Page 4 of Bite Me

Emma

Someone is screaming my name amid a clamor of voices.

“Behind!” I snap as I duck behind the other students in the dining hall kitchen. There’s barely enough room for me to squeeze by in the cramped space, full of sizzling pans and hot, yeasty odors.

As I get closer, I recognize the panicked murmuring of my friend Kitty. She has flour and dough staining her black apron and jet-black hair.

“Verity is going to kill me.”

The smell of burnt biscuits saturates the air, and I shield her from prying eyes. The others will use this if they know. It’s competitive, even at the volunteer level. But it’s always like that at Doxlothia University.

“I can’t do the multitasking,” she sputters.

“I’ll remake them. It’s okay.”

This is her third and final warning—she knows. I don’t need to say the obvious out loud. I already finished my work this morning, and I can work faster than Kitty. “Take my spot over at the far counter.”

“What if Verity sees?”

“It’s fine. Go.”

She flutters off, and I go straight into measuring. My muscle memory comes in clutch. I have it done in minutes, and I’m shaping the dough when Verity comes through the door. She’s in the culinary club but has even higher prestige. She’s one of the “Top Three” in the culinary club and oversees the volunteers working the breakfast rush.

We all volunteer here for an opportunity to be seen and critiqued every morning, noon, and night, if there is an event. There’s camaraderie that comes with all of us striving for the same goal, and that’s how I choose to see it when people let their competitive drive take over. I’m competitive too, just not the way most people here are.

“Osborne, I thought I put you on the far counter today.”

I say nothing. My eyes catch on the burnt biscuits still on the counter. Damn. Emma, throwing away the evidence is the first thing we do. You know this.

Her nose twitches when she sees it, and I stand with my hands behind my back. She might be the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen, with wide lips, baby pink irises, and high cheekbones.

“Your work?”

I nod. I don’t want a strike on my record, but one isn’t the end of the world. If Kitty gets another one, she’s out.

“I’ve never seen you burn anything.”

“Busy morning,” I offer.

She smirks. “Your first strike, then.”

“Yes, Chef.”

“Now you can return to your station. Tell Ms. Starling she can return to hers as well.”

“Yes, right away, Chef.”

When I reach my station, Kitty is pacing.

“Emma, you didn’t have to do that.”

“It’s fine. One strike won’t hurt me.”

“I’ll make it up to you. I swear.”

I grab hold of the knife she’s supposed to be using to cut open the avocados, but is waving around instead.

“Make me that corn chowder with the sourdough again, and we’re even. I might even owe you a little bit after,” I say.