chapter 1
Kia Jackson saton the stage of the Jean Paul Molineux School of Culinary Arts in a white, double-breasted chef’s coat. She was waiting to receive her diploma and, much more importantly, to find out whether she’d beaten her culinary arts school rival, Alice Sullivan, to the designation of highest ranked student in the class and the winner of the Prix du Patrimoine Culinaire award. The seed money from the award would help her start her career as a food truck influencer, something she’d been working toward for years. She knew you didn’t just fall into being an influencer because you looked sexy in an apron. It was a career, and she was ready for it. She’d be even more ready if she won the money, but that benefit was a stale mini marshmallow compared to the luscious, gooey, gourmet Rice Krispies treat that would be beating Sullivan.
The president of the school stood at a podium in the center of the stage, flanked by ostentatious arrangements of peonies. He raised his hand to the ceiling.
“As graduates of the Jean Paul Molineux School of Culinary Arts, you stand as a bastion of high culture in a world degraded by the banality of modern society…”
Beside Kia, Sullivan, the only other woman in the graduating class, whispered, “Starting a food truck? Really, Jackson?”
“I’m not going to spend the rest of my life dusting fern fronds with organic bee pollen.”
Kia didn’t move her lips as she spoke. Four years in school with Alice Sullivan, and they could smack talk in their sleep. Kia did talk to Sullivan, in her mind, before snatching a few hours of sleep between finishing in the practice kitchen and morning classes, never quite remembering the conversations.
The president went on. “… upholding the integrity of…”
“Tursnicken,” Sullivan whispered.
The tursnicken was Kia’s one culinary fail (well… one of a very small number of fails). Really she just had to perfect it. The tursnicken wasn’t even for class, just a genius inspiration. A chicken stuffed with Snickers bars, stuffed inside a turkey, and deep-fried in a fryer outside in the parking lot on a freezing January day. Sullivan had strolled out in her men’s wool peacoat, turned off the propane, wrapped her Burberry scarf around Kia’s neck, and said,Go home, kid, before that thing blows up.
“And now it is my pleasure to introduce the student speaker for tonight. He will be announcing the students with the three highest scores in the class and giving the award.”
Kia glanced at Sullivan and tapped one finger on her breastbone to say,Highest.
Sullivan mouthed,Second place.
That mouth. Those sculpted lips, coral pink although Sullivan never wore makeup. And those chestnut curls falling over her eyes. The way Sullivan rolled up the cuffs of her sport coats. The way she tucked her tan button-downs into her tan slacks, looking like a naturalist from the 1920s. The way Sullivan flirted with the men in the program and occasionally their sisters when families visited forbanquets. How many times had Kia watched Brad or John or Chad stammer, confused by their sudden attraction to this masc woman who charmed them with a smile and a strut? Probably every time, because Kia had been watching Sullivan since the first day of class.
“In competition for the prestigious Prix du Patrimoine Culinaire and the accompanying twenty thousand start-up… Would our three top candidates stand.” The student speaker read Kia’s name. Stage lights eclipsed the audience, but Kia thought she heard her father whistle and her aunt shush him. The student speaker followed with Sullivan’s name and the name of a quiet Midwestern man she’d never talked to.
“In third place…”
The shy Midwesterner.
“In second place…”
Kia held her breath.
“Chef Alice Sullivan.”
Kia had done it! All those late nights, exhausted mornings, parties she didn’t go to, friends she didn’t make… It was absolutely, unequivocally worth it. She’d beat Alice Sullivan.
“Coming in point six percent higher, making her the seventy-eighth winner of the Prix du Patrimoine Culinaire, Kia Jackson.”
She was also the second Black woman to win, the fifth youngest student, and the student with the highest overall score. None of that mattered. She’d beaten Sullivan!
“You little brat,” Sullivan said with so much affection Kia felt a lump in her throat.
I love you.Kia didn’t really, but her body could not hold a higher volume of adrenaline than at that moment. She loved everyone and everything. She beamed into the spotlight shining from the theater’s light booth, but inside she was beaming at Sullivan.
While the speaker adjusted his microphone, the presidentwalked over and shook hands with Kia, Sullivan, and the Midwesterner. Then he sat back down.
At the podium, the speaker cleared his throat. “If Jean Paul Molineux was here, I think he’d agree, we’ve never seen a fiercer competition.”
The crowd laughed. The graduating class knew all about Kia and Sullivan’s rivalry.
“Losing to your most hated rival, Chef Sullivan? Is Kia going to make it out alive?”
Sullivan looked shocked.
