SYLVIE DIDN’T RETURN TO THE ROOM UNTILGEORGIA WASasleep. She finished unpacking in the dark and was pretty sure she’d accidentally tucked her toothbrush into a pencil holder. Finally, Sylvie went to bed. But once she drifted off, a terrible dream found her. She was competing at the Golden Whisk, and everything was going wrong. Judges wearing black veils loomed over her as she frantically searched for her missing Blade.
“It was here a minute ago,” Sylvie insisted, scrambling about.
“This is a very disappointing start from Team USA,” said the announcer. “I’d expected more. But maybe I was wrong about Sylvie Jones.”
Sylvie glared at him, only to realize it was the man from the diner.
“Who are you?” Sylvie shouted. “Why does the Apple of Discord have my name on it?”
“You want more answers? Then find Escoffier.”
How?Sylvie was ready to ask, when her oven burst into flames. The cake inside melted into a lump.
“Let’s hope the judges are into flambé,” said the man.Poof!He vanished into the smoke.
Sylvie carried her disaster to the judges’ table. Her heart pumped fast.
The head judge picked up a fork. “You call this a cake?”
She lifted her veil. It was Sylvie’s mom.
“It wasn’t my fault,” said Sylvie. “I didn’t have my knife.”
“And whose fault is that?” Sylvie’s mom snapped. “I told you to ignore the comments. But you didn’t listen. You let people down… . You letmedown.”
A trapdoor beneath Sylvie’s feet gave way. She tumbled through the darkness.
“I’m trying!”
Sylvie woke, sweating and tangled in her bedsheets.
Slowly she opened an eye, half-expecting to find Georgia gawking. Thankfully, Georgia’s bed was empty. Sylvie checked the clock.Five to eight!If she didn’t hurry, she’d be late for breakfast.
By the time Sylvie reached the cafeteria, tables were packed with students carrying knife bags and baking tool kits. Most of them wore starched silver and eggshell-blue chef’s coats with the Brindille twigs stitched onto the sleeve. Below the symbol were a few small pockets, perfect for carrying thermometers or vials of liquid spells. It wasn’t hard to spot the Pips. They were the only kids in the cafeteria wearing regular clothes.
Sylvie made her way through the enormous, gilded room. Jeweled chandeliers hung overhead. Crown moldings that looked as if they’d been carved out of taffy decorated archways in soft peaches and dusty pinks. A huge rice paper scroll the size of a movie screen was mounted to the far wall with several golden rods. A message flashed across it.
WELCOMESAGES ANDPIPS!
ONLY 4 DAYS 10 HOURS 39 MINUTES LEFT UNTILGOLDENWHISKALL-STARS
Bits of popcorn seemed to burst in Sylvie’s stomach.Four daysuntil the fiercest competition her mom had ever faced. Winning Golden Whisk All-Stars would be as complex as the layers of an onion. Sure, her mom was a former champion. But with such little time to prepare, did she even stand a chance? After all, this wasn’t just about talent. Her mom had mad cooking skills, and Sylvie believed she was the best. But some chefs spent years training. If her mom failed … Sylvie couldn’t finish the thought.
She spotted the buffet table, a block of polished wood that stretched across the room like a cargo train.
Sylvie made her way over. A group of boys dressed in neatly pressed uniforms cut in.
“Excuse me. I was next,” said Sylvie.
“Too bad,” said the boy with blond hair and a perfectly chiseled jaw.
“Yeah! Deal with it, Pip,” said the stocky one. He let out an enormous burp.
Seriously?
“Dude! That stinks,” said the tallest of the three.
Sylvie stared at the laughing boys and tried to hide her disgust.
