About a quarter to nine, a bunch of guys in black T-shirts and pants rolled Brynn’s enormous bed out of the building into the plaza.
The crowd went crazy, yelling and screaming and shaking signs even though there wasn’t a camera in sight.
“We should go,” I said to Mom.
“Too bad Brynn and her cameras aren’t here yet,” Josh said.
“I think being late would be bad.” I handed him my sign.
“Break a leg,” Jim said. “Does that work for a cooking show? Or is that just for regular shows?”
“You want him to waste time with stupid questions or you want him to go win some cash?” Winnie pulled me in close. “Good luck, Slick.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“Don’t forget,” Jeanine said.
“I know. I know. Believe and achieve.”
• • •
Mom and I signed in with lobby security, then headed for the elevators.
As we zoomed up, Mom studied herself in the mirrored doors.
“Oh, boy.” She combed her fingers through her hair, then squinted and pointed at the me in the doors. “Is that toothpaste?” She licked a finger and came at the real me with it.
I held up a hand to block her. “Hey, we talked about this. Saliva is not a cleaning product.”
Using the doors as a mirror, I rubbed the mint green stain off my chin with the back of my hand.
“Sorry. I think I’m just a little nervous about seeing JJ after so long,” she admitted to the us in the doors.
That’s when I realized something, something I should have realized the moment I’d heard I’d gotten on the show: everyone was going to find out that Mom and Chef JJ worked together, and after that, it wouldn’t matter how good my skills were, they’d never believe I deserved to be there. They’d think that I was chosen because Chef JJ was friends with my mom.
The elevator pinged to a stop. No time to think about this now, not that I could do anything about it anyway. The doors slid open.
“Here we go.” I stepped off the elevator.
“Tristan?” A woman with hair dyed the color of a pearl was walking toward us across a hall of elevators. She wore a headset attached to a walkie-talkie and was holding a clipboard.
“Hi. It’s Tris, actually.”
“Oh, Tris, right,” she said super slowly, like she couldn’t care less and wanted me to know it. “I’m Randy. You’ll see a lot of me because I’m the assistant producer responsible for all you contestants. I’m really looking forward to getting to know all of you.” This last part sounded like she was reading off her clipboard. “This is the schedule.” She handed me a sheet of paper. “Of course, it will depend on what happens in the competition.”
She might as well have said, “Like if you choke, you don’t need this at all.”
“So here’s the plan. First, we’ll take you through to hair and makeup—”
“Makeup?”
“We’re not talking beauty pageant makeup. They just make sure you won’t look washed out on camera from all the lights.”
Randy kept talking as she led us through a maze of hallways into a room full of mirrors and people standing around staring at their phones.
“Where are the other kids?” I asked.
“They’re done.”
“Already?” I looked at my phone. Just one minute after nine.
“Yeah, most of them got here around eight. I guess they were just super excited.”
Was this Randy’s way of saying that I must not be super excited because I came at the time they told me to?
“Oh, I’ll take that.” Randy snatched my phone out of my hand. “You can get it back after taping each day.”
“Terrence!”
A tall, thin guy with a headset stretched over a mountain of dreadlocks ran over.
“This is Terrence.” Randy handed him my phone. “He’s our PA in charge of the contestants.”
“PA?” I said.
“Production assistant,” Terrence explained. “Welcome to the show.”
“Thanks.”
Next thing I knew, Terrence whisked me into a chair in front of a mirror so bright, it was like staring into the sun.
For the next half hour, I was poked, sprayed, creamed, and powdered. A lady wearing hairbrushes on a tool belt even cut my hair. She claimed she had to because you couldn’t see my face, but since she basically gave me a whole new haircut, I wasn’t buying it.
Then, as if that wasn’t enough, they made me lift up my T-shirt so they could stick a tiny microphone to my bare chest.
When I was finally allowed to stand up, some guy came over to examine all my clothing for logos, you know, like the Nike swoosh. He tried to explain why. I didn’t get everything, but the bottom line is, it’s against the law to show logos on TV unless the company that owns the logo says it’s okay.
Once logo guy cleared me, Randy explained that I’d be going to the greenroom and Mom would be headed to the parents’ lounge where she could watch the filming on a live feed.
“What’s the greenroom?” I asked, trying to keep up with Randy as she speed-walked down another long hallway.
“Where you’ll be before the segments. It’s like a hangout room.”
When we got to the door of the parents’ lounge, Mom took my chin in her hand and looked right into my eyes. “You got this. You’re going to be great.” There was something about the way she said it that made me feel like she was trying to cast a spell, like by saying it she could make it come true.
“See you after,” I said, and hurried to catch up with Randy who was already on the move.
• • •
“And this is you…” Randy opened a heavy metal door marked GREENROOM. “Everyone, meet Tris.”
Everyone, three girls and two boys, looked up from different spots in the room.
“We still have a while before we go to set. So just relax. Have something to eat.” She waved her clipboard in the direction of a table piled high with food. “I’ll see you in a bit.” Then she sped off.
For a second, I just stood there, trying to figure out where to park myself. Maybe behind one of the many potted trees scattered around the room. I was under orders from Jeanine not to talk to the competition any more than necessary.
I wasn’t there to make friends. I was there to win. No chatting with the enemy. Jeanine had given strict instructions. I was supposed to tune everyone out.
I hate the competition. I love to compete…
A girl on one of the couches raised a plastic knife covered with cream cheese and pointed it at me. “Hey, I remember you. Doughnuts, right?”
The trash-talker. Of course she’d made it. “Uh, yeah.”
She whistled. “Those must have been some doughnuts.”
They were. Even if Chef JJ never bothered to find out.
“You got on with doughnuts?” said a boy circling the food table. He looked about my age and was all in black, right down to his skinny jeans. He forced a laugh. “Let me guess, you called them beignets.”
“What are beignets?” a boy sprawled across one of the armchairs asked.
“Beignet is just fancy for doughnut,” Trash-talker said.
“It’s actually French for doughnut,” Skinny Jeans said.
“Who cares what you call them? I love doughnuts,” the boy on the armchair said before biting into a muffin. He was definitely younger than me. He reminded me of Riley’s new puppy, same gold-red hair, same hands and feet (or in Fozzie’s case, paws) that were way too big for their bodies.
Without thinking, I headed for the food table. At least eating was something to do besides letting people psych me out.
“Are we supposed to know that?” A small girl popped out from behind the table. She looked like a living, breathing Disney character, with
huge brown eyes, pink-pink cheeks, and sleek black pigtails.
“Know what?” Trash-talker asked.
“Names for food in French,” the girl said.
“You mean, you don’t?” Skinny Jeans said.
The girl’s eyes grew even bigger. “That’s not fair. That’s not even… I mean, why French? Why do people always think French food is so great? Have you ever had sata andagi? I bet they’re way better than French doughnuts.”
“Woah.” Trash-talker put her hands up like she was surrendering. “Relax. First of all, he’s messing with you. Second of all, what are sata andagi?”
“Okinawan doughnuts.”
“Cool.” Trash-talker picked up her jacket from the couch—the one she’d been wearing at the callback with all the buttons—and pulled out a tiny notebook and pen. “So I can just call them Okinawan doughnuts?”
“What are you doing?” the girl asked.
“I write down foods I want to try in here, so I don’t forget. You think if I just google ‘Okinawan doughnuts,’ I’ll be able to find places that serve them?”
“I guess.”
I should get a notebook like that, I thought. Or maybe I could just use my phone. Could I hate Trash-talker and be impressed by her at the same time?
“And you’re sure he was just…messing with me, you know, about the French?” the Disney character asked.
“Yeah, I’m sure. I’m pretty sure that’s his job.”
“No, it’s not,” Skinny Jeans snapped. “Wait, what do you mean, my job?”
Trash-talker rolled her eyes. “I mean, that’s why you were chosen. Because they thought you’d mess with people. You don’t think this show is all about cooking, do you? They want drama—you know, fights and tears and freak-outs. What did you think all those questions—winning is everything—were all about?”
The room went silent.
I wondered what kind of drama they thought I’d bring. What was I picked for: tears, fights, or freak-outs?
I grabbed a plate and circled the food table slowly. They had everything: bagels, cream cheese, cubed cheese, mini muffins, egg sandwiches, cut fruit. I guess it made sense that The Food Connection put out a good spread.
I hadn’t had a decent bagel in forever, and these looked like they didn’t come from bags in the freezer. They were nice and plump. I was just reaching for an egg one when I felt someone tap me on the shoulder.
I jerked away and looked up.
It was a girl. She was smiling and holding out bagel tongs.
I took the tongs, mumbled a thanks, and tried to glue my eyes to my bagel, but the more I tried not to see that girl, the more she was all I could see. Her face was red-brown like Mom’s herb pots, and her dark hair was twisted up on either side of her head like Princess Leia in that old Star Wars movie.
And she was still smiling.
If trash-talking was bad for your competitive edge, smiling was like dynamite.
“The bagels are really good.” She sounded like she’d just walked out of Hogwarts. She wasn’t from the East Coast. She didn’t even sound like she was from this country. “This is my second. I like the egg ones too. I’m Keya.”
“Hey.” I grabbed a handful of mini muffins, slapped some cream cheese onto my plate, and went in search of a chair as far away as possible.
Eating was the perfect activity. It gave me something to do, and it made me feel good.
On the couch opposite me, Skinny Jeans was twirling a quarter between his fingers. I tried to focus on the mountain of food on the plate in my lap, but something kept pulling my eyes to his face.
“Problem?” he said.
“Uh, me?”
“Yeah, you.” And that’s when I realized what it was. His eyebrow. The left one. Half of it was missing. “Do you, like, need something? Because you’re creeping me out.”
“No, no. Sorry.” I forced my eyes to my half-eaten bagel.
I couldn’t look at anyone. I wasn’t supposed to talk to anyone. Fine. I’d eat.
Before I knew it, I’d cleaned the entire plate. I’d basically inhaled it, and the second it was gone, I missed the activity: put food in mouth, chew, swallow, repeat. And in between, there was that little burst of happy from my taste buds.
So I went for seconds.
And thirds.
Four mini waffles, two bagels, an egg sandwich, half a mango, and one cheese Danish later, Randy was back, clapping her hands. “Okay, people. Now, rules, rules, rules.” She handed each of us a piece of a paper. “When the show is over, or is over for you, you must return these to me. You may not copy these rules or share them with anyone else. If these rules end up in the public or on the internet, you will be immediately cut from the show and the show’s lawyers will come after your family for everything they own. Got it? Just kidding about the lawyers. Totally serious about kicking you off though.”
Just then, something came to life in the pit of my stomach, something angry and loud, a creature made of all the food I’d just packed into me. I leaned back to give it space to stretch out but all that did was allow it to reach up into my chest and squeeze my heart.
Randy returned to the center of the room and made another violent check on her clipboard. “Now, we will go through the rules.” She sounded like those safety videos on airplanes. “Rule Number One: no touching Chef JJ. Not once, not ever.”
Got it. No touching Chef JJ. Check. Check. Double-check.
Somebody laughed.
“Don’t laugh.” Randy clicked her pen in and out. “The rules are not funny.”
The younger boy burst out laughing, then slapped his hands over his mouth.
“I’m… It’s just, why would we touch her?” It was Keya, that girl who sounded like Hermione.
Randy glared. “I’m saying, don’t shake her hand or high-five her. Chef JJ doesn’t do that. Got it?”
“Got it,” Keya said, but you could tell she still thought it was funny.
Just then, I felt a cramp like the monster was standing on a major organ, and I stretched out even farther, so far now that my butt was barely on the seat.
“Rule Number Two: eyes on Chef JJ or Dieter or your station only. No looking off camera.”
“How come?” asked the Disney character.
“Because it’s obnoxious. Moving on.” Randy made another angry check.
“Why is it obnoxious?”
Randy took a deep breath and exhaled hard like she was the wolf trying to blow down one of the little pigs’ houses.
“Because,” Skinny Jeans said, “nobody wants to watch a show where the people on the screen are looking at something they can’t see.”
Right then, the beast in my stomach shook its cage so hard you could hear the bars rattle.
Randy’s head jerked up from her clipboard. She scanned the room, but the monster was taking a break. “Rule Number Three,” she continued, still eyeing the room, “if someone gets hurt, call for the medic. We have one on set at all times. So, kids, if you find yourself in need of medical assistance, you yell…”
Nobody said anything.
“You yell…” Randy waved a hand as if she was conducting an orchestra.
“Medic,” we repeated.
“Bravo.”
“Okay, that’s it.” Click. Click. Check. “Any questions?”
That’s when the beast delivered a punch that sent me flying out of my chair.
Randy aimed her pen right at me. Click. Click. “You okay?”
“Yeah, just a…cramp.”
“You sure? You’re, like, green.”
“Oh, um, that’s just me.”
“I don’t think so. People who are green normally are like, olive. You’re a whole different green.” Then she clicked a button on her walkie, pulled the mic on her headset down to her mouth, and said, “Randy t
o Terrence, what’s your twenty? Okay… When you’re done there, I need you to get one of those alternates to come in. Like, now.” Her eyes yo-yoed up and down me.
“No!” I lunged forward and felt the monster slosh against the sides of my stomach.
“Hey, relax,” Randy ordered, holding her pen out like a wand. “If you’re fine, no worries. We just have to cover our you-know-whats.”
“Okay, because I am fine. I really am always this color. I get it from my dad.”
The truth was, I was not at all fine.
The truth was, I wanted to lie on the floor and not move for a very long time, but I wasn’t going to lose this thing before I’d even started. How would I ever be able to face anyone if I’d failed because I’d eaten myself sick? What kind of nuddy eats like Joey Chestnut, world-famous competitive eater, right before the first round of Can You Cut It?
“Really, I’m good.”
Randy so wasn’t buying the all-the-men-in-my-family-are-green excuse. She held her hand over her headset mouthpiece and glared at me. “You get that you can’t be sick, right? No sickness allowed.”
“Is that a rule too?” Skinny Jeans asked. “Because it’s not on the sheet.”
“Yeah, it’s a rule, but someone in legal said we couldn’t write that one down. But just so you know, it is. No sickness allowed on the show. Not a fever. Not a cold. Not even a sneeze. You got me?”
I nodded slowly so as not to disturb the beast even though what I was thinking was, nobody ever sneezes? Really? Didn’t you explode if you tried to hold in a sneeze?
Randy uncovered her mic. “Randy to Terrence…yeah, just keep the alternate on standby until further notice… No, the kid says he’s, like, related to Kermit the Frog… Yeah, totally green…He knows, he knows.” Then she pushed a button on the walkie and bent the mic away from her face. “Okay, people, line up.”
Everyone except me raced to the door.
“Woah!” Randy shooed everybody back with her clipboard.
I walked slowly across the room and took my place at the back of the line. I’m fine. I’m fine.
The Doughnut King Page 10
