“Good luck.”
They only allowed themself the briefest of glances at her smile before they turned and walked back to their station.
Where they had the misfortune of overhearing a conversation between Jacob and Jeffrey, who were standing at Dahlia’s station in front of them.
“This is what I’m saying.” Jeffrey, a balding white man from Texas, was gesturing emphatically. “America needs to get up to speed on the insect scene. We’re entirely too cocky about our proteins here.”
“Exactly,” Jacob said. “When I was in Brazil last year, I had these beetles . . .”
London glanced back toward the pantry, wondering if they should go back and ponder the spice cabinet with Dahlia a minute more.
London agreed, honestly, about eating more insects. But it was the way these people talked. All around them, all morning long, London had overheard other contestants boasting to each other about cooking accomplishments they’d already achieved, the most exotic dishes they’d ever prepared, the places around the world they had dined in. London had grown up around people like this, people who overvalued their own importance. Had grown tired of them, long ago.
A part of them daydreamed about dragging Dahlia to the side of the set. Complaining about everyone else in the room together. Did she also hate Jacob? Because the dude seemed like a real drag. London had lucked out, they thought, with Ahmed as a tablemate.
The set felt surprisingly like high school, all this posturing around strangers. Ahmed and Cath were the only people London felt comfortable around so far, the only people they’d want to sit with in the cafeteria.
Along with, they admitted to themself, the woman with the infuriating hair who had declared them a jerk.
They couldn’t exactly explain it. But it had felt, for a moment last night, and for a minute just now in the pantry, like maybe they were on the same side. Made for the same lunch table.
And London longed, suddenly, to see Dahlia roll her eyes at someone who wasn’t them.
They shook their head, mentally blocked out the voices of Jacob and Jeffrey.
This wasn’t high school. It was a competition. One that was televised, and London had to start really paying attention now. Dahlia was a competitor, not a science project partner. She could stay in the pantry. London would keep their grumbling to themself.
They took out their notebook from their back pocket.
And started to make some serious plans for Spam.
CHAPTER FOUR
Dahlia felt the tiniest bit guilty about the excitement that poured into her veins when she walked onto set the following morning and saw the poor things: their gaping, airless mouths, their bug-eyed, frozen faces.
Jacob gagged next to her as they approached the feast of fish laid out on a table in the middle of the Golden Circle. It did smell godawful.
It also smelledfamiliar.
Today was their first Elimination Challenge day, and finally, it felt like a day that would go right from the start.
The funny thing was Dahlia wasn’t even super into fish, not really. But she had gone to a class run by some fishmongers in Baltimore last year, right on Inner Harbor, that had deepened her knowledge of the slippery creatures. Dahlia had learned most of her cooking skills from YouTube or blogs or, occasionally, if she was feeling fancy, real live cookbooks. But when she found classes or seminars that weren’t too expensive, like at the fishmongers, they were always her favorite. It was different to see things hands-on, to be able to ask questions. This was what she had been looking forward to onChef’s Specialthe most, the ability to get hands-on advice from the best of the best. The ultimate leveling up.
She had her notebook at the ready when Audra Carnegie stepped to a smaller table set up next to the pile of fish for a demonstration.
The contestants jostled around each other to get a good view of Audra and her fillet knife, a large, shimmery rainbow trout laid out in front of her.
Dahlia, of course, jostled herself right into a shoulder wearing an army-green T-shirt, one that revealed freckled forearms dusted with strawberry blond hair.
Dahlia straightened, rooting her feet to the floor, and clicked open her pen. She stared determinedly over Barbara’s shoulder at the trout, like a professional-ass chef about to take some professional-ass notes.
She did feel a smidge better about her relationship with London now, after their brief interaction in the pantry yesterday. She still wouldn’t call themfriends, but it appeared they had moved past whatever weirdness she had created in the hotel bar. Which was a plus.
Another plus: Audra Carnegie looked hot as hell, gutting and filleting this fish in front of them like a boss. Her dark skin shone under the studio lights, her braids swirled into an intricate knot on the top of her head. She went slowly and spoke calmly, but she never hesitated with her knife, with her skillful hands.
“After you make your incision behind the gill plate, we’re going to look for the spine. Remember, again—always, always keep your handbehindyour filleting knife.”
Dahlia was delighted Audra was doing this demonstration instead of Sai or Tanner. She’d always felt like Audra got the shaft on this show, only thrown in for her feminine touch, her advice on plating, salads, baked goods.
