Run It!

2. Rockstar-1

2

Rockstar

The opening day of competition started bright and early. First up, at eight in the morning, was Prayikina vs Davis in Battle Kale. The MC made the announcement, putting two hours on the clock, and then like a proper host spent the entire time attempting to shove a microphone in the contestants’ faces.

Prayikina was more than willing to talk about her Indian-inspired dish. She was close to her dad, Akira Hayama, an Indian chef adopted at ten years old by a Japanese faculty member. He grew up at the school but never turned his back on his heritage of South Asia. He taught his daughter the culture of spices, aromatics and the courage to experiment. She didn’t even need the entire clock time and easily defeated her opponent’s kale-wrapped venison.

I knew her secret. She’d somehow created a version of Paneer, an Indian cheese, using quick-setting gelatin. The texture was like a fluffy cloud molded into a tofu-like shape. I could only imagine what spices she used to complement the peppery bitterness of kale. That was just the amazing star she was.

Prayikina did a victory lap around the arena, shaking hands. From our seats, Gigi and I ran up to her, giving hugs, squealing for joy. We both had a while to wait for our matches, so after Prayikina was whisked away for interviews, Gigi and I moved to the now-empty front row.

“Oh! Kale chips,” Gigi said, discreetly stealing a family-sized bag from the display table.

“How do you know those aren’t decorative?” The spread of kale in all its forms reminded me of something out of a creative smorgasbord in Iron Chef, offering up the illusion that kale actually came in a wide variety of edible forms.

“With how much our parents pay in tuition, I’m sure the faculty can afford actual food on their displays.” She sat back down.

I was mesmerized by Prayikina. She was such a happy person with a sense of confidence I could only aspire to.

“Eyes on the prize, right?” Gigi said with a laugh.

“There’s a prize this year?”

“Same as every year. Winner gets their moment of glory, seeing their name in lights, added to the long list of past winners, honor of our ancestors and all that.”

“It would be nice if there was an actual prize, beyond bragging rights,” I said, reaching for a chip, since I was actually kind of hungry. Sometimes it felt like we were nothing more than performing seals, bringing fame and the press to the school.

“We’re chefs, all we have are bragging rights. You should know that better than anyone.”

“Because of my mom.” I couldn’t help but laugh. “Yeah, you can say that again.” Gigi had a wall of pageant trophies and other talent awards. She was a beautiful blonde champion: the daughter my mother always wanted. For that, I was so unbelievably jealous. I guess that was the prize we were all competing for: the love, admiration, and approval of our celebrity parents.