My morning tea takes longer to prepare than usual. As I sit in my desk chair, staring down at the few loose flakes of tea lazily floating at the top of the cup, I sigh. “God, I can’t believe I said that.” I bury my face in my hands. Well, you can’t change that now, can you? Felix signed you up for a TV show because he was worried that you’re slowly becoming more of a worthless recluse. He wasn’t thinking clearly, sure, but he did it because he loves you. And you decided to get in his face and scream about how he should’ve left you to die four years ago, I think, groaning from the sheer stupidity of my past self. I haven’t seen him since yesterday morning, and I don’t like it. I’m scared that he won’t come back this time.
My computer finally turns on after what seems like ages. I load up my email first, like usual. When the page finally loads, however, something catches my eye. A capitalized subject line, the word “urgent,” and a sender I don’t recognize all cause me to hesitate. All signs point to virus. I click the email despite my better judgement, but hide in another tab for what feels like an hour trying to work up the courage to take a peek. “Hey, come on, this is completely irrational,” I say, talking myself down, “not everything is a virus. It’s probably someone from the show he signed me up for.” This thought really doesn’t make me feel better. “Well, I’m going to have to look at it sometime, might as well make it today.” I open it again.
It’s been five minutes, yet I can’t tear my eyes away from the screen. “Congratulations,” it reads, “you have been chosen as a finalist for this week’s episode of ALL or MUFFIN! Attached below are the rules of the competition, as well as the ingredient request form, which must be submitted before 8:00 PM tonight.” I look down, scanning over the rules. They’re pretty standard, so I skim them and keep reading. “Please meet in classroom A-223 next Sunday morning at 10:00 sharp to begin filming!” I sigh, and close out of the browser. “Maybe it isn’t too late to back out!” I say. “They’re still asking for a list of ingredients, so they’re not prepared for anyone yet. I just have to email them back, and…”
A notification pops up in the corner.
“Hey, dude, I saw on the school site that you’re gonna be on this week’s All or Muffin! Congrats, man! Can’t wait to see you wipe the floor with ‘em!”
Another one.
“I wish I was there, I used to LOVE watching that show! You guys better set something up so I can watch this too.”
I open the chat window and stare at it blankly. Of course everyone already knows. I start typing a response, trying to explain the situation to my friends. “No, I’m-” I begin, but something interrupts me. Look at that, now everyone you care about is waiting to see you there. Are you really going to say no? I hesitate, my fingers hovering over the keys so long that they start to feel numb. Maybe it won’t be as bad as I think it’ll be. “I cook almost every day,” I say, “I can’t just psych myself out like this.” But what if you can? However, my mind is made up.
“Yep! I’m looking forward to it!” I finally type, and… send. I take a deep breath, but the tight feeling in my gut doesn’t go away. Behind me, I hear a familiar, slow creaking. I don’t bother to turn around. “You can come in, Felix.”
“You’re doing it?” His voice is timid. I turn my chair around to see him peeking around my bedroom door. I shrug nonchalantly.
“Yep, I guess I am.” Now that the campus website got rid of my one chance to weasel out of it. He draws closer, shutting the door behind him. “Are you okay?” he asks hesitantly.
“Yep.” My pulse pounds in my ears, and I wring my hands restlessly. Not really.
We kiss, and we make up. I can’t help but feel that it isn’t over.
The day of the contest comes too soon. I walk quickly down the street, feeling the warm summer air brush against my cheeks. However, as I push open the heavy wooden doors to room A-223, the hair on the back of my neck stands on end. The thick chemical scent burns my lungs and brings a familiar prickling sensation to the backs of my eyes as I inhale. Well, too late to back out now, I think, unless you really want to make a scene and run right back through that door. Instead of going down as a failure, you could just be a disappointment instead. Isn’t that so much better?
“Welcome, welcome,” a familiar voice booms, “Don’t just stand there, come in! Take your coat off and stay a while!”
“I think I’ll leave my coat on, thanks…” I tug at the sleeves of my sweatshirt nervously. The host, Leon, outstretches a hand, and I hesitate for a moment before reaching out to shake it. His firm grip catches me off-guard and I wince. He laughs.
“Pleasure to make your acquaintance, sir!”
Seeing him in person make my hands shake, but I shove them into my pockets and push those thoughts to the back of my mind. There’s enough to be worried about already. “Nice to meet you too,” I manage to choke out as he leads me over to the long row of appliances on the left side of the room. I don’t think he hears me. Way to leave him hanging. You’re really bad at this whole “social interaction” thing, huh? I glance back at him, but he’s not looking at me. Great.
The smell is even stronger near my station, and I pull my shirt collar over my nose in an attempt to stop myself from gagging. Leon doesn’t seem to notice my discomfort, as he’s already launched into a conversation with a woman who I assume is my competitor. She’s a lot older than the usual contestants, and as I look closer I see that the joints in her fingers are swollen and slightly crooked. I feel a little bad for her, but she must be good if they accepted her onto the show. If they only accept good bakers, why are you here? I tune back into the conversation just as Leon turns on his heel and addresses me again.
“So, this will be your workstation,” he says, patting the countertop next to him three times. “We will start at eleven, so please take the next hour to familiarize yourself with your equipment and take inventory of your supplies.” He walks out of the room before either of us have time to ask questions.
The first round starts off well enough. Better than I thought it would, anyway. There isn’t a lot of time in the first round, only fifty minutes, so I’d decided to make a tiramisu. The time goes faster than I thought possible, and after a few dropped eggs I barely get something plated. However, it’s still something. While the competition flew by in an instant, the judging takes an eternity. I still don’t care about how I do in this competition, but awkwardly standing in front of Leon and his ever-rotating panel of guest judges as they quietly deliberate makes my skin crawl. The minutes tick on as they whisper, occasionally looking back at us with an analytical, piercing gaze. Suddenly, the judges go quiet. Leon stands up, clearing his throat.
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“Both of you have created wonderful desserts today, however, there can only be one winner,” he says. I really hope that everyone watching the show already knows this. I manage to stifle my laughter, but Leon still shoots me a dirty look before continuing.
“Brenda,” he says, “the crust on your tart was perfectly baked. However, the raspberry filling was quite bland, and I really think that you could’ve made that pop more.” Brenda’s face falls, and she looks downward in disappointment. Don’t worry too much, Brenda, you’ve got more of a chance than you think. Leon turns towards me.
“Now, Emil…” he pauses for dramatic effect. A lump rises in my throat. “Your creation was absolutely delightful. Each layer was distinct, but balanced. Good job.” My heart skips a beat. I’d prepared for criticism, sure, but I hadn’t really put much thought into how I’d respond to actual praise.
“Oh, thank you,” I manage to choke out. Oh, um... t-t-thank you! How smooth, you must attract all the girls… and boys, I guess, with your absolute mastery of the English language. Seriously, this isn’t the time to be such an awkward lump. I clear my throat nervously, and curl a stray piece of hair around my finger.
“After much deliberation, we’ve decided that the winner of round one is… Emil! Alright you two, back to your stations!” Leon yells, and all filming stops as the show cuts to a commercial break.
The second round, however… the second round is the cake round. The cake round is always a killer. Obviously, I start with the cake itself. The cake I picked last week really isn’t much, but it’s one that I’ve been meaning to work on for a while now. It’s a lemon cake, simple enough, decorated with macarons and dark chocolate. Honestly, the thought of it makes my teeth hurt, but I’m really doing it to get the recipe down for Felix’s birthday. That’s the one good thing to come out of this competition. Oh, please. You’re not going to improve just by making the stupid cake one time. You’re giving yourself too much credit. I start to measure the dry ingredients. Flour, baking powder, baking soda, lemon zest- too much lemon zest, are you trying to fail? I pour the contents of the mixing bowl into the trash. “Okay,” I mutter, grabbing the bowl of lemons again, “you’ve got to be more careful, Emil. Focus.” I prepare more lemon zest, measure out the ingredients carefully this time, and move on to the next step. The rest of the cake goes surprisingly well, and I toss both pans into the oven right on schedule. Next, the macarons. The prospect of making macarons with a time limit terrifies me. What’s wrong, are you finally realizing that you’re way out of your league? You’ll never pull off decent macarons if you keep being your usual clumsy self. Although, you know this isn’t the only place you’re out of your league. My hands start to shake, but I stretch them out a few times and take out the ingredients to start the meringue.
Crack three eggs, separate out the yolks. Wow, I can’t believe you actually thought you could make it with him. You’re just too… needy. You can’t always rely on him to fix your problems. He deserves better than you. Place egg whites in a glass bowl, add a quarter tablespoon of lemon juice. But you’re too selfish to let go, aren’t you? Mix until frothy.
A hot bead of sweat rolls down the side of my face, followed by a second, and a third. See, the root of all your problems is… you. Gradually add a quarter cup of sugar, and mix until stiff. No matter how hard you work, and how good you become, you’ll always be your own undoing. You make one little mistake, and suddenly- poof! Everything that you’ve worked for is in shambles. You should’ve just kept your mouth shut.
I look down. The meringue is dull, and the once-stiff peaks have begun to collapse. I run a shaking hand through my hair. “Okay, okay, I still have time to redo it. It’s okay,” I say, attempting to trick myself into actually believing it. It doesn’t work.
I attempt the meringue again. Crack the eggs, separate them. Add lemon juice and beat until frothy. My whole body starts to itch as I become more aware of the cameras than ever before, and I grip my whisk harder to stop myself from scratching the skin off my arms. He’s probably watching you right now. My stomach does a flip. Maybe he did sign you up for this just to watch you suffer, and he’s sitting back and laughing right now. I stare down at the frothy egg mixture, gripping the edges of my workbench so hard that for a short moment it feels like the corners of the countertop are going to pierce my skin. I try to reach for the sugar to continue the recipe, but my body refuses to move. My mouth begins to go dry, and the sounds of the room amplify to the point that they drown out every thought in my head. The high-pitched, screeching whir of the electric mixer blends with the shrill click of Leon’s footsteps into a harsh sound that makes my brain itch. Then, the world goes completely silent.
My vision suddenly shrinks down to a single point. I rear back, whipping my head around to stare into the nearest camera. The camera stares back. It’s cold, unwavering gaze sends a thick iron bolt of panic through the center of my chest. My head feels muddled, with a thousand thoughts bouncing around and blending into a mushy, incomprehensible blob.
My entire body tenses up. A searing wave of emotion rips outwards from my chest, spreading a harsh buzzing feeling through my body.
I can’t help it anymore. I can’t take it anymore.
I open my mouth, and scream on live TV.
You screamed on live TV.
Screamed on live TV.
Live TV.
Live TV.
Li-
“Babe!”
At first, I don’t know where I am. As I regain my senses, the strong smell of sugar and lemon and the cold, smooth floor tiles beneath me indicate that I’m still on the set. I open my eyes and quickly glance around. The cameras are pointed towards the floor, and the crew who man them are nowhere to be found. Leon and his guest judges are standing in the center of the room, all juggling several phone conversations at once. My mom and my best friend are both standing over me, with worry in their eyes. Wow, if this is “everyone you know,” maybe Felix was right to be worried about your social skills. Of course, Felix is sitting right next to me. “A little bit of deja vu here, huh?” I say jokingly. He frowns.
“You’re not funny,” he says.
“I think I am pretty funny, actually. Maybe you just have no sense of humor.” At this, he seems to relax a little bit. Well, time to change that. I reach out, and he takes my hand in both of his. They’re ice cold and shaking.
“We definitely need to talk about this.” He nods, looking down at me and smiling weakly. He looks like he’s on the verge of tears.
“Hey, hey, I love you,” I say, trying to sit up, “Please-” Dizziness hits me immediately and I’m forced to lay back down. “God, I’m so sorry, Felix…”
“Let’s… let’s focus on you right now. Are you okay?”
“Well, considering that I just ruined my entire life, I’m going to go ahead and say… no.” Yeah, Emil. Think about it for a moment. A bolt of panic shoots through me and I snap my head back. Felix’s brow furrows. I run my hand through my hair nervously. Hey, shut up, I tell the voice in my head, just… shut up! You’re not the boss of me! It doesn’t respond. Finally I can think for myself.
Felix pats the back of my hand reassuringly. “It’s okay, babe. You’re gonna be okay, we’re gonna be okay…” He trails off momentarily, then continues.
“Let’s go home.”