Chapter 3
POP! —A burst of red and gold confetti explodes over my head the second I shut my car door. I blink through the glitter raining down on me to see Kara beaming from the sidewalk, the empty cannon still smoking in her hand.
“There she is!” She calls, throwing her hands in the air for emphasis. “America’s next great baker, live and in color!”
My best friend crushes me in a bear hug, bouncing up and down as she squeezes me in excitement.
I’m sure we look ridiculous to those driving past as we laugh to the point of gasping for air.
I barely register the Tupperware full of lemon cookies smashing into my ribcage before Kara leans back and uses both hands to smooth my reckless mane away from my face.
“You’re going to do this, Taylor. I know I’m not always the warm and fuzzy kind of friend, but for this? This competition has your name written all over it.”
Warmth floods my face. Searching her eyes, I find nothing but sincerity swimming in her rich umber stare.
My cheeks ache in the best possible way, and I bite the inside of my cheek, trying to get myself back under control.
It’s hard to stay level-headed when Kara is radiating this amount of excitement.
She links an arm through mine and swipes the Tupperware from my grasp in one fell swoop. “Are these the citrus butter bombs you’ve been working on?”
“Your name for them, not mine.” I toss my head back in another laugh. “I was thinking something a little cuter. Maybe Sunny Melts, or Lemon-Butter Drops?”
Kara unlinks our arms, pops open the container, and pushes an entire cookie into her mouth, chewing slowly. She closes her eyes before she audibly moans and reaches for another. I can’t help laughing because that’s precisely the reaction I was hoping for.
I nudge her with my shoulder while she double-fists cookies beside me. The confetti sparkles fade behind us as we push into the building, the fresh air instantly replaced by the chemical bite of old carpet cleaner and the unmistakable scent of stale coffee grounds.
The lobby looks the same as it always has: water-stained ceiling tiles that sag at the corners, flickering fluorescent lights that buzz overhead like a fly caught in a bug zapper, and a patch of industrial carpet that’s so worn it’s almost completely smooth.
I didn’t even know that was possible, but the faded navy textile under our feet is living proof that it is.
Our footsteps hush as we cross the cubicle maze, each fabric wall covered with faded memos and ancient motivational posters.
There’s a comically passive-aggressive reminder on every third row to keep the break room clean.
Somewhere in the distance, the printer complains over another jammed tray, followed by someone muttering curses under their breath.
My steps slow, a tingle of nerves blooming in my belly as I picture myself actually asking our boss for the time off. Kara notices and whispers, “No backing out now, Sunshine.”
I swallow hard against the lump forming in my throat. We slide into our cubicles and sit on our worn-down swivel chairs, the earlier enthusiasm colliding with the monotonous hum of the office.
“But first,” Kara says, popping the cork on the miniature bottle of champagne she brought. “A little bubbly before you go face your fears.”
I watch the tiny, fizzing bubbles rise to the surface, trying not to spiral over the task looming ahead of me. My stomach performs another somersault at the thought.
Our supreme overlord doesn’t like anybody on our team, but she harbors special disdain for me. The Trunch doesn’t try to hide her feelings, nor does she sugar-coat anything. Every conversation is peppered with disgruntled sighs and countless eye-rolls.
If I weren’t so well-adjusted, it’d be a real bummer.
“I don’t know if I can do this,” I admit, raking my lower lip between my teeth. I instantly regret it when my lip gloss smears across them in the least glamorous way possible.
Kara smacks my arm playfully. “You can. You’ve been dreaming about this for so long, you’ve earned it. Now strut in there like the baking rockstar you are, and get that time off!”
“Alright.” I pass the champagne into her waiting hands, and crunch the last bite of my cookie before standing and making the world’s least confident shuffle down the hall to our boss’s office.
I take a deep breath and square my shoulders, trying to appear more self-assured than I feel. I knock three times and step back to wait.
“Come in!”
The cheap wood door feels heavier than it should as I push it open. The musty aroma of The Trunch’s office hits me before the door swings all the way back on its hinges. It smells like old paper, burnt coffee, and a cloying floral air freshener that somehow makes everything worse.
Stacks of manila folders teeter on the edge of the desk, forming lopsided towers that look one breath away from disaster.
A dusty fake fern slumps in the corner, and the prehistoric desktop computer emits a low grinding noise, the tower rattling against the peeling laminate like it knows it should’ve retired a couple decades ago.
My boss sits behind her desk, arms crossed. Her expression is laced with that special brand of annoyance she seems to reserve exclusively for me. “The shift just started, Taylor. What could you possibly need?”
I swallow hard. It’s go time.
“Good morning, Karen!” I plaster on my brightest smile and make my voice as cheerful as humanly possible. “I have something I need to speak with you about, but if it’s not a good time, I can—”
“Taylor!” Her voice crashes through the otherwise quiet room like a clap of thunder. I wince. “Spit it out. The faster you say what you have to say, the faster you leave my office and go do what we pay you to do.”
Bracing both hands on the back of a plastic chair in front of her desk, I try to steady myself and my racing thoughts before speaking.
“As you have probably gathered, baking is my entire life. My passion, really. And I’ve always wanted the chance to do that professionally, rather than just as a hobby or small—”
“TAYLOR!”
“Right, sorry. Straight to it, then. I’ve been accepted as a contestant on the first season of America’s Next Great Baker.”
An exasperated sigh escapes as The Trunch props her head on her hand. “Great, congrats. What’s that got to do with me?”
I roll my shoulders in an ill-fated attempt at releasing the tension that’s built up in the middle of my spine. “Well, filming starts next month, which means I need to take some time off.”
“You can’t be serious…”
“Oh, I’m very serious. It’s technically only on the weekends, but they provide a house for the entire time because it’s also a reality show, and I’d really like to be there for the entire experience…
” I trail off, figuring she probably couldn’t care less.
“I only need one week off from work to start.”
She snorts. “One week? What’s the point of going at all if you don’t think you’re good enough to make it past the first week?”
“I’m going against the best of the best, Karen. You never know what’ll happen. But, you’re right. I might need longer than that, and I only have one week’s worth of PTO. Are there any other options? Please, Karen. I need this more than I’ve ever needed anything.”
I’m not above groveling if it gets me to LA.
“We’ll see if you get further than that.” She taps a pen against her desk, tired eyes flicking back and forth between her computer screen and my face. “Fine. One week of PTO. After that? Unpaid. If you last longer, that is. Don’t make me regret this.”
“Thank you, I won’t,” I stammer, doing my best to hold back a smile as I back toward the door. “You won’t. I mean—I won’t make you regret this!”
An audible groan of frustration chases me as I make a quick exit before she can change her mind.
I sink against the closed door, hands coming up to cover my face. Forgetting the makeup I put on this morning, I press my fingers into my eyes until I see stars.
She really said yes. I’m actually going to LA.
I’m going to be on America’s Next Great Baker.
Walking back to my cubicle feels more like floating on a cloud than trudging through an office. The entire customer service team is already on its feet, waiting in a hush to hear the verdict. Apparently, Kara’s been busy broadcasting my news to anyone who will listen.
My eyes bounce over each waiting stare before a mega-watt smile breaks across my face, and I nod my head enthusiastically. Claps and hoots ring out from every direction, and I feel tears prickle my eyes, warm and unexpected, as everyone cheers.
“Good luck!”, “You’ve got this!”, and other congratulations fill the room.
Kara sneaks an elbow into my side. “See? They get it, we all know what you can do. Now go show the rest of the country why you really are America’s next great baker!”
?????????
The next few weeks are a curious mix of lightning-fast and slow-motion moments, packed with long days at the office and evenings full of practice that feel far too short. But every moment is worth it because today is the day I’ve been waiting for.
I dash out of work a couple hours early, eager to finish packing. Last night’s email from our producers came with the address for our LA house and a not-so-subtle demand: be there by 7:00 PM.
By the time I catapult through my front door, the adrenaline high has simmered into a softer, sweeter kind of excitement. My vision sparkles at the edges, and my hands tremble ever so slightly as I unlock the door.
The apartment looks the same as always: tiny, sunlit, a little cluttered, but completely mine. My suitcase sits open on the couch, half full of folded clothes I’m already second-guessing.
As soon as I drop my keys, a familiar knock rattles the door. I crack it open and Mom’s standing there, beaming. She breezes in, a grocery bag hooked around her wrist.
“Hi, sweet pea. I figured you might forget to eat in all the excitement.” Her bright, singsong voice bounces around the room.