Run It!

2. Rockstar-2

At noon was the second match: Tomas vs Moma in Battle Winter Melon. I never liked the stuff. To me, it was always one of those vegetables that tasted awful, partially because of its status as a superfood. It had the texture of honeydew with the taste of unripe cucumber.

Moma created a stew that masked the bitterness of winter melon. At least that’s what I heard from the announcer. I was beginning to zone out in my folding chair. I knew my parents were someplace in the audience, or maybe touring the campus. I could have gone for a walk but couldn’t risk missing a front row seat of the Giovanna vs James drama to come.

When the re-decorated table was revealed, Gigi shook her head with an audible groan. Tomatoes.

I could see why she was annoyed; compared to the previous matches, this felt like a slow-pitch in her favor, but I failed to see why this was a problem. All she had to do was suffer a little boredom and use her Italian roots to sail through to the next round. When the timer started, Gigi walked over to where Prayikina and I sat, taking out her compact to check her lipstick.

“This is bullshit. I’m about ready to walk out.”

My first thought was to locate Gigi’s father, to force him to talk some sense into her, but Prayikina was on the case already.

“Gi, you can act like a diva, or you can walk away with the victory and the entire arena will adore you even more than they already do.”

“I don’t know, I’m not feeling it.”

“Just do what you love,” I suggested. “You don’t even have to go with an Italian theme.”

“You know what? You’re right. I’m going to go out there and do what I love.”

Gigi did exactly that, creating a raw, vegan spaghetti marinara. She was a master of herbs and spices, creating a salad alongside a thick tomato-based sauce with flavors that were more Japanese than Italian, offering a sweeter, more tangy experience. I can’t even remember what her opponent made, only that his meat and alcohol-based creation paled in comparison.

I had only a few minutes to give her a hug before my match. I ran to my station just as the MC announced: “Kyle vs Elena in Battle…” There was a pause as if her line on the teleprompter had been changed mid-sentence. “Beef!”

“Um, what?” I gripped my knives. How exactly did the first three matches come to be vegetable-based, but somehow my match against the son of the billionaire meat industry CEO was based on beef? I tried to remain calm but made the mistake of looking to the judging table. On the panel were Principal Samuel Yukihira, a second former alumnus I didn’t recognize, and Isla Mito—Kyle’s mother!

What kind of sick joke was this? I crossed myself as the opening buzzer started. “Please God, I need some inspiration.” We had just two hours to cook, plate, and serve. I needed a battle plan. “Beef. What do I do with beef?” I didn’t even like the stuff.

If I had to use beef, I was going to execute a surf and turf of sorts. From my mother, I knew how to sous-vide, and from my father I knew how to make bread and other pastry in a superhumanly short time. “Let’s do this.”

I had my father’s bandana around my wrist. I could already feel his energy pulsating through me. But what I really needed was the fire. In one swift motion, I snagged the bandana from my wrist and tied the red cloth on my head, securing the knot at the base of my skull.

That was when I first heard the music. Like a cheer from a distant land, words echoed in my head. I could feel a beat, a tribal sound from my father’s fisherman heritage. Time stood still as I slipped into a state of euphoria. There was no one in the area except me. I would make a beef Wellington-like creation with lobster and compound butter. From the supply area, I grabbed sirloin and lobster. I quickly put them into separate poaching bags with butter and herbs and got them going in the sous-vide machine as I started on my puff-pastry.

I got this!

In a mixing bowl, I added a few sticks of butter. I would have preferred if it was softened, but the mixer would smash it to the correct consistency. I added parsley, garlic, and lots of cayenne pepper. The mixer whipped it into a cookie-dough mix which I wrapped into a piece of parchment paper before pressing it into a silicon mold and putting it in the flash freezer. Everything was done in one long chain of movements that felt like a dance. I was having fun—

—until the silence of the arena was broken by my mother’s profanity-laced shriek.

I glanced over just long enough to know the whole story. And I could feel my soul rotting inside my stomach. Mom was getting in Auntie Erica’s face about changing my round’s match-up rules so Prayikina’s road to the finals looked more certain.

“My Kiki does not require such underhanded tactics,” Aunt Erica said. Loudly.

Principal Yukihira looked over from the judging table. He appeared to have been sleeping, using his arms as a pillow. His dark red hair, worn long, looked kind of rumpled. The sight nearly made me chuckle. He watched my aunt and mother snapping at each other from a safe distance, seeming to wait and see where the cat-fight was headed before calling security.

“How was Remy’s trip to Sweden?” Erica asked, her voice carrying across the arena.

My mother lunged at Aunt Erica, only stopped by Akira physically pulling her off.

“Ladies!” Principal Yukihira shouted. “Please respect the students. This is their time to focus. You may tear each other’s throats out when the competition day is over.”

I returned my focus to my dish and the music in my head. Or at least that’s what I tried to do. The risotto I’d started was threatening to weld itself to the pan and I had no idea where I was going to introduce it into the dish. My mind went blank. For a few terrifying moments, I felt like the world had stopped and some unseen force had put a bag over my head. I was deaf, mute, blind and about to vomit. My heart was pounding. My idea was so stupid! What the hell was I thinking? Mom was right all along — I was going to get eliminated the first round. Like mother, like daughter.

I tore off my father’s bandana, crumpling it in my hand like a stress ball. I was not worthy. Why did my mother have to be here? Why couldn’t I find my dad?

Put the bandana back on.

My hands trembled as tears formed in my eyes.

Don’t look at your mother, just put the bandana back on. You’re an artist. You can do this.

Somehow, I managed to finish my elements for my deconstructed Wellington, smearing the beef with mustard and topping the ensemble with a butter-spiced puff pastry. I just hoped the judges had an appetite for modern art. ‘Emotional Breakdown: a mixed media presentation by Elena Rose.’

Kyle presented first. To the surprise of no one, the all-American meathead had made a broiled steak on a bed of garlic rice. The dish was passable. The treatment of the meat was at the level one would expect for the son of Isla Mito.

I took off the bandana, letting the nerves flow from my mind like waves on a beach. Part of me wished I could still hear the music, but I needed to calm my mind and present with the poise and grace of a Nakiri. I took a calming breath and presented my dish to the judges on a large family-style platter. “Beef Wellington with lobster risotto.”

Isla Mito looked confused. “Did you forget to plate it?” she asked.

It was only then I got a good look at what I’d created in my otherworldly state. On the plate was a bed of puff pastry the shape of a turtle, and on its back was a sculpted shell. “Cut into the pastry,” I said, hoping to dear God I’d assembled all the elements inside.

Isla reached for her knife and cut into the turtle like it was an apple pie. She tasted. Paused. “That is so cool. You wrapped the beef in perfectly cooked risotto so that every bite contains an entire spectrum of flavors.”

“Mom,” Kyle groaned.

I won by a mile. I smiled. Laughed. There was joy and pride for one reason, and one reason only; I officially did better than my mother.

“There you have it, folks,” the MC announced. “If you turn your attention to the screen, you’ll see the brackets for the semi-finals.”

The arena filled with camera flashes, all the guest journos ready to report on the next round’s match-ups. Looking up at the screen, I found I’d be facing Gigi in the next round.

Now all eyes were on Principal Yukihira to determine the themes. “For the first round — Moma versus Prayikina — each of your dishes has to highlight chocolate. For Elena Rose and Giovanna, your dish will be a pizza. The semi-finals will be held in two days. Best of luck to all of you, ladies.”

As I hugged Gigi, I noticed my father leaving out the fire exit. He was followed not far behind by Principal Yukihira, who was lighting a cigarette before he was even fully out the door.

To stay hidden, I exited out a door a few feet down and around a corner, just far enough to be able to see and hear them.

“Your little girl was really impressive.”

My father’s hands trembled as he lit a cigarette. “Thanks, that means a lot.”

“Have you told anyone about the diagnosis?”

What diagnosis?

“No, only you.” My father took a long drag from his cigarette as he gripped his stomach. “After the surgery failed, there wasn’t anyone else. I couldn’t burden Elena, not in her first year away from home.”

“It’s okay, man, I’m here for you. But just a heads up, Erica knows about your trip to the pain clinic.”

“Of all people.” My father chuckled and shook his head. “I can already picture what Miss Erica’s going to say at the funeral. ‘What kind of wife doesn’t know her man has terminal cancer?’”

Terminal cancer?

“Sam, please promise me when I go, you’ll watch over Elena Rose.”

“Well, sure. I’m only her godfather. And, you know, I might as well, since I’m stuck here as ‘interim’ principal. But you really need to sit down with Elena. Soon.”

“I’m not ready to tell my daughter I might not live to see her graduate.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I know my cancer’s untreatable. Ali’s mother’s been a godsend. She paid for doctors from all over the country, the surgeries, the whole lot. She tried, bless her heart. She gave me a fighting chance but my body just failed me.”

“I’m going to tell you what I tell my kids,” Sam said in a kind, compassionate tone. “You’re only a failure if you stop trying.”

“I’ve been fighting for a long time. I just don’t think I can fight anymore.” Dad finished his cigarette, stomping it to the ground. “The pain’s not unbearable and it’s been a while since a meal resulted in internal bleeding. The meds I got at the pain clinic were worth every cent of my mother-in-law’s money.” Dad looked up at the sun, shaking his head. “Is this the definition of ironic? I devoted my life to food and now I’m going to die of stomach cancer.”

“Could you do me a favor?” Sam asked. “Just sit down and write Elena Rose a letter, something for that poor girl to hold on to. When my old man died on that expedition, I always wished he’d left me something other than just memories.”

“I guess I could do that,” Dad said with a sigh. “I have no idea what I’d say, though. Oh, and I’m sorry about your father. Ali and I tried to make it to Japan for the funeral, but I got hit with a bad fever.”

“It’s fine, I got the condolences card Ali sent. You know… it’s hard to believe she doesn’t know how sick you are. I mean, what is she thinking?”

Dad shrugged. “She just thinks I get sick a lot. Just part of my inferior genetics. Anyway, Sammy, how did your old man die? Surfing in Bali? Clubbing in Monaco? No, let me guess — he fell off the Eiffel tower while getting stoned off his ass?”

“He drowned in someplace called Jusenkyo. I think it’s in China.”

“Wow, just wow. I’m really sorry,” my father said with a nod while staring out into the distance. “Was he doing something he loved?”

“Always.”

“This world is a crazy place. I’m really going to miss it.”

That was the moral of the story; life’s a b***h and then you die. I quietly walked back to where Gigi had been waiting. She of course was no longer there. Since I didn’t feel like walking all the way back to the dorms, I headed for the bathroom. Thankfully the majority of stalls were empty, allowing me to run in and immediately commence vomiting while sobbing so hard I couldn’t breathe.

“Elle?” Gigi’s voice said from the main doorway.

“H-here!”

Gigi’s heels clicked across the tile floor, stopping outside my stall. “Are you okay?” she asked, followed by a gentle tap on the door. “Did your mom do something?”

“I’m fine,” I said, still on my knees, my hair falling into the toilet.

“You don’t sound fine.” Gigi pushed the door slightly, as if to tell me it was unlocked but she was too good a friend to barge in on me. “What did that cunt-b***h do this time?”

I giggled through the pain as I got to my feet, pulling my hair into a ponytail. “What would your dad think if he heard you swearing like a sailor?”

Gigi handed me a paper towel to blot my face. “My dad went to school with your mom. He knows what kind of person she is. He’s even used those exact words to describe her.”

“Yeah, right.” I hadn’t actually met Gigi’s father, but if had even half his daughter’s sophistication, there was no way he endorsed swearing of that kind. Not in English, anyway. I assumed he swore in classy foreign tongue. I dried my eyes. “It’s not my mom. My dad’s sick.”

“Did he tell you that?”

“No, I heard him talking to Principal Sam.”

“You listened in on something you weren’t meant to hear?” Gigi said in an accusatory tone. As if the fact that I overheard it made the information any less true. She sighed. “Then you have to let it go. For now.”

“I can’t,” I said, knowing she was right.

“You made it all the way to the finals. You came here to make your dad proud.” Gigi held my hand, leading me to the sink to splash water on my face.

Gazing at my reflection, I could see how bad I looked. My makeup was smudged, making it look like I’d been punched in the face. “I can’t let my mom see me like this.”

“Then don’t,” Gigi said sweetly. “Just because your parents are here doesn’t mean you have to spend time with them.”

“Are you blowing off your dad?” I knew her father had flown in from Italy.

“You’re not the only one with secrets.”

“The fact you’re a vegan or that you’ve got a new boyfriend?”

“Does it matter? Secrets are secrets,” she said with a shrug. “Come back to the dorms and we can eat a meal of vegan junk food while watching horror movies.”

“Do you have the cheesecake?” I asked, referring to a soy yogurt-based no-bake cheesecake that tasted like absolute heaven.

“Yup. With vegan chocolate and cherry syrup, which should go great with a SAW movie marathon.”

“I do like Saw.” It would be nice to spend the evening away from my worries. And I knew that with Gigi by my side, I stood a good chance at making it back to the dorms without running into anyone who’d force me to socialize like a mature human being.

I didn’t want to put on the mask of the perfect porcelain doll of a daughter, or that of the child-protégé.

I couldn’t keep them on, right now, even if I tried.