The Competition

Peter wove through a maze of stations to reach his slightly larger corner space to the staccato beat of whirring mixers and rattling trays. The bakers spent hours flitting about the spacious kitchen perfecting their mise en place, measuring, sifting and creaming high-quality ingredients to create their (hopefully) prize-winning baked goods for the competition. 

The intoxicating aroma of butter, vanilla and chocolate wafted through the kitchen, as their deadline approached like a bullet train. Peter used his sleeve to mopped his brow after he pried an additional cooling rack from the assortment of the tools carted from his bakery, and donned his red mitts to carry the baker’s dozen to rest.

“Aren’t those kinda burnt?” Terry said, sliding a tray of snickerdoodles onto his rack.

Peter rolled his eyes. “Only the softest chocolate chips here.” He checked the pan and sheared off a very browned edge of one cookie.

Terry scoffed while he slid his last cookie onto a presentation plate. “That’s what you say. We’ll see how the judges see it soon enough.”

We sure will. His own presentation plate ready, Peter chewed his bottom lip. He spent most of his waking hours at the bakery with his small staff, and he could not call one of them, or anyone else, a friend, a reality he wanted to change.

Just outside the kitchen, Janet reattached her volunteer tag as she shifted her weight from her balky knee.

“You must remain in motion every moment,” Greg the team lead said. “Every glass filled. Anticipate each guest’s needs, and become the solution.”

A woman beside Janet whispered. “I thought this was a charitable event, not an episode of some Gordon Ramsay hellscape restaurant.”

“It seems so.” She swept her gaze up onto her flawless dress and perfect posture before she adjusted her T-shirt over the waistband of her faded navy skirt.

“Any questions?” Greg scanned the row and landed on Janet. 

Janet ignored swirling butterflies in her stomach and rolled back her shoulders. Years ago, she lost a catering waitress job for dropping a tray of canapes at a society function, and she hoped this turn as a volunteer server would be a smoother ride. She followed the other volunteers to the beverage alcove lined with bottles of water and pitchers of milk. The scents of the baked goods rumbled her stomach- she’d given up sweets years ago. 

“Grab a basket, people, it’s Go time!” another assistant said.

 All the volunteers claimed baskets before Janet could grab one.

“Take a pitcher, and keep every glass filled.” He thrusted a brimming container into her hands.

“Oh, I guess I can do that.” Janet wrapped her fingers around the handling, condensation dripping onto her skirt.

His lips twitched into a scowl. "You volunteered. Your presence here means you can!” 

All of the other volunteers were gone, and Janet had no idea which way to go. They passed the judges' table on the way, taking a left turn from the check-in station. Or was it a right turn? When she reached another ballroom, Janet stopped and closed her eyes, inhaled slowly. She would find her way and she envisioned herself arriving at a table and pouring the contents of her pitcher. She was a graceful, competent volunteer, and nothing would go wrong today. 

Janet cradled the pitcher, grateful for the drier grip. She reentered the anteroom, and looked toward the alcove to retrace her steps.

The kitchen door swooshed open.

  Clunk!

  “OHH!” Janet's hands flew to her right temple.

  “What the hell?” Peter wiped liquid from his eyes and took a look at the heap of crumbs scattered around a tiny woman gripping an empty pitcher.

“I’m so sorry, sir.” Janet said.

   “Didn’t you see the door?”

    “I got turned around.”

    “Unbelievable.” Peter shook his head, eyes skating down his saturated chef whites.

    “Oh, how cute, y’all are milk and cookies!” A pair of volunteers appeared and giggled.

  Janet adjusted her skirt, and her finger trailed through melted chocolate caked on her shirt. The last time she looked this disheveled, she ran home caked in mud trailed by a chorus of giggles from the neighborhood kids, a common event in her young life. She’d moved thousands of miles away to the big city for school and excitement, and now this.

  “That's a big bump.” Peter reached over and palmed Janet’s temple.

  Janet stared at Peter, blinking rapidly and rocking on her heel. 

  “Maybe you should sit.” Peter grabbed her elbow, and led her through the doors to a stool near his station.

“What about the mess?” Janet asked.

“Here. let me get you some ice.” Peter smiled and headed toward the freezer.

  A minute later, Peter applied a kitchen towel to Janet’s head.

“I’ve always had the worst sense of direction. I’m such a mess.” Tears inched down Janet’s cheeks.

“All these rooms look the same. What’s your name?” Peter swabbed water running down her arm. 

“I’m Janet.”

He extended a trembling hand. “I guess I wish we’d met under different, drier circumstances. I’m Peter.”

 “I think I’m OK.” Janet swung her legs, and Peter grasped an elbow to steady her.

  "I think we should get that looked at, Janet.” His eyes swept back up to her face.

  Peter shrugged off his jacket and stretched his t-shirt over his slacks.

  “Was that your only batch?” 

  “No, just the last one.” Peter shrugged.

  “It smells so good in here. I wish I’d been a judge instead of a volunteer.” Janet surveyed the kitchen, in awe of the tools and the order in the space.

“I have a bakery. A dozen of whatever you want, my treat.” Peter smiled.

“Oh.” Janet slumped against the countertop. 

“Yeah, let's get you somewhere first.”

Peter led Janet to the empty alcove. He sighed as they passed the pile of soggy cookies.

“What did you do?” Greg shook his head at the mess beside the door.

“We collided, and I’m taking her to get checked out,” Peter said.

“Is there a medic on site?” Peter asked the desk assistant, shuffling papers at the desk.

“Down the hall. What happened here?”

“This volunteer has a bump on her head. Just want to make sure she’s OK.” Peter lowered Janet into a chair beside the desk.

“I’ll find help.” The assistant barreled around the corridor.

Janet spotted signage for the judging area’s entrance.

“So, what do you do in real life?” Peter knelt beside her and readjusted the towel.

“I’m a student and a rec center supervisor on campus.” Janet eyed a spot on the wall above Peter’s head. Her stomach growled again, and the pain in her head dialed down to a dull roar, the type that usually eased with aspirin and a meal. 

“And a volunteer.” Peter rested a hand on her shoulder.

Janet stretched her legs. “Not a good one.”

A minute later, a medic appeared, a black duffel in hand. 

“What happened here? The medic drifted his gaze to Janet’s face.

“I walked into his tray of cookies. My head hurts.” Janet peeled the towel from her temple and tilted her head. 

“Yikes! I’m sure it does. I’m Stephen, by the way.” He placed two fingers onto her wrist, and Janet shivered under his touch.

Peter’s gaze flicked between them. "I'm sure she’s fine, and I’ll make sure she gets home.”

“Sure. So, I don’t think you have a concussion. A few extra strength pills should do the trick. Of course, see you PCP if the swelling persists.”  

The ring on Stephen’s finger hauled Janet back to reality, her eyes darting down her ruined outfit. “Sure, thanks.” 

When Stephen left, Janet gathered her handbag from the volunteer’s coat closet

“I can get home on my own. Thanks.” She extended a hand to Peter.

“Are you sure?”

“I walked here, it’s not far. Thanks.” Peter held her hand a few seconds too long.

Janet wiped her hand on her skirt. “See you around.” She shaded her eyes as she strolled the sidewalk, thinking about a shower, her softest PJs, and a cup of noodles when she realized her phone was not in her handbag’s pocket. 

Janet rounded the corner half a block from the building.

 SMASH! 

“Are you actually trying to kill me? Janet asked.

 Peter rubbed his shoulder and rose to a squat. “I could ask you the same question.”

“I just want my phone so I can go home!” Janet’s pounding head now ached less than her knee, and she wished she’d ignored the flyer she saw in the quad.

“Let me help you, Janet.” 

A few minutes later, she watched from a window seat as a photographer dismantled his tripod, and the winning baker carried his trophy through the exit. Clouds gathered, and leaves swirled and raced through the air. 

“Is this it?” Peter waved her purple phone.

Janet nodded. “Thanks.”

“I’ll be five minutes more, OK?”

“Sure.”

 On the way to his bakery, Janet glanced at Peter, his eyes on the road, a portrait of perfect concentration.

Peter said, “I like Snickerdoodles, and I baked a fresh batch earlier. Or, would you like to try something else?”

Janet smiled. “I think I will.”