The Decision To Interfere
967 Words
I slept little.
It was not the kind of tossing and turning you experience after too many cups of coffee or a bad dream. It is the kind that happens when your brain just keeps replaying the same sequences over and over until you're sure you will rut grooves into your thinking.
The envelope.
The heavy, exact paper.
The words I couldn't help but read.
An invitation-only contest for chefs whose expertise and imagination set them apart…
I had left it on the kitchen table the previous night, pretending that I could keep distance from it if I did not touch it again. Yet, when I crept into the kitchen in my socks, there it was, lying in a spot of sunlight as if it was the exclusive owner of the place.
It was ridiculous. The paper did not seem to be complacent. And yet.
I filled the cup with coffee, vowing I would not touch it until I had caffeinated at least. I managed to last until my first sip before I reached for it again.
I read it a tenth time. The location was vague: The Aureum Venue. The date was in two weeks' time. The lone occupant listed was a phone number written in bold black script, with no name to accompany it.
I had Googled it the previous night. Nothing. No hits at all. Whoever had sent this hadn't just wanted to lie low, they had taken care to ensure it.
I should've discarded it. That would've been the intelligent thing to do. Because no one gives you a chance at something this massive without expecting something in exchange.
And yet…
I could sense the weight of the bills accumulating on my countertop. Hear the tone of my landlord's sudden voicemail last week. Picture the disappointed face of my former mentor when I told him I'd probably have to sell.
Maybe it wasn't smart. But I have never had the choice of being smart all the time.
The café was quiet that morning. Mondays were always that way. The regulars trickled in, Mr. Han with his crossword, Lena with her dog-eared thriller, the couple from the bookstore on the corner who always shared one croissant and two forks.
When the slump hit, I already had the card in my pocket. It was like a rock, burrowing into my hip every time I moved.
I told myself I wasn't going to call the number. That I'd just keep it in reserve, just in case.
By noon, though, "just in case" was beginning to sound like "inevitable."
I walked into the back room, shut the door, and pulled out my phone. I hesitated over the keypad with my fingers.
If I called, I was stepping into something I didn't know.
If I didn't. I was abandoning a chance I'd ever see again.
I dialed the numbers before I could talk myself out of it.
The phone rang once. Twice. Three times.
On the fourth, a woman's voice answered. Sharp. "Aureum Registry."
I hesitated. "Uh. hi. I got this"
"You're calling in response to your invitation?"
My heart pounded. "I, yes. I am."
There was silence, the clinking of keys. "Isla Rivera, is that correct?"
"Yes."
"Congratulations. You've been approved as a competitor. Information will be emailed to you. Do you have any dietary needs or accessibility requirements?
It was so cool I almost forgot how strange this was. "Uh, no."
"Very well. You'll get your travel itinerary in forty-eight hours. Be advised that once you're there, contact with the outside world will be limited."
"Restricted how?"
"All phones, computers, and other apparatus will be shut down until the competition is complete."
My grip on the phone hardened. "Why?"
"To ensure fairness and focus." Her tone said that was that. "Do you have any other questions?"
A hundred, but my mouth answered, "No."
"Good. We'll see you soon, Miss Rivera."
The phone died.
I stared at my phone. My email beeped a beat later, an innocent message with a golden crest on the top. My trip was booked. My name was on a list. There was no going back now.
And still, some recalcitrant part of my brain whispered that I still didn't know what I'd just signed up for.
I locked the café and headed home. It was as I was entering my building that I noticed the man leaning against the lamppost on the other side of the street.
He was tall. Black overcoat. Hands in pockets. Not wincing. Not looking at me exactly, but close enough that the hairs at the base of my neck stood up.
I held myself back from rushing in.
When I arrived home, my heart was thudding in my ears. I double-locked the door, made tea I didn't consume, and told myself that it was nothing.
At midnight, I woke up to the ring of my phone.
I woke up to a message from an unknown number:
"Don't go to Aureum."
I was now sitting up, fully awake. My thumbs hovering over the keyboard.
Who is this? I typed.
No response.
Five minutes later, another text:
"You don't know what they want from you."
I didn't sleep again after that.
By morning, I had changed my plan. I wasn't going to just go. I was going to find out exactly what Aureum was, and why someone did not want me there.
And if that meant playing whatever game they were playing, so be it.
I had picked up my coat to go to the café, but when I opened the door to my apartment, there was a plain white envelope on the floor.
No address. No stamp. Just my name.
There was one Polaroid inside.
It was me, standing in my kitchen last night, grasping the Aureum invitation.
- Writer
