I glance back at Dani. “No way.”
“Believe me or don’t. It doesn’t change the facts. That girl was born with a wooden spoon in her hand.”
“Why would someone like her be on the show?” I ask, watching her as she gracefully laughs at a joke or something Hakulani said.
“Good question. Her godfather is Jimmy ‘Hot Sauce’ Hooper.”
“The burger guy?”
“That’s the one.”
My stomach clenches. How am I supposed to compete with someone who was probably perfecting her béarnaise sauce while I was trying not to overcook the mac and cheese? “But that still doesn’t answer my question: Why is she here?”
Paulie shrugs. “She doesn’t need money for culinary school. I’m pretty sure her dad can afford the tuition. Unless…”
“What?”
“Maybe he was the victim of a Ponzi scheme and lost his entire fortune.”
“Be serious,” I say.
“It’s an explanation.”
“Not a very good one.”
“True, but there’s another explanation.”
“What?
“She’s a ringer.”
I turn to watch as Dani begins talking to Malik and Adam.
“They wouldn’t do that, would they? Not with someone with a pedigree like hers. It would be too obvious.” I glance over at Paulie. “Wouldn’t it?”
I don’t have long to dwell on this because the doors swing open, revealing the last member of our cast.
Even from this distance, I can see this girl possesses the same level of style that Dani has, but instead of the flashy designer outfit, she’s wearing a magenta and dusty rose sari. The cuffs have a delicate design embroidered in gold thread, and the fabric drapes neatly over her left arm. Her makeup and hair are perfectly done. As stunning as she looks, the first thing that I think, once some of my awe has worn off, is: How the heck is she going to cook dressed in such a beautiful outfit? I imagine what I would look like if I had to bake in the nicest outfit I owned—and shudder.
As she walks up, smiling at the small group closest to the door, I am acutely aware that if we were in a segment about which of these eight people doesn’t belong, the obvious answer is me. I feel so plain and unremarkable standing next to everyone that I’m even more shocked when she stops in front of me first and says gently, “Hi, I’m Inaaya.”
Even her name is elegant. “Peyton,” I say before everyone else moves in to introduce themselves.
A few minutes later, a disembodied voice yells, “Cut.”
Then, from the shadows, the entire crew emerges to reset the stage for whatever comes next. The disembodied voice begins barking orders for us to line up, and the PAs race around, moving everyone to different-colored marks on the floor.
“This is your assigned color,” a crew member says, grabbing my arms and moving me less than a foot to a turquoise X on the floor.
“Look at the color of the mark you are standing on,” the disembodied voice commands. “If we are lined up for filming and you are standing anywhere other than on your mark, you are wrong.”
Paulie takes his place next to me and nudges my arm. “You ready for this?”
“Sure,” I say. I am absolutely lying.
“Quiet on the set,” the disembodied voice says. “Action.”
CHAPTER
FOUR
“HEY, EVERYONE,” A CHEERFUL VOICE SAYS FROM behind us. Surprised, we all turn to see Jessica Evans sweeping into the room.
“Are you kidding?” I whisper, barely containing my excitement.
I love Jessica Evans. Two years ago, she was a stay-at-home mom who made and sold cakes from her kitchen to help her family make ends meet. Now, she’s the network’s newest rising star all because she won a cooking competition just like this. She is funny and sweet and all the other gushy words someone can say about another person. I turn to Paulie. “I can’t believe Jessica Evans is going to be the host.”
“I can tell,” he says, laughing at my fan girl moment.
Jessica waits as the cameras catch our reactions and get some footage of her beaming at us before she continues, “I’m Jessica Evans.”
Everyone breaks out in applause. It’s very possible that I start it and everyone else is instinctively joining in.
“Welcome to Top Teen Chef. You are some of the best cooks in your generation. And this competition is going to give you a chance to show the judges—and America—your talent and passion for food for the opportunity to win a culinary scholarship to the American Culinary Institute.”
We all cheer and clap. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I’m acutely aware that our excitement is genuine. No matter how chill anyone had been when we first got here, it’s not lost on us now that the competition has begun.
Jessica waits for us to settle down before adding, “Are you guys ready to meet the judges?”
“Yeah!” we say in unison.
“Then meet restaurateur A. J. Yang and Food TV’s favorite cooking couple, Angelica Meyers and Billy Caine.”
Again, we all go wild as the judges walk in, waving to us and the cameras before taking their seats at the judges’ table. I try not to look directly into the cameras, which I’m starting to realize is basically impossible. I mean, they are right there, in front of us, panning our faces to get up-close reactions. We stop cheering after a few seconds, but then the disembodied voice tells us to keep going. Apparently, they didn’t get enough excitement footage from all of us. We all try to make our smiles and applause appear genuine, but there is an air of awkwardness now. I hope this isn’t something we’ll have to do often.
They must have gotten what they wanted because, as if by some unspoken cue, Jessica straightens, turns a little more to face us, and continues on like nothing happened. “You’ve all got talent; you wouldn’t be here if you didn’t. But now it’s time to see which of you has the fire to go for what you want and whose dreams will be put on ice.”
“What is she talking about?” I whisper to Paulie, but he is looking at Jessica with an unreadable face. I turn to Lola, who just shrugs.
“Today is your first challenge,” Jessica says.
This time the reactions the cameras pick up are a combination of disbelief, confusion, and, in my case, petrification.
“But don’t worry,” Jessica says quickly. “No one is going home.”
Relief ripples down the line, and a few of us break out into uneasy smiles, the unspoken yet hanging in the air around us.
“She could have led with that,” I grumble, forgetting about my mic.
“First, we’re going to hand out your official chef attire, and you’ll find that your jackets match your kitchen station.” She pauses, eyeing each of us. “Want to find out where you’ll be cooking while you’re here?”
I nod my head and clasp my hands together. I feel like I’m in a dream, but this is all real—the competition, the opportunity, everything. It’s not happening to someone on a screen but to me, right now. I take a deep breath and try to listen to Jessica, but my brain isn’t cooperating. A couple months ago I was nothing but the daughter of the town criminal, with no chance of going to community college—much less the best culinary school in the country. I’d spent my whole life believing that things like this happened to other people—not to me. But here I am.
Jessica turns to A. J., Billy, and Angelica, who have moved next to a table with a kaleidoscope of colored chef’s jackets. “Would you do the honors?” she asks them.
The set lights are already hot, but in this moment, it is like someone has cranked up the heat even more, and I feel my heart skip a beat. I discreetly reach for Paulie’s arm to steady myself, just in case, and other than a slight shift as he leans a fraction closer, he doesn’t draw attention to us.
“You okay?” he whispers through his wide smile.
“Yeah,” I whisper back.
I’m so caught up in the moment and in my own thoughts that I don’t see A. J. pick up the tur
quoise jacket and whip it open. I also don’t hear him call my name.
Thankfully, Paulie nudges me slightly with the arm I’m holding on to and I quickly jump out of line. I hear a giggle from somewhere to my left and try to laugh it off with a quick smile over my shoulder. As I approach the steps leading up to the judges, I remind myself to breathe and not trip up the stairs.
“Thank you,” I say, sure that my voice is shaking. I reach out and take the jacket, the fabric much softer than I expect. Then, not sure what to do next, I stand there, waiting.
“Peyton,” Angelica says, gesturing toward the rows of work kitchens. “Take your place at the station that matches your uniform.”
I smile and walk as steady as I can to my kitchen, which is in the far-right corner of the back row. Everything in it is the same color as my jacket, from the towels to the utensils. Even the oven is turquoise. I’m sure I’m supposed to stand and watch everyone else get their jackets, but I can’t help running my hand over the cool metal of the mixer. The one I have at home is held together by electrical tape and prayers, but this one is top of the line and I bet it even has all the fancy attachments.
“Hey, neighbor,” a voice whispers to me, and I snap my head up to find Paulie buttoning his own jacket, which is the shade of a ripe pomegranate. He takes his spot in the corresponding kitchen, located in the same row as me.
“Hey,” I whisper back as I watch Dani get her salmon-colored jacket from Angelica. She basically skips to her station, which is in the front row, right in front of the judges’ table. I take a moment to be grateful at how lucky I am to not be under the constant eye of the judges. Then I sneak a peek in the drawer labeled “mixer.” Sure enough, every attachment you can imagine is neatly organized. I’m wondering how long it will take me to utterly destroy this system when the drawer slips from my hand and springs shut with a thunk loud enough for the entire room to hear.
All heads turn in my direction.
“Sorry,” I say sheepishly.
The procession of handing out the jackets continues, and the yellow jacket, which matches the station directly in front of me, is in Angelica’s hands. “Hakulani Iosua, please come forward.”
With his back to me, I can’t see his face as he accepts it, but, when he turns around, and grins in my direction, I wonder if someone in the editing crew is going to insert a little light flash and ping sound effect every time he shows his perfectly straight smile.
As Hakulani walks toward his station, I catch a glimpse of Dani’s face.
Paulie must see it as well because he moves closer and whispers, “What’s her deal? She’s got a primo spot and she looks disappointed.”
“Don’t know,” I say with a shrug.
“It’s probably because you’re surrounded by the two most awesome guys in the competition,” he says, flexing his arm.
“You think that’s it?” I ask, laughing into my hand.
As Hakulani steps into his kitchen, he turns, and he and Paulie high-five over my counter.
After another minute or so, the final jacket is given out, and the judges take their places at the table.
“Cut,” the disembodied voice calls out. “Get ready for the first challenge.”
The studio erupts with noise and motion as everyone scurries around to get the set ready for our first challenge.
Malik, whose station is next to Hakulani’s and in front of Paulie’s, walks around to the center of our stations. “How’s it going, Florida? Nice color.”
“You too,” I say, admiring the dark pumpkin color of his jacket.
Paulie and Hakulani move in closer, too.
“I can’t believe they’re making us do a challenge on our first day,” Hakulani says.
Paulie raises a brow at him. “What did you think we were going to do? This is television. Every day we’re here costs them more money.”
“That’s probably why they are cramming an entire season into three weeks,” I add.
Before anyone can say anything else, the disembodied voice directs us to follow the PA, who is waving his hands in the air, trying to catch our attention. As the whole cast gathers around, I hear him say, “Wardrobe has a selection of pants and shirts that you’ll be wearing today, which are over there on the rack with your names pinned to them. Get your pants and a shirt, and then you can follow me so you can change.”
Inaaya looks relieved. “I was hoping I wouldn’t have to cook in this,” she says, lifting her skirt up slightly. “I don’t know why they had me wear this in the first place.”
“Probably to highlight your Indian heritage,” Dani says as she sorts through a pile of pants, looking for hers. We all fall silent as she pulls out a pair of soft gray leggings before looking at all of us. “What?”
“You know, there is more to me and my cooking than where my family comes from,” Inaaya says, looking a little annoyed.
Dani laughs. “Right, and I’m sure Paulie is more than slicked-back hair and leather jackets.”
“Wow,” Paulie says, grabbing a pair of black jeans.
“Oh please,” Dani says as she accepts the shirt that’s handed to her. “This is television. We may not have a script, but don’t forget that we’re all still characters.” Then she saunters off the set without another word.
“She’s not wrong,” mutters the wardrobe person as they hand me a shirt. “We’ve got entire sets of clothes for you at your apartment, and everyone has a particular style and look.”
“Five minutes,” the disembodied voice calls over the speaker. “Set the stations.”
I wish I could ask them more about the look they chose for me, but I don’t have the time, so I race in the direction the PA sends me and find the nearest bathroom. Dani is already in one stall, and Inaaya and Lola are right behind me, the doors clanging shut as they step into their own stalls. In three minutes, I return to the set, my original outfit folded in my arms and pressed gently against my chest.
“What do I do with these?” I ask the woman in wardrobe.
She reaches for them. “I’ll take them. You’ll get them back later tonight.”
“Thanks.”
“Of course.”
“One minute,” the disembodied voice calls.
“Peyton,” Jessica calls, motioning me to the front where she is gathering the rest of my competition. “We’re going to line up here to get started. Do you remember where your mark is?”
I scan the ground and find my turquoise X between Hakulani and Malik. Thank goodness I’m going to be with people I’m comfortable with.
Inaaya is the last to return from changing, and the wardrobe assistant meets her at the door, draping her outfit gently over an arm before heading somewhere into the bowels of the studio with the rest of our clothes in tow.
Before the cameras start rolling again, Jessica turns to us and takes a deep breath. “How are you all doing?”
A few people say they’re doing fine, but most of us just stand there. “Overwhelmed?” she suggests.
“Is there something that’s more than overwhelmed?” I ask.
“Like super overwhelmed?” Paulie suggests.
“At least,” I say, tilting my body slightly so I can make eye contact with him farther down the line.
“It’s day one,” Jessica says. “Completely normal. You’ll get used to it.”
“If we last that long,” Lola says.
I think that’s the first time she has been anything less than confident.
“Quiet on the set,” the disembodied voice calls.
Everyone straightens up as the judges return to their seats.
Once we’re ready, Jessica begins her introduction. “Today, the judges are going to get a little taste of who you are. And your introduction will be in the form of a meal that tells us who you are, not just as a chef or baker, but as a person.” She pauses before adding, “Just to make sure you heard me, I said meal. And by meal, I mean make an appetizer, entrée with a side, and, of course, dessert.”
My mind starts racing. Three courses, made from scratch, with no prep time to plan. I’ve watched every episode of every cooking show on the network, and this is the part I never understood. How do they come up with their ideas on the fly? Just thinking about it makes my stomach flip-flop. I look straight into the camera and I swear the red light is mocking me.
Jessica turns toward the judges. “Any words of wisdom for our young chefs?”
Angelica smiles at us. “You’ll be judged on how your dishes taste as well as presentation. Use your food to introduce yourself to us and the world. Today, the pantry will be open for the entire round.”
“And don’t be afraid to ask Jessica for help or advice,” Billy adds. “She’s been where you are. She’s probably the best tool you have access to.”
“Aw, thanks, Billy,” Jessica says before looking at A. J. “Anything to add?”
“Yeah. It’s simple: have fun. Yes, this is a competition and, yes, the stakes are pretty high, but don’t hold back. What’s the worst that could happen?”
“Food poisoning,” I mutter.
A split second later, I hear stifled laughter from the dark part of the studio. Damn, the mic.
“I’m sure you’re all ready to get cooking,” Jessica says and we all cheer in agreement.
I glance at Paulie, who is staring at the judges’ table and rubbing his hands together in anticipation.
“ACI, here I come,” Hakulani says.
Jessica raises her hands to get our attention. “All right chefs, you have three hours to come up with your menu and prepare it.” She stands there, waiting as the cameras circle around us, capturing our hand-wringing and nervous bouncing on the balls of our feet. “There’s only one thing left to do.”
Another dramatic pause.
“Let’s get cookin’!”
CHAPTER
FIVE
THE ROOM ERUPTS IN CHAOTIC MOTION. EVERYONE rushes the pantry, trying to get whatever essential ingredient they’ll need before someone else gets it first. Everyone else looks so sure of what they’re going to make, while I feel like a squirrel drunk off rotten crab apples. I reach blindly for spices and rice and vegetables.
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