You Should See Me in a Crown(20)
She slips the drumsticks in her hand back into her hair and smiles. I shove my hands in my pockets because I’m suddenly feeling jittery and I’m not sure what else to do with them.
“Well, I, for one,” she says as she takes a couple of steps backward toward the doors to the parking lot, “think there might be much more to you than meets the eye.”
The Bake-Off is a time-honored tradition where candidates for prom court gather in the culinary-arts classroom at school on Sunday afternoon and bake different desserts to sell at a charity bake sale the next day. The competition part of it, though, is that the amount of money you make on your dessert is factored into your point total. And the public aspect is that the culinary-arts room looks like something from the set of MasterChef, with a long window where a wall should be.
“How is my gloss? Too glossy?” Lucy turns to Quinn and puckers her lips. Her crisp, white apron is already tied around her waist, and despite the super-glossy lips giving her definite covergirl vibes, she looks ready to host her own show on Food Network. “I just bought this online—it has real diamonds in it.”
“OhmyGod, Luce! Is that the new M·A·C?” Quinn claps her hands together. “It’s going to look so good on camera.”
As the two of them gush over each other, I can’t help but wish I were at least placed next to my new sort-of friend Mack, who’s a row ahead of me, bobbing her head along to a beat no one else can hear. But instead I’m smack in the middle of the world’s glossiest PomBot sandwich.
And as if on cue, the fifteen or so freshmen who have gathered all pull out their phones to record. They’re pressed against the glass, smudging it with their fingers, which are no doubt sweaty with excitement. There is a live feed of today’s Bake-Off scheduled for Campbell Confidential, and the thought makes me a little sweaty too. Although for way different reasons.
Everyone is situated at their ovens working on their dishes by the time Quinn dips a finger into her own batter and licks it off.
“Oh em gee, yummy!” The E. coli is going to be so strong at this bake sale, I can already feel it. “So good! Can I try yours?”
I can’t believe that Quinn is speaking to me, but then again, this has been a week of unbelievable occurrences. She grins at me and cocks her head to the side, her blond ponytail swaying behind her.
“I don’t think that’s a great idea,” I reply slowly, wondering when the other shoe is going to drop. “It’s probably best not to try too much of the merchandise.”
We haven’t said more than two words to each other since the group project we did together in freshman Honors English. We were supposed to be unpacking the thematic elements of Antigone, and Quinn literally pronounced it “Ann-tee-gone” for the duration of the project, despite the fact that our teacher gently corrected her every class. That and her friendship with Rachel are the only things I needed to know about her to know to steer clear.
“You’re so right. We should save it all for charity.” She nods and wipes her hands on her apron. “I should have thought about that. Ugh, Liz, your mind.”
Quinn goes back to humming whatever pop song she was humming before she accosted me with a spitty finger and hopes of desecrating my dessert, and Madame Simoné puts on some obscure jazz.
Jordan is situated by the row of ovens behind mine, his countertop neatly arranged with the ingredients to make authentic German poppy seed cake.
Jordan looks confident as he measures out some vanilla extract and pours it into the bowl. I wonder if he practiced at home before coming in here today, so that he’d look as at ease while baking as he does while doing everything else.
When I turn back to face my own dish, I barely get the chance to pour the batter into the baking pan before Rachel appears beside me. I can tell it’s her without even looking up, because I can see the bright hot-pink apron she brought with her from home in my periphery. Most of us opted to borrow the plain white ones that were already hanging in the culinary-arts room, but she had to take it just a step further. Like she always does. It’s definitely going to stand out on camera though, and that’s the most annoying part. She’s the worst, but the girl knows strategy.
“Good thing we’re in here where everyone can see, huh? That way no one could buy some irresistibly tasty and very expensive gourmet dish.” Rachel runs her hand along the side of the countertop where I’m standing. She’s placed herself directly between me and Quinn. “I’m glad they do it this way, actually. It really levels the playing field, right, Liz?”
I look at her briefly and squint like I’m trying to figure her out. I may not like her, I may not trust her, but I’m not afraid of her. I’ve gotten very good at biting my tongue over the years, but something about Rachel Collins makes me want to be a little more reckless. I lower my voice and meet her eyes.
“Don’t you ever get tired of being the biggest cliché in Campbell?”
Her face twists up in surprise. “You might’ve been able to sneak your way into valedictorian, but this? Prom is my territory. You know how this is going to play out. I’m going to win queen, Lucy, Claire, and Quinn are going to be my court, and that’s it.” She leans in and lowers her voice. Her smile is cloyingly sweet, something fake and bitter and mean, as she adds, “And in a year, no one will remember you, no one will walk past your face on the wall, and nobody will miss you.”