toward the doors to watch the latest contestant enter. I spin around and swallow a groan. By the way she stops and poses for the camera, I’m pretty sure this is the bringer of drama from Malik’s prophecy.
CHAPTER
THREE
UNLIKE THE REST OF US WHO ENTERED THROUGH those swinging doors with varying degrees of nerves, or in my case, slightly overwhelmed with a bruised lip, this well-dressed blonde is standing in front of the doors like she has all the time in the world. She is not even trying to hide the fact that she’s sizing all of us up as if she is our judge and jury in determining who among us is worthy of her attention—and the cameras are eating it up. I recognize the look she gives me as she scans the room. It’s the same one I got from the girls at school: dismissive and unimpressed. As far as she is concerned, I am irrelevant. We both know we’re not playing in the same league, and in a way, it’s comforting. I’m used to people underestimating me—and I’m more than willing to use that to my advantage.
Her gaze darts back and forth between Lola and Hakulani, and with her marks found, she saunters over to them, a practiced smile perfectly in place. I’m not sure how they’re going to edit this for broadcast, but I’m envisioning some dramatic telenovela cuts that would be perfect. The newcomer stops next to Lola, who beams at her. And in that instant, the queen has chosen her princess.
“Hi,” Lola says, continuing the tradition of starting the introductions. But this time, her words tumble out of her mouth, and the pitch of her voice is a little higher than before. I’m surprised at how quickly the cool Vegas girl falls under the spell of this glamorous influencer.
“Hey,” the blonde bombshell says. Her voice is as cool as her outfit, which probably costs more than my aunt’s lot rent. For the year. “I’m Dani.”
“We were just talking about what everyone likes to cook, like vegetarian or baking… oh, and where we’re from,” Lola says, finally stopping to take a breath. “Where are you from?”
I look back at the new arrival, trying to figure out what has turned Lola into a bundle of bumbling energy.
“Bet she’s from Manhattan,” Paulie whispers as he maneuvers in to stand close to me. For a second, I’m acutely aware of the warmth of his body, but then again, it could just be the lights.
“How can you tell?” I ask, still looking at Dani. There’s an air about her that screams posh, but beyond that, I don’t see anything more special about her than the rest of us.
He nods in her direction. “The walk, the attitude, the clothes. I don’t even think that skirt has made it to the boutiques yet. She’s got connections.”
“Wow, you’re an expert on pasta and women’s fashion? So impressive.”
“Hey, I have seven sisters. Six older and one younger. One works in the Garment District
as an assistant to a fashion photographer, and another has been making her own clothes since she was like ten. They talk a lot of fashion over Sunday dinner.”
“Seven sisters?” I ask, my eyes wide. “It’s amazing that you even learned to talk.”
“Very funny,” he says, nudging me with his elbow. “It just meant that there was a lot of time for listening.”
“SoHo,” Dani says, answering Lola’s question.
I’m stunned at how one word can seem so flat and bored. I mean, how can Dani not find all this even just a little bit exciting?
“Ha,” I whisper back to Paulie. “You were wrong. She’s not from Manhattan.”
He just grins.
“What?” I ask.
“SoHo,” he says, the smile growing even wider, “means south of Houston Street. In Manhattan.”
Dani is answering Lola’s questions about the best places to eat in the city, and all the other contestants are hanging on her every word. “Oh,” I say, trying not to look at Paulie. “This is my first trip to New York. Everything I know about the city either comes from history class or the Hamilton soundtrack.”
He chuckles. “You know when they sing, ‘They’re battering down the Battery’?”
I nod.
“That’s the south end of Manhattan. SoHo is north of that, on Broadway.”
“And you’re into theater?”
“It’s Hamilton,” he says as though that explains everything. Which it kinda does. “If I were you, Peyton, I’d keep an eye on her. She’s basically NYC culinary royalty.”
“You know who she is?”
“Yeah, and if she’s here, there’s a pretty good chance the whole competition is rigged in her favor.”
“So, who is she?” I say, looking back at Dani just as she flips her hair over her shoulder and lays a possessive hand on Hakulani.
He looks down at me. “You’re joking, right? You really don’t know who she is?”
I shake my head.
“That’s Daniela Moretti,” he says, staring at me and waiting for a light-bulb moment to happen.
It doesn’t.
“Moretti?” he repeats. “As in the daughter of Chef Moretti, world-renowned chef to the stars? Owner of the Moretti’s empire? You can buy his pasta sauce at the grocery store.”
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