Taste Test (13 page)

“Now put an arm around each girl,” she says.

I force myself not to look at him. I feel his hand slide along my shoulder, then down to my waist. I feel a surge of warmth rise up my neck and into my face.

Back in wardrobe, I shed my chef’s jacket in favor of a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt. I came down here tonight in slippers and I’m grateful for it now. They feel like little furry hugs as I slide my feet into them.

I hang out in the hall, waiting for Gigi, hoping that she’s again safe this week. I don’t think I could take any more bad news tonight. Every now and then, I hear a high-pitched laugh—Madame Bouchon—or Chef Mason clearing his throat, which he does every time he’s about to say something not-so-nice.

“So, do you think Ms. Svincek wears a wig?”

I jump, then turn to see Christian behind me. He is smiling. “If it’s not a wig, she must be going through a massive amount of hair spray.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” I cross my arms. “Are you lost? This is
my
side of the hallway.”

He rolls his eyes.

“You know, you could say thank you,” he says, leaning against the wall directly across from me.

“For what?!”

“Uh, for saving you from the shard of metal that apparently lodged itself in Angela’s shoulder. That could have been you, you know.”

“Whatever”—I shake my head—“you just wanted me out of ‘your’ kitchen.”

Christian shrugs. “Rules are rules.”

He pauses for a second, looking at me.

“Congratulations, by the way. For the win and all.”

“Thank you,” I say, looking down at my shoes. I’ve always been a little uncomfortable taking compliments.

“Wow. Weird.”

“What?”

“A genuine sign of appreciation without even a
hint
of sarcasm.”

I can’t help but smile a little. “It happens every now and then.”

I scuff the fluffy toe of my slipper against the tile floor. “It’s probably pointless to keep waiting here. They could be in there for hours.”

“Probably,” he agrees. His face sobers a little. “Have you heard anything else about Angela?”

I shake my head. “I wonder if she’s back yet.”

“She might be. You wanna go up and see?”

“With
you
?”

Christian runs a hand through his hair. “Well, I can walk about ten feet behind you if you want—but eventually we’ll end up in the same place.”

I blink. I’d planned on waiting for Gigi and we’d go up together.

“Why do
you
want to visit her, anyway?”

“I’m not
completely
void of emotion, Nora, regardless what you may think. Even Legacy Losers have hearts.”

I hesitate for a second, and he shoves his hands in the pockets of his hoodie. “Just forget about it. I can go by myself.”

I shake my head slowly. “No, I’ll go. I want to see her.”

We’re silent as we walk upstairs and through the second-floor corridor. A few feet from Angela’s door, we both reach out to grab the handle. As our hands touch, I feel a jolt of heat run up my arm and down into my belly. I try to ignore it.

Angela is propped up on her bed, surrounded by a half dozen pillows. Under the thick strap of her tank top, a large bandage covers her left shoulder. There’s no blood in sight and she gives us a weak smile.

“Wasn’t I talking to you two right before this happened?”

Christian grins. “If I remember correctly, you told me to stop being an idiot.”

Angela cocks her head. “And if
I
remember correctly, you were giving
this one
a pretty hard time about using that sink. Good thing for Nora, huh?”

She gestures to her arm, which makes me feel even worse. I sit down on the edge of the bed.

“Did they ever figure out what happened?” Angela asks, “with the faucet, I mean?”

“It was a washer,” Christian explains. “Something about corrosion or something.”

She nods. “Yeah. That’s what they told me, too. I gotta say, though—I’ve never heard of rusting metal turning a sink into a time bomb.”

My thinking exactly.

“Don’t worry about that right now,” I say, standing up. I pat her good shoulder. “Get some rest. I know Gigi will come by when she gets out of Elimination.”

“Wait—they’re still at E.T.?” She looks from me to Christian. “Which of you won?”

I bite my lip, trying not to smile. She lets out a little whoop. Christian ignores us both and hands Angela a prescription bottle from the nightstand.

“Take a painkiller, enjoy yourself. Milk the sympathy card for all it’s worth—I’ll send Pierce over to give you a nice back rub.”

I give him a disgusted look and Angela shakes her head.

“Thanks for the offer, but I don’t think so.”

“A sponge bath then?”

I bend down to give her a gentle hug before yanking Christian out of the room by his shirt sleeve. Once we’re through the door, I smack the back of his head.

“Hey—what the hell?” Christian yelps. “What was that for?”

“Because you’re a pig—a
sponge bath
? Really? That’s disgusting.”

He shrugs and smiles. “I think it would cheer her up.”

“Why would
that
cheer her up? Sponge baths remind me of old people.”

“Wow. Well, whatever turns you on, I guess.”

“Oh, shut up.”

I don’t know if he meant to—I don’t know if I even
wanted
him to—but Christian ends up walking me to my door. When we both realize it, there’s this weird pause. Him, shuffling his feet. Me, picking at my acrylic fingernails.

“So, anyway.” I busy myself unlocking my door. Once I hear the click, I turn back around. “Um, see you tomorrow?”

“Sure.” He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “Congratulations again.”

“Yeah, thanks.”

Ding ding.

The nearby elevator doors slide open and we step apart. I hadn’t realized how close we were standing to each other. I look up at his face and he opens his mouth to say something. Then he looks down and away.

“I’ll see you later.”

“Right. See you.”

For a second, I watch as he walks back down the hall toward his room. His body blends and fades into the crowd of people exiting the elevators and coming in from the stairwell. I duck into my room and close the door; for a second, I just stand there, breathing hard, my hand still on the doorknob.

What sticks with me—what I fall asleep thinking about and wake up remembering—is how it felt watching Christian walk away from my room. How it seemed like he’d forgotten something. How, for no clear reason, I felt sort of disappointed.

To:
 Nora Henderson
[email protected]

From:
 Billy Watkins
[email protected]

Subject:
 Where’d ya go?

It’s been a few days since u wrote—everything ok? I know ur busy and all. Things are the same around here—first episode premieres tomorrow, so ur dad’s hooking a TV up in the dining room so we can all watch. Can’t wait to see about this drama u talked about.

Billy

To:
 Benny Friedman
[email protected]

From:
 Nora Henderson
[email protected]

Subject:
 Recipe for the website

Benny,

Here’s the recipe for my dish. I’m really excited about it being on the website.

Listen, I just want to say I’m sorry again about the whole Joy thing. I was just really upset about Angela. It won’t happen again.

See you at the next challenge.

Nora

Nora Henderson’s Red Pepper Pasta

2 tablespoons butter, melted, plus 1/4 cup, divided

1 tablespoon olive oil

1 cup red bell pepper, thinly sliced

3 cloves garlic, minced, plus 1 clove garlic, crushed, divided

1/2 cup andouille sausage, diced

2 cups grilled chicken, diced

salt and pepper to taste

1 cup heavy cream

1 cup Parmesan cheese, freshly grated

6 cups cooked pasta

1/4 cup parsley, chopped, to garnish

Directions:

In a 12-inch skillet, heat 2 tablespoons butter and olive oil over medium-high heat. Add bell peppers and 3 cloves minced garlic. Sauté 3 to 5 minutes or until vegetables are soft. Add andouille and sauté 3 additional minutes, stirring occasionally. Add grilled chicken and season to taste using salt and pepper. In a saucepan, melt 1/4 cup butter over medium-low heat. Add cream and simmer for 5 minutes, then add 1 clove minced garlic and cheese and whisk quickly, heating through. When sauce is thickened, remove from heat and incorporate with 6 cups of your favorite cooked pasta. Top with chicken/sausage mixture. Sprinkle with parsley and serve.

Contestant Interview

Angela Moore

Producer (P):
     Angela, thanks for meeting with me so late. Obviously, we’re incredibly sorry for everything that happened to you tonight. How are you feeling?

Angela Moore (AM):
     Okay. [yawns] I’m in a little bit of pain, but nothing major.

P:
     Well, I know there is only so much you can say, considering that you saw very little before the sink—er—broke, as it were.

AM:
     You mean exploded?

P:
     [shifting in chair] So, tell me, what
do
you remember? Any sputtering from the faucet? Any sounds that were out of the ordinary?

AM:
     I don’t think so. Maybe. [puts hand to head] I’m sorry, I’m really tired.

P:
     Of course. Well, it was wonderful getting to know you, Angela. [hands AM an envelope]

AM:
     What’s this?

P:
     Your dismissal papers.

AM:
     [eyes wide] My what?

P:
     Obviously we’d love for you to be able to stay and compete. But your injury is going to prevent you from cooking for at least a week, maybe two, while it heals.

AM:
     No, I—[frantic] I can do it. I don’t need to be excused from classes. And I’ll compete next week—

P:
     [holding up hand] I’m afraid the decision’s already been made. [stands up]

AM:
     [tears in her eyes] I—I don’t know what to say. I didn’t do anything wrong.

P:
     Just get some rest. Don’t worry. We won’t make you pack up your stuff until tomorrow.

Chapter Eight

Keep Your Friends Close

“They WHAT????”

Angela looks down at her hands, then back up at us. Her eyes are sad, but she isn’t crying. Not anymore, anyway.

“At least I’ve got my friends back home. A life I can return to. Hopefully I can make up the work I’ve missed and still pass the semester.” She sighs and fiddles with her sling.

Gigi shakes her head, looking as furious as I feel.

“That’s total CRAP, Ang! I mean, it’s not your fault you were hurt—it was an accident!”

Or not
, I think.

“It’s okay, guys. I’ve sort of accepted it. I’ll really miss you, though.”

Watching Angela leave makes me all the more sure that Judas Joy and Prescott the Prick are responsible for what happened to her. It kills me that I don’t have a way to prove what my scheming ho-bag roommate did—and now one of the
really decent, deserving chefs has been sent home for no reason.

Unfortunately, I don’t have a spare second to think about my roommate’s extracurricular activities. I’ve been slammed this week with school work—a report on medieval grilling practices, a multimedia presentation about the difference between electric and gas stoves, not to mention the usual amount of homework and notes. I also have to finish my dessert recipe for Flavor Foundations and I still haven’t decided which direction I want to go in. I’ve come up with some cool ideas with sea salt and caramel, but I don’t know if that’s too played out. Back in my room after our evening lab, I plop down in my desk chair and stare at the blank computer screen.

What about raspberries?

Oranges?

Kiwi?

Clink.

I look up, but I don’t see anything. Probably just the heat clicking on. I start to type.

Clink. Clink.

Oh, please don’t let that be a mouse or something. Joy will have a conniption. While it would be fun to watch her jump up on a chair like a lunatic, I’ll be the one that has to deal with the little vermin.

Clink. Clink-clink.

This time I see the pebbles hit the window pane before they land on the sill. I slide open the screen and look down.

“How’s it going?” Christian asks, peering up at me. He’s wearing a heavy hooded sweatshirt and has a football tucked under one arm.

“Um, I’m not sure if you realize this, but
you live in this building
.”

“You busy?”

“If you’re asking if I want to throw the football, you’ve lost your mind.”

“Of course not,” he scoffs. “Everyone knows girls can’t play football.”

He ducks as I throw one of his pebbles back at him.

“Come on, I want to show you something.”

I glance at the clock. “It’s getting late.”

“What, scared of breaking the rules?”

I’m not scared of anything. “Okay, okay. I’ll be down in a sec.”

A few minutes later, I find him perched on a shoulder-high brick border along one side of the building.

“Please tell me we’re going somewhere indoors,” I say, shivering.

“Of course.”

He jumps down next to me. His cheeks are pink from the cold, which makes his eyes even bluer.

“So, where are we going?”

“Follow me, Your Highness. We wouldn’t want to keep Your Ladyship cold.”