Chapter 11
In the middle of a sprawling green lawn, a lone table for two sits beneath the open sky, draped in a red-and-white checkered tablecloth. Magnolia and Garrett are seated across from each other, mid-conversation, each holding a glass of red wine.
“Dinner is served,” Theo announces in a painfully exaggerated Italian accent as he strides into frame, setting down a platter of spaghetti and meatballs between them that’s comically oversized.
He’s in black slacks and a black-and-white striped shirt, complete with red sashes tied at his waist and neck. A curly mustache is scrawled across his upper lip in what is very clearly permanent marker.
Judy enters from the opposite side, dressed nearly identically—minus the mustache—with a full-sized accordion strapped to her chest.
“A little music to set the mood,” she says, her accent just as terrible as Theo’s.
The accordion wheezes to life in what might generously be called a traditional Italian tune. Theo sways dramatically, clutching his chest as though he’s witnessing a masterpiece.
At the table, the judges do their best to maintain composure. They lift their glasses and clink them together.
“Let’s hope our bakers are better equipped for this challenge than our hosts,” Magnolia says, laughing.
Garrett turns directly to the camera, a knowing smile tugging at his mouth. “And with that, welcome to Italian Week.”
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Who doesn’t love Italian food? Pizza, spaghetti, minestrone, garlic bread—you name it, I’m here for it. But Italian desserts feel a little trickier to place. Aside from tiramisu and gelato, what else even counts?
Since my experience with Italian baking is limited, I opted for mini tiramisu cups for our signature this morning. It was risky given the time constraint, but I stabilized the mascarpone cream as much as I could so that I didn’t serve them creamy coffee soup.
Thankfully, it worked.
Magnolia appreciated the intensity of my espresso, but Garrett called out my presentation. The layers weren’t perfect, which isn’t the worst critique I could’ve gotten, but it still stings since I took my time with them. I’ll just have to try that much harder next time.
There were a handful of other tiramisus. I guess a lot of us were unsure how to tackle the challenge of celebrating classic Italian flavors.
Alex and Brandon were the standouts, each making different Italian cookies.
Both batches were flawless, but Alex received high praise for his precise layers in his Italian Rainbow Cookies.
It doesn’t surprise me that a man who moves with such intention across his station has flawless execution with something like this.
We took a brief lunch break and have all reconvened in the tent for our second technical challenge. Lila, who is directly in front of me, turns around to flash me a quick smile.
“Let’s do this, Taylor!” She exclaims, raising her hand high for a high-five over my workbench. I smile back, smacking my hand into hers, catching the glint of her phone screen on her station. I wave, then slide to the other side of my station to be out of frame.
I don’t fault Lila for filming every moment she can here, but I also don’t want to be on her live when I’m doing my best to swallow all of my nerves. Just in case, I swipe my hands over my hair to smooth it down anyway.
God, I’m so nervous for this one.
The judges consistently love my flavors, but Garrett always finds fault with my execution.
There’s no room for error today.
“For this challenge,” Garrett announces. “We would like you to make twenty-four identical pizzelle. They should be thin, crisp, evenly colored, and delicately flavored. Twelve with anise, and twelve with citrus. You have one hour to accomplish your task.”
Same as last week, the judges leave the tent, and the hosts immediately announce that our time has begun. Since they don’t waste any time, neither do I.
I set the iron to what I assume is the proper temperature and mix my batter while I wait for it to heat up. There’s some trial and error in finding the right amount of batter and the exact timing to achieve that perfect golden shade, but it only takes a couple of oopsies before I figure it out.
Pizzelle are deceptive like that. Simple enough to look easy, unforgiving enough to punish every lapse in attention or judgment. Good thing I have a little extra of both today.
Once I find that magic ratio, I lean into the rhythm of the process, reminding myself that I don’t have to be the best. I just have to avoid being the worst.
Across the tent, Alex barely looks up from his station. His movements are efficient as always, almost bored, like he could do this in his sleep.
Who am I kidding? He probably can.
When he lifts the lid of his iron, his expression gives away nothing. He just checks the color, adjusts the heat, and moves on with no wasted thought or effort.
In front of me, Lila is having the opposite experience.
She opens her iron and winces. The pizzelle droops over the edge, too pale in places, too dark in others. She peels it off with her fingers, already shaking her head before it’s fully free.
“Ugh,” she mutters, glancing toward the cameras.
I refocus on my own station, but my eyes keep drifting forward to Lila’s growing discard pile, then sideways to Alex’s neat row of cooling cookies. He lines them up without thinking, adjusting one that’s barely off-center.
He seems different today, almost content in a way I don’t recognize on him. The scowl that usually guards his face is gone, replaced by a soft peacefulness. It makes him look younger, or maybe, more his age. Less android prodigy, more compelling artisan.
I bite my lip and smile; it looks really good on him.
As if he heard me, he inclines his head in my direction. He smirks, eyes darting from my face to the iron on my station before mouthing, “Pay attention.”
Silly, Alex. I am paying attention.
When time is called, I look down at my plate of cookies, proud of what I accomplished.
They’re relatively close in size, with good design definition from the iron.
The shade isn’t exactly identical, but they’re in the same window.
Definitely more cousins than sisters, but hey, at least they’re in the same family.
Somehow, I’m the last to bring my bake to the judging table. The rest are already exiting the tent, waiting.
I move to place my pizzelle behind my name tag, which happens to be right next to Lila’s disaster. When I set my plate down, the impact shakes the table, and a few of Lila’s pizzelle jiggle in response.
Oh no, that’s definitely not good.
Curiosity overrides any sense of urgency to go meet up with the others, so I linger and survey the rest of the cookies on the table.
Movement from the side entrance to the tent startles me.
A production assistant I don’t recognize approaches the table and replaces Lila’s plate with one filled with beautiful pizzelle.
The replacement is flawless, easily the best on the table and not something that comes out of a technical challenge under this much pressure, and definitely not from Lila.
“Hey,” I say, keeping my voice light. “What’s going on?”
The assistant hesitates, eyes shifting my way. “Just helping things along.”
“That wasn’t what she turned in.”
She exhales through her nose, like I’m being difficult. “Lila’s got a big audience. Viewers like her.”
“Okay, but what difference does that make?” My stomach twists. “She messes up and gets a do-over? I’m sure people loved Ace, too.”
Out of nowhere, Joe steps up behind me before I can say more, his smile already in place. “This isn’t the fight you want.”
“But it’s not fair,” I say as I turn to him. The word feels childish as soon it leaves my mouth, but it needed to be said because Lila shouldn’t get special treatment just because she has a social media following.
That’s not how competition works.
Joe leans in, voice low. “This is television, Taylor. Not a meritocracy.” Then, softer, like advice: “Don’t make waves if you want to stay in this.”
He subtly angles his body, blocking me from the cameras without drawing attention to it.
His gaze meets mine, imploring me to keep my mouth shut.
I see the warning for what it is as he steps aside, clearing the path to the exit without looking at me again.
Unsure if I’ve been dismissed or saved, I take a step back.
“Okay…” My voice trails off as I stumble in that direction.
I’m distracted when I join the others.
How can they just replace Lila’s bake with something better? Every single one of us has struggled with something here. She’s no different, no better than the rest of us. I don’t care how many followers she has; the most talented bakers should be the ones moving on.
But what am I supposed to do with this information? Clearly, the production team knows about it since they're the ones doing it.
Is there any point in telling the others?
Probably not, it won’t change anything. I press my lips together, brows furrowing.
“If you were concentrating any harder, you’d have smoke coming out of your ears,” RaeAnn says as she nudges into my shoulder. “Penny for your thoughts?”
I shake my head, deciding in that moment not to tell her what I saw, and force a smile. “Just reliving that whole technical, you know? Just when you think you know what’s coming, it’s something else entirely.”
She hums her agreement. “You looked like you did okay.”
“I’ve definitely done worse, that’s for sure.”
We laugh together at that because almost nothing could be worse than my first bake in the tent. It isn’t long before we’re called back in for judging. And, to everyone’s surprise but mine, Lila wins the technical.
Her shriek of excitement hits me like a punch to the chest. She knows that wasn’t what she turned in to the judges.
She knows, and she doesn’t care.
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The house is quieter than usual when we get back, the kind of quiet that only happens when everyone’s drained and pretending not to think about judging. Lila’s already in our room when I push the door open, sitting cross-legged on her bed with her phone propped up.
She’s smiling wide, effortless and camera-ready.
“Hey, bestie,” she chirps, eyes flicking to the screen. “We survived Italian Week.”
I hover just inside the doorway, suddenly unsure how to start. Kara is usually the one who confronts people. I’m the “nice” one.
“Hey.”
She taps something on her phone, the smile softening but not disappearing. “Okay, guys, I’m gonna hop off for now,” she says, blowing a kiss. “Love you all. Lila out!”
The smile drops the second the phone goes dark.
She tosses her phone onto the bedside table, rubbing her temples in deep circles. I step farther into the room, setting my bag down a little too carefully. “Congrats on the technical.”
“Thanks.” She smooths her hair over one shoulder, not missing a beat, already reaching for a makeup wipe. “It was wild, right? That technical was brutal.”
I hum, noncommittal, and sit on the edge of my bed. I don’t look at her when I speak. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure,” she says with a casual shrug.
I sit back, resting my weight on my hands. “Did you actually turn those pizzelle in?”
The air changes, and her eyes flick to mine.
“I just—at the table, I noticed something weird. And maybe I’m wrong, but—”
She tosses her wipe in the small garbage can near her bed, leaning back against her pillows. Her expression is pleasant enough, though a little condescending. Like she’s humoring a child.
“What are you talking about, Taylor?”
I swallow, pressing on, afraid I’ll lose my nerve. “Those pizzelle… they weren’t yours.”
Much to my surprise, she just laughs. It’s not loud or defensive. Just a small, surprised sound as a hand flutters to cover her mouth.
“Oh my god,” she says. “Are we really doing this?”
“I’m not accusing you of anything.” I amend quickly, though it definitely feels like I am. “I just thought maybe there was a mistake, or—”
“Or what?” she asks, tilting her head. The motion is almost predatory, making me swallow hard against the lump of nerves forming in my throat. “You think I cheated.”
“I’m not saying that. I think production stepped in.”
Her smile sharpens as she stands, crossing the room toward me at a pace that suddenly feels territorial. “You know how this works, right?”
“I thought I did.”
And that’s the truth. I genuinely thought this show was a bunch of home bakers coming together in good faith. We’d all show up, do our best, and the most talented among us would win the grand prize.
“It’s a show, Taylor. Entertainment. People want stories. They want faces they recognize.” She gestures toward her phone. “I give them that.”
“And the rest of us don’t?” I ask, a little offended.
She studies me for a beat and chews the inside of her cheek like she’s deciding how honest to be. “I don’t know,” she says at last, her tone clearly over this entire conversation. “It sounds to me like you’re just jealous because you’re irrelevant.”
Her words land between us, stark and ugly. No, the only irrelevant thing in this room is her. She isn’t talented or special; she just spends a lot of time pretending to be someone likable online.
I blink a few times before plastering a smile on my face, because that’s what I do when I’m surprised. “Irrelevant?”
She shrugs again, already turning back toward her bed.
“I mean, no offense, but no one’s tuning in for you, babe. Not yet, anyway.”
Heat crawls up my neck, my heart pounding harder than it ever has in the tent. But I just sit there on my bed, staring at my roommate in complete disbelief.
I think I just met the real Lila.
“Goodnight, Lila,” I say, because if I try for anything else, I might crack.
“Night,” she replies lightly, already lounging on her bed and scrolling her phone again.
The soft material of my pillow is cool beneath my cheek, soothing the lingering embarrassment there. I curl into myself on the bed and face the wall, wishing I could ignore Lila’s presence the way Chloe seems to do.
But I can’t; her incessant static vibrates against my spine from across the room. Hot tears threaten to fall.
Maybe I am irrelevant in all the ways Lila cares about.
But there’s another showstopper coming tomorrow. Another chance to make something good with my hands and win over the judges.
There’ll be flour under my nails and cakes rising in the oven and a clock ticking down, whether anyone’s watching for me or not. I know how to do that part at least.
I close my eyes, already running through flavors in my head, and let that be enough for tonight.