The Boiling Point | ✔️

09 | fully focused

SUMMER 

I've only known Ashton Banks for two weeks, and in those two weeks he's shown how competitive he can be. Making simple tasks into a race, needing to be the best, needing to be right about everything.

Now throw in an actual competition, and the guy becomes a monster.

Seeing him cook with so much focus is like watching a conductor orchestrate. Like it's just him and his ingredients and nothing else is important enough to break through the barrier. A car could come crashing through the kitchen and he'd be more concerned about whether he seasoned his sauce to perfection.

But I want to win this. Not to beat him, which would be beyond satisfying on its own, but it would be even more satisfying to call up my dad and tell him of the achievement.

Living with the Villas has been an adjustment. I haven't even seen them much because school and homework have kept me busy, but it still feels like Mrs. Villa's presence is all around me.

She randomly checks up on me, leaves passive aggressive notes about chores and what I'm doing wrong, spends her days at her garden club or book club or wherever she day drinks with her friends, and then comes back and waits for me to do something she can criticize.

Mr. Villa is a lot better. But he's barely around, and when he is, he's normally working in his study. That first dinner we all had together last week was telling.

Let's just say he's nicer to look at than to listen to. He reminds me of those Wall Street men, his conversation revolving around yachts and business and anything that sent me to the edge of sleep.

Throughout all the adjustment, I've kept the dinners consistent. Not because I'm eager to catch them up with my day, but because it's given me the opportunity to practice my chopping. And now, I'm feeling more confident than ever.

Ashton may be speeding along, thriving on pressure and expecting me to crumble, but I'm in my own zone that nothing can pull me out of.

"Man," he sighs with exaggeration, scraping aside a heap of minced garlic on his board. "I wonder what I'll do with my extra-long weekend."

I ignore his obvious baiting.

"You know, when I win," he taunts.

"You're gonna jinx yourself, Banks," I say.

"Really? Can a jinx take away pure talent?"

I shake my head, keeping my focus on the eggplant I'm slicing with even precision.

Ashton's laugh extinguishes when Chef Ross appears next to our workstation. A man of few words, he looks over my section and gives a nod of approval that ups my self-confidence. Then he peers over Ashton's section, a frown pulling on his small mouth.

Ashton makes no attempt to hide his unease. "What's wrong?"

Chef Ross picks up two pieces of eggplant from Ashton's set aside baking tray. "Tell me what you see."

"Eggplant."

Chef Ross flips them in his fingers so the edges face outwards. "Do they look the same to you?"

Ashton's narrowed eyes tick between them. He doesn't answer.

"Overconfidence can be any chef's downfall, Mr. Banks. No matter how talented they are." He sets the round pieces down, and I now see the difference. One is perfect, the other thick on one side and sliced too thin on the opposite edge. Slanted. 

"In appearance, consistency can turn a beautiful dish into a mediocre one." Chef Ross continues. "I know it's natural to rush in a competition, but you've jeopardized quality over speed. We don't waste food, so don't even think about starting over. Perhaps you can salvage them. To get an idea, they should look like Summer's."