My stomach plummets.Pleasesay I’m still in the running.
“They’ve narrowed it down to two candidates, andyou’reone of them.”
“That’s great!” My adrenaline spikes—half excitement, half desperation. “Is it…” I start to say.
Mr. Bruce nods gravely. “Yes. The other candidate isPatty.” Her name is like a curse word around here.
“Ugh.” I throw my head back like a teenager asked to clean her room which is filled with a month’s worth of cereal bowls, half-a-dozen softball uniforms, and an indecent amount of ranch-flavored corn nut wrappers, hypothetically speaking.
“The network is at a deadlock,” he says. “Producer Marsha Langston has assigned a test audience to help make the final call.”
“A test audience?” I can’t hide my grin. If it’s up to Marsha and her team, Patty’s daddy won’t have any influence.
Mr. Bruce stares fondly at the screen.
I follow his gaze to the monitor, which plays a slideshow of photos. “Is that Mardi Gras?” I ask, eyeing the busy street crowd and beads draped over both Mr. Bruce and his cat.
“Yes, that was 2019.”
The cat looks sloshed. I look at Mr. Bruce accusingly. “Did you give Jinxy a little…drink-ski?”
He holds his finger and thumb so they’re all but touching. “Maybe just a pinch-ski. Any-who, since you and Patty both have holiday cookie features in the next week, those segments will count as your final auditions.”
My shoulders lift like dough in the sunlight. I have more experience than Patty. I host the local cooking segments five days a week; Patty has one measly Saturday morning slot.
Still, there’s no telling how far the influence of Patty’s daddy goes. And, of course, there’sonemore potential problem.
No,I decide. It won’t be a problem. I’ve grown out of it by now.
I think.
I hope.
Please say I’ve outgrown it by now.
“You’ve outgrown your tendency to…buckle under pressure, I presume?” Mr. Bruce asks like he’s reading my mind. His eyes lock on mine, and an audible gulp slinks down our throats in unison.
He knows as well as I do that the problem is real; I botched the live audition for my current gig to an epic degree. The sudden downturn in Mr. Bruce’s expression says he’s thinking of it, too.
Picture ripping a bag of pasta with your teeth, causing penne to scatter like pale tubes of confetti. Then picture hunching down to scoop it off the floor and smacking a pan handle with your head—a pan partially filled with sautéing marinara.
Had I been wearing a raincoat suitable for a tour of Niagara Falls, we might not have had to cut to commercial. Sadly, most aprons still don’t have hoods.
While I changed, sopped the sauce from my hair, and slicked the marinara-scented strands into a bun, Jude soothed me from the other side of the door. “Don’t panic, love. People don’t want perfection; they want people.”
Nellie blames Patty for the botched audition, saying she sabotaged things by removing the scissors from the set.
Mr. Bruce, who’d been watching my YouTube channel for months, realized I had a case of the jitters.“That wasn’t exactly your best work,”he said during my follow-up interview. “But the audience loved you.”
And so, the job was mine.
After the segment, Jude pulled me in for a warm hug. “My Lady G always makes an impression. Just try and let them forget that.”
I melt at the recollection. Jude is impenetrable, a trait that somehow rubbed off on me when we were together. He never catered to the naysayers, like his jock father, who cursed his only son’s flair for food over football. And look at Jude now.
Reliving moments with Jude threatens to ruin me every time. And while part of me wishes I could hit delete and make the memories vanish forever, I cling to them like they’re life itself. I had that once, and it was beautiful.
“What holiday cookie are you making Tuesday?” Mr. Bruce asks.
