And so maybe it was the sunset hair or the simple proximity of another sentient human being, but Dahlia opened her mouth and—
“Oh, god. I just ran right the fuck into you. I am so, so sorry. I am just so nervous. Like, I think the last time I was this nervous was my fourth grade spelling bee, when I forgot how to spell whistle and everyone laughed at me and I maybe peed my tights, just a little. God, wearing tights is the worst.”
Dahlia sucked in a breath. She could see, from the corner of her eye, the other eleven contestants milling around, waiting to be herded to their assigned cooking stations by a producer named Janet. Strawberry Blond Hair kept standing there, staring at her with a blank look on their face. Dahlia felt awkward ending the conversation here, but she didn’t know how to transition smoothly from fourth grade urination—although, for the record, she stood by her assessment of tights—so she simply barreled on, her brain scrambling to find a more relevant way to finish this horrifying minute of her life.
“Anyway, this is weird, right? That we are going to be on TV. That this is real. All I can think about is onions, which is so dumb because everyone else is probably thinking about, you know, veal and foie gras or whatever. Although I’m also thinking about how I’m probably going to trip over someone’s feet the first time we all run into the pantry. And how I will likely forget how to cook as soon as the timer starts.” She paused to laugh a little at herself. “A veritable parade of positive thinking, right here.”
Dahlia pointed to her head. Attempted a charming smile.
Strawberry Blond Hair blinked.
“Cool, okay, so, great. Good talk. Bye.”
Dahlia turned to pivot around their shoulder right as a pale hand landed on her arm.
“This way, honey.”
Thank the goddesses above. Producer Janet was saving Dahlia from herself. If such a thing was even still possible.
Swallowing, Dahlia tried to take it all in as Janet led her through the curving maze of cooking stations that took up the majority of the floor space in the cavernous set. But mainly, all she could focus on was how much she liked the bright red frames of Janet’s glasses, and the small pulse of warmth that had pushed into her pounding heart when Janet called her honey.
They stopped at the very front of the semicircle of stations, all the way to the right.
“Here you go, Miss Woodson. This is you.”
And with a reassuring smile, Janet whirled away to direct the next contestant.
Here were all the details Dahlia had seen on TV for the last seven seasons of Chef’s Special: the deep greens and golds and sparkling turquoise scattered throughout the set in pops of colored glass. How the dark wood of the walls and the floor contrasted against those lighter hues.
She had always thought the set resembled an old Scottish castle on the moors, only recently been paid a visit by Queer Eye. Cozy and strong all at once, its foundations invoking a sense of time and honor—and here and there, some bright splashes of cheer.
Dahlia stared down at the shining, stainless steel countertop of the station. Her station. She recalled the blank look on Strawberry Blond Hair’s face a few minutes ago, as she made a fool of herself within minutes of stepping onto set, and resisted the urge to lean down and smack her forehead against that stainless steel a few times.
Instead, she closed her eyes and breathed in through her nose, like that yoga class she went to once a year ago had taught her.
Onions. The scraggly brown bits on the top and bottom. The pure white of the insides, firm yet pliant. The reliable structure of layers. So many recipes started with the basic building block of a finely diced onion.
Dahlia was learning, in her new life, to take things one step at a time. If she started with basic building blocks, focused on each small step, she could accomplish things.
Dahlia’s eyes blinked open as a tall white man with dark hair ambled over to the workspace next to hers. He was looking down, furiously scribbling in a small notepad. Oh god. People were taking notes, and Dahlia felt like she’d barely heard half the words coming out of Janet’s mouth this morning. And Janet was loud.
“Hey,” the tall dude said, finally looking up. He stuck his pencil behind his ear, all cool like, and held out a hand. “Jacob. Looks like we’re tablemates.”
Dahlia shook his hand. She thought she maybe said her name. She was thrown by how confident he seemed, when all she could think about, aside from onions and that embarrassing scene under the archway, was how gassy she suddenly was. Her stomach was making alarming gurgling sounds. She glanced around the room. All the other contestants were making idle chatter, smiling at each other. They ranged from cocky and attractive, like Jacob, to a short older woman in the opposite corner, her salt-and-pepper bob shaking as she nodded vigorously at the Black woman next to her.