Dahlia tried to ignore the stares, dumping the walnuts onto the table and picking up a knife.
She kicked at London’s foot under the table. “You started it.”
So maybeChef’s Specialwasa little like high school.
Ahmed and Beth eventually turned back around, and London looked down at their hands, shaking their head. They tried to calm their face, refocus on their tasks.
“Knives,” they said quietly, after a moment.
“Huh?” Dahlia looked over at them, eyebrows raised.
“For our torture. We could probably get a lot done with knives.”
“London.” Dahlia blinked. “Damn. You are gettingdarkwith this.”
“Look, I’m doing what I can to get my brain away fromfoodie kinks.”
“Fine. Killjoy.” Dahlia paused her walnut crushing to reassess the table once again. Her eyes went wide. “But listen, if Jeffreywasinto some weird food stuff, just imagine how many things here he could—”
“Miss Woodson.”
London jumped as Tanner Tavish appeared in front of them, breaking London’s half-horrified, half-turned-on anticipation of whatever Dahlia was about to say next.
Tavish planted his hands on their table, leaned in disturbingly close to Dahlia. She straightened, sobering. London clenched their fists.
“I’m intrigued to see that this competition is so entertaining for you.” London noticed a cameraman closing in behind Tavish’s shoulder. “But the time is ticking, and the work you do today affects your teammates as well. I might also remind you both”—his eyes flickered London’s way before refocusing on Dahlia—“that you are miked while you are on set. If you can’t take this competition seriously, or conduct yourselves with professionalism, I assure you there are countless other amateur chefs across America who would be happy to take your place.”
With that, he turned on his heel and marched away.
Dahlia looked down, face beet red. She wiped some scraps from the table onto her palm, dumping them into the trash. Picking up a rag, she busied herself with cleaning their already clean counter.
London scowled, their short fingernails digging into their palms. If they were getting the work done, what did it matter if they were having fun?
Because London had been, they realized. Having fun.
“I’m sorry,” they said quietly. Dahlia glanced at them, mustering a smile before a flash of uncertainty flickered in her eyes.
“They can’t really kick me off the show for that, can they?”
London shook their head. “I don’t think so. If they can, I’m going down first. You’re right. I started it.”
“Nah,” she said. “All those nonbinary kids in Tennessee need you.”
London was quiet. They didn’t know what to say to that.
“Seriously, though,” Dahlia whispered. “You don’t think they’ll air any of this conversation, right?”
“Do I think they’ll air us talking about torturing a fellow contestant? No, Dahlia, I don’t.” London paused. “It would be funny, though, if they did.”
“They’ll probably air my trip on the first episode, though.”
London grimaced. “Yeah. They’ll probably air that.”
Dahlia was quiet a moment. Then she laughed a little. “Wow. I am really bad at this.”
“No, you’re not. I thought we already established this. Your swordfish yesterday—”
“No, no.” Dahlia waved them off again. “Not cooking. Being on TV. I am bad at being a human adult on TV.”
