Truth Game (12 page)

“What do you mean you're making slime?” I say into the phone.

“It's not slime,” Pierre corrects me. “It's sludge. I have made an oil sludge that I plan to transform into a—”

“You can't put your sludge project on hold for a few hours and come help me? I'm really, really desperate.” He's a foodie like I am. That means he can't ignore a food emergency, right? It's like foodie code or something.

I hear some kind of alarm go off in the background. “Oh, my mixture is ready. Sorry, Rachel. But good luck.” Then he hangs up.

I groan and reluctantly call Whit. After a few rings, he picks up, but the noise in the background is so deafening that I can barely hear him.

“Where are you?” I ask.

“At the arcade with my nephews,” he yells into the phone. “Sorry, it's really loud in here. Can I call you back?”

“Actually, I need your help!” I try to explain to him about the cake, but I can tell he still can't hear me.

“I'll see you at school, okay? We're going to get some food. I actually convinced them to eat grilled cheese! I know it's not the kind of stuff Mrs. Da Silva wants us eating, but it's better than Cheetos, right?” Then the phone cuts out. I can't tell if he hung up on me or if we got disconnected, but either way, I'm on my own.

I sink into a chair, my face in my hands. Now what do I do? I thought the whole point of being in a cooking club was to be around “my people,” but how can they be my people when I can't even count on them in an emergency?

But then I realize. I do have people like that. They might not know much about wedding cakes, and they might hate my guts right now, but I'd do anything for them. Hopefully that means they'll do anything for me.

• • •

“Thank you guys for coming,” I say. “I know I totally don't deserve your help, but—”

“Just tell us what you want us to do,” Marisol says. “There's not a lot of time.”

“Yeah,” Evan adds. “Whatever you need, we'll do it.”

I could hug them and cry, but there's no time for that. Amazingly, it took almost no convincing to get them here. I sent SOSes to both of them, and within a few minutes, they were on their way. All the stuff that happened between us isn't gone, not by a long shot, but right now it doesn't matter, not when there's so much we have to do.

While I was waiting for them to get to the bakery, I came up with a game plan. Since Marisol is a terrible cook but a great artist, she's going to help me with the decorating. Evan is pretty good at cooking on the other hand, so he's going to help me bake the cake.

“We're remaking the cake exactly the way it was?” Marisol asks.

“No,” I say, and they both stare at me in shock. “I can't make it the same way he did. I don't know how.” It hurts to admit that, but it's true. When I took this job, I thought I was as good as Chef Ryan, maybe even better. But the truth is, I have a lot to learn. “Ms. Montelle said she totally trusted Chef Ryan to do whatever he thought would work. She wanted the cake to be a surprise. So we're making one I know will be perfect. Even if it won't be nearly as fancy.”

I only hope Chef Ryan won't murder me with a whisk when he finds out what I've done.

Marisol nods. “Okay, so what do we do instead?”

“We can keep the same flavors, but it should look more like…” I hurry over and grab a piece of paper. Then I start sketching what I've had in my head since I first heard about the wedding.

As I make my pitiful sketch, Marisol adds a few touches to help clarify what I'm thinking. When we're done, it's perfect. And, unlike when I was making Angela's cake, I can feel the excitement pulsing through me. Chef Ryan might fire me for messing up his cake and making a totally different one, but if I have to start all over, I'm going to make a cake that I'm passionate about, one that feels like me, like he said.

“Thank you,” I tell Marisol. “Really. I don't know what I'd do without you.”

I hope she can see how much I mean it, but she just shrugs and says, “Let's get to work.” Then she goes off in the corner. Clearly, she's still mad at me, but she's also my best friend. That means getting me out of yet another jam even though I probably don't deserve her help.

Meanwhile, Evan's already started gathering ingredients for the cake. Since we don't have time to make more fondant to cover the cake, I start making a buttercream frosting instead. I can practically feel the clock ticking, but I try to take a deep breath. If we keep our heads down and keep working, we might be able to pull this off.

Once the cake layers are baked and cooling and the buttercream frosting is done, I glance over at Evan and realize he's covered in flour and sugar and icing. Despite it all, he looks absolutely adorable.

“What?” he says when he catches me looking at him.

“Um, nothing,” I say. “I just… Thank you for being here. I know you're still mad at me, and I know things are really weird between us right now, but I really appreciate it.”

He nods and wipes his forehead with the back of his hand. “Did you mean it?” he asks after a minute. “What you said in the game about us not being together in six months?”

“No!” I say. “I
wanted
us to be together that long. I hoped we would be. It felt like jinxing the whole thing if I said we definitely would be, you know? I thought things were going really well, but I guess they weren't.”

“They weren't?” he says, sounding surprised. “I thought they were.”

“You did? But…but you said you didn't want me touching you in public. You said I couldn't take a hint!”

He looks down at the floor, suddenly looking embarrassed. “I've never been good with PDAs. I mean, look at my family. The only time my parents even hold hands is when they're at some big charity event and they want to prove to everyone how happy they are. I liked kissing you and stuff.” He blushes. “But I wish it had been when other people weren't around, you know?”

“Wait, so you…so you still like me?”

He looks at me like I've lost my mind. “Of course I still like you. Why wouldn't I?” He gives me a hopeful look. “Do you still like me?”

“Are you kidding? Of course I do!”

We stand there in giddy silence for a second. Then I smile as I notice a glob of frosting on his shirt. “You have a little something on you.”

He glances down at his filthy clothes and laughs. “I guess I do. And you…” He takes a step forward and smears some frosting on my cheek. “You have a little something on you too.”

And that's when it happens. He leans forward and I lean forward, and our lips find each other. And then I swear angels start singing! I close my eyes and feel the warmth of his lips on mine. And there's no sweat or gym sock smell this time. There are just his lips pressed against mine, and the tiniest hint of powdered sugar.

Finally, we pull away, and I find Evan looking back at me with a question in his eyes.

“Well?” he says. “Was that any better than last time?”

I'm tempted to bury my face in my hands from embarrassment, but I'm still on too much of a kissing high. “The first time was perfect because it was with you,” I say. “And this time was perfect too. I was an idiot for saying anything else. I'm sorry.”

He smiles and dabs some more frosting on my chin. “Don't worry about it, Booger Crap.” Then he leans in and kisses me again, and that's how I know I'm really forgiven.

• • •

Two hours later, the cake is done. The three of us stand there staring at it in awe.

“It's perfect,” Marisol whispers, and I have to agree. The pale-yellow buttercream frosting looks light and fluffy, the tiers are securely fastened with plastic dowels, and the blue and white shells and starfish that Marisol made out of the leftover fondant are subtle yet stunning. The whole thing screams waterfront wedding, and I know Ms. Montelle will love it. I only hope Chef Ryan feels the same way.

We carefully box up the cake and wait for Cherie to arrive. I sit there holding Evan's hand. Or he's holding mine. It doesn't matter. I was so busy worrying about it all before that I guess I wasn't letting things happen naturally.

“Okay,” Marisol say. “I should get going.”

“Oh.” It's stupid to feel disappointed. Why would she stick around until Cherie gets here? It's not her job that's on the line. “Well, thank you. For everything. Really.”

She nods. “No problem.”

Before she can walk away, I grab her arm. “Are we…are we ever going to be okay?”

She sighs. “Probably,” she says. “But I think I need more time.” Then she hops on her bike and rides away.

“She'll come around,” Evan says as I watch her disappear around the corner.

“I hope so.”

At exactly noon, Cherie pulls up in front of the bakery, her face red. “You weren't answering your phone!” she says. “I saw you called. Is everything okay?”

I realize I didn't even glance at my phone after we got to work on the cake. “Um, there was a minor crisis, but we figured it out.”

“Oh good,” she says. “Because we need to pack up the cake and get going.”

Evan jumps up to help, and together he and Cherie put it in the back of her catering van. I hold my breath the whole time, but it goes in without a problem.

I expect Cherie to speed off and tell me to keep an eye on the bakery, but instead she turns to me and says, “Grab your supplies and hop in.”

“My supplies?” I say.

“If the cake needs any last-minute touching up, you're going to be the one to do it. I won't have time.”

“But what about the bakery? Who's going to watch it?”

“We can shut down for one day. If all goes well today, we'll have a lot more business from now on. Now go get your things.”

I nod and hurry inside to get some extra tools and supplies. Evan helps me pack everything up and walks me back out to Cherie's van.

We stand there for a minute looking at each other, but for once I don't feel awkward about saying good-bye to him.

“Thank you,” I say for probably about the tenth time. “I really owe you.”

“Don't worry about it,” he says. “Just remember me when you're a famous TV chef, okay?”

I laugh and give him a peck on the cheek. Then I hop into the passenger seat of Cherie's van, and we speed off to the wedding and to what might finally be my big TV debut.

When we get to the lake, the place is crawling with people even though there's still an hour before the wedding starts. A tent is set up right by the water for the reception, and the end of the dock is blanketed with flowers for the ceremony. The whole scene is stunning and definitely fit for a TV special. And
my
cake is going to be part of it!

Even though I expect Chef Ryan to be home recuperating, I spot him in the food tent in a wheelchair, yelling at people. Briana is rushing around like a wind-up toy. The only other time I've seen her move with such urgency is when she's playing softball.

“What are you doing here?” Cherie cries when she sees her husband. “You're supposed to be at home in bed!”

But he ignores her and says, “I could have finished the cake if I had to. I don't care what the doctor says.” He turns to me. “Did everything come out okay?”

My stomach clenches into a ball. “It came out great,” I say slowly. “But…it's not exactly the cake you planned.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I-it's better if you just see it.”

With Chef Ryan barking orders, we unload the cake so carefully that you'd think it was a bomb or something. But when we get it to the food tent and unpack it, I'm relieved to see that it barely needs any touching up at all.

When I look up, I find Chef Ryan staring at the cake with his nostrils flared so widely, they might split apart. He doesn't say a word. Meanwhile, Cherie's eyebrows are practically in her ponytail.

“Um, there was kind of an accident,” I try to explain. “And…um…”

“What is this?” Chef Ryan finally says through his teeth. “What did you do?”

“The first cake collapsed…and I was going to redo it exactly the same…but then I realized I didn't know how, so then I thought…the water…the colors…” As the words come out in bursts, I can barely breathe. I can see it in Chef Ryan's eyes. He's going to kill me. Despite his broken bones, he's going to grab a cake knife, slice me into pieces, and serve me for dessert.

I back away a couple steps, ready to make a run for it, when I hear: “Wow, that's a great-looking cake!”

I know that voice. I've heard it a million times in my living room.

I whirl around to find none other than Chip Ackerson standing behind me, studying my handiwork with a huge grin on his face. “It's perfect for the venue,” he adds. Then he pats Chef Ryan on the back—on his nonbroken side—and congratulates him on a job well done.

“Not mine,” Chef Ryan says. “Hers.”

“Why, hello there,” Chip say, turning to me. “You're the one responsible for this cake?”

“Oh my goldfish!” I shriek. “It's Chip Ackerson!”

Oh my goldfish! Did I just say that out loud?

“I see we have a young fan.” Chip chuckles and shakes my hand, which I'm sure feels sticky from all the leftover frosting still on it. “I'm Chip. And you are?”

“Chip,” I say.

He frowns. “Your name is Chip too?”

I shake my head. I want to tell him what a huge fan I am. I want to beg him to put me on his TV show. But all I can say is “Chip” again. What the Shrek is wrong with me? This is my big chance to talk to my idol, and I've turned into a parrot! And then what he said about my handiwork finally sinks in, and that pulls me out of my stupor. “Do you really like my cake?” I ask.

He nods. “I like what you did with the blue starfish. Not an obvious choice, but it works.” Then he starts asking me about the flavors, and I tell him that I used the ones Chef Ryan picked out: German chocolate for the bottom tier, cookies and cream for the second tier, and red velvet for the third tier, all covered with rich vanilla buttercream frosting.

“So this wasn't the original design?” Chip asks me.

I laugh and shake my head. “Actually, the first cake kind of fell apart thanks to me. I'd never worked on such a big cake before.” Then I tell him the whole story. Now that I'm rehashing it, I realize it's actually kind of funny, even though it certainly didn't feel that way at the time. And even though I'm kind of freaking out about talking to my idol, it's surprisingly easy to tell him about my cake, maybe because I'm so excited about it.

“And this is the end result!” Chip says. “Let that be a handy tip for you viewers at home. Always have the proper support for your cakes. Thanks for telling us about it!”

Wait. Viewers at home?

I turn to find that there's a cameraman standing about five feet away from me and pointing a microphone in my direction. Oh my goldfish! Everything I said was just taped for TV? I was so busy focusing on the cake and on getting potentially murdered by Chef Ryan and on having an actual conversation with Chip Ackerson that I didn't even notice!

“Are you…are you going to use that in the wedding special?” I ask.

Chip gives me a winning smile. “We just might!” Then his cameraman waves him over, and he starts to walk away. But then he pauses for a second. “Hey, aren't you one of the teens who auditioned for
Pastry Wars
this season?”

I almost keel over. He remembers me! “Um, yeah. That was me. I made a mille-feuille.” This time, I actually pronounce it correctly.

“That's right!” he says. “I knew you looked familiar.” Then he lowers his voice. “Between you and me, you came really close to being chosen.”

“Really?”

He nods. “We all thought you had a lot of potential, but it felt like you were trying too hard. You said you like to make up your own recipes, but then you made something we've seen tons of times before. When you audition again next year, make sure to do something that's really you, okay?”

I blink. “When I audition again?”

“You're not going to give up after one try, are you?” he says. Then he gives me his winning smile before he and the cameraman wander off to get some shots of the lake.

When I look back at Chef Ryan, I expect him to still be glaring at me. But instead, there's a strange look on his face, and it doesn't look nearly as murderous as it did before.

“Well,” he says finally. “I can't say I'm happy about you ruining my cake.”

“I know. I'm so sorry! I never meant to—”

“But what you have here is the best work I've ever seen you do. I'm glad you finally got your passion back.” Then he flashes me what could actually pass for a smile and wheels back to the other side of the tent.

“Okay,” Cherie says. “Let's put the cake toppers on here and get this in place. This wedding's about to start!”