Thirty minutes later, the cookies are complete, iced and dusted with cinnamon. There’s a bubbling in my stomach. Could it be pride?
“We did it,” Hector says, giving me an impressed nod.
When we call the “judges” in, Grandma and Gramps are wearing formal attire. Gramps sports a fedora and Grandma is swimming in one of Gramps’s blazers. They’re taking this challenge far too seriously. Grandma sets her camcorder down on the island, framing themselves in an off-center shot. The red recording light is on.
“Bakers,” Grandma begins in her best announcer voice, “we tasked you with completing a recipe for Chai Tea Eggnog sugar cookies. You had one hour, and we’re pleased to see you were able to rise to the occasion without any major fiascos. We’ll be judging you on four criteria: presentation, consistency, flavor, and creativity.”
“Creativity?” I challenge. “Nobody said anything about creativity. We were following a recipe.” Hector slaps my side, urging me to play along. I slap his side right back. He snorts, almost enjoying it.
“Bakers, please plate one cookie for each of the judges,” Gramps directs, disregarding me. Grandma shuffles in her pink house shoes over to the camcorder and flips the lens around so it’s on us. It’s a whole damn production in here, and I can’t help it. I preen, making sure the camera only gets my good side.
Thinking on my feet, I hand the plates to Hector.
“What are you doing?” Hector whispers.
“Getting those damn creativity points!” I race back to the fridge and grab the leftover eggnog. I fill two mugs full.
During my spree, Grandma produced two official-looking score sheets from the pocket of her tweed jacket. She hands one of two golf pencils to Gramps.
This couldn’t get weirder, and for some odd reason, I maybe sort of secretly love it.
Hector obligingly takes the camera and records their first bites. Both of my grandparents wear their best unbreakable poker faces. Damn my family for never giving anything away. Covering their responses with their hands like they’re taking the goddamn SATs, Grandma and Gramps circle their scores. Then, Gramps tallies up the total.
My pits let me know I’m nervous. Like full-sweat nervous, but I’m not anxious, which is both nice and new. Krampus must’ve gotten scared by all that Santa talk.
“For the viewers at home, the judges’ verdict is the only thing standing between our contestants and the coveted prize—a chance to plan the Wind River Annual Holiday Gala. The team before us, the…” She pauses, so Gramps whispers something to her. “Yes, that’s right. The team before us, the Bunk Bed Boys”—I groan—“need a grand total of at least twenty-four points to come out victorious. That’s threes across the board from both judges. Contestants, do you have any final comments?”
“We did our best, and I think we had fun.” Hector hits me with a genuine smile that spreads all the way from one ear to the other. Did he mean that? I’m so distracted by his one charming, slightly overlapping front tooth that I forget it’s my turn.
“Matthew?” Gramps grumbles.
“Oh, um.” Instead of saying anything sincere, inspired by that swoony smile, I revert to surliness. “Can we get on with it?”
“Fine.” Grandma sticks her tongue out at me. “After careful deliberation and extreme feats of math, Team Bunk Bed Boys has scored…” She takes a Ryan Seacrest–style pause. “A 25!”
Seized with the success of barely scraping by, I’m tempted to shout, “In your face!” but that seems excessive. Instead, the energy bounds out in a surprising way.
Hector and I hug while jumping up and down like we just won an actual baking competition on actual TV. Bring in the giant check! Shoot off the confetti cannons!
His hands are hot on my back, and our chests are pressed together. There’s a vibrant blitz of energy between us.
“You boys make a pretty good team,” Grandma says knowingly.
Her statement bursts the bubble. When we realize none of that is really happening—there’s no professional camera crew, just Grandma’s camcorder—we shoot away from each other, finding our self-control on opposite sides of the island. “Cool,” Hector mumbles, resetting while combing a hand through his hair.
“Yeah, thanks,” I say, depositing the dirty spatula into the sink.
Grandma’s expression has a perceptive gleam to it, sparking with something previously unseen. “Lunch in an hour. I’ll give you a rundown of your duties then.” She takes the rest of her eggnog and skedaddles with Gramps.
The game may be over, but the sense of play hasn’t left me.
Coasting on that feeling, I steal a cookie from the sheet. It’s been a while since I’ve had a proper, homemade Christmas cookie, and I’m curious after our previous conversation. But mostly, I just want to taste what they tasted. I mean, to see if we were fairly evaluated, obviously. What if I need to demand a recount?
When the first pleasing, spicy note of chai hits my tongue, I can’t help but moan, loudly and with abandon. Hector peers over from the high-top chair in front of the island where he’s resumed reading his book.
He looks studious, focused, handsome.
That hug loops again in my brain, and I’m hit with the same thought Grandma had:We do make a pretty good team.
