Past the Victorian gates of Evergreen Kindergarten and down the winding street of the hill was a humble diner settled perfectly between a hair salon and a florist, the buttery fragrance of spices wafting out of the entrance and the old wooden sign creaking at every gust of the wind.

But what was once quietly bustling and full—complete with the soft chattering of guests and the gentle clinking of glasses for a toast—was now left in the dust. Shivering in the wind just like the sign on the door. 'Closed.'

A man stopped by. His briefcase was heavy and so was the load upon his shoulders at present. He reached for the door, holding still. In bated breath and iron steps; the back of his mind shaking in the thunderstorm, the critic knocked once before sliding the door open.

"Hi. Hello," he greeted upon entering the diner that had half their lights on, surprised to see someone behind the counter already. The lady looked just as surprised to see him. "I... I'm Vanille's Uncle. Alfred Dempsey. My fiancée, Julie, picks him up most of the time. I'm sorry for the... I should have said something before coming but picking up the phone was difficult. You must be Leroy's mother. Mrs. Cox."

The owner of the store wiped the back of her hands on her apron, a genuine smile on her face.

"Yes! Julie talks about you all the time. I'm sorry I couldn't welcome you properly with food and drinks—or maybe I can now, if you don't mind. Please, have a seat." She came forth, out from behind the counter to usher the customer to a seat. "I'm Annie. Leroy's mother."

He raised a hand. "Oh no. No that's quite alright. In fact, I don't think this is the first time we've met, um... I believe." The critic sighed. "You served a table of eight last Thursday evening. I was one of them."

The smile on Annie's face seemed to falter. She averted her gaze all of a sudden, as though afraid that he'd see the embarrassment in her eyes.

"Oh that was a long time ago now. I wouldn't remember that."

"Terrible things stay the longest in our minds, Annie," the older man shook his head, eyes weary. "I... that incident was nothing pleasant. When I heard that they'd got the health inspectors to come and that they'd somehow, believe it or not, failed your diner, I. Well, I... I felt terrible, to say the least.

"While I'm known for not dwelling on matters outside of my expertise—cakes, pastries, the like—I just want you to know that those fools from before... whatever they did, I wholly disagreed with. And I am only sorry that I didn't try to stop them from taking this to the authorities. It was a silly, petty thing and despite that all happening on a smaller scale I... I let it come to this," his gaze swept the half-lit store, tables and chairs stacked up and pushed to the side to make space for the many cardboard boxes in the middle of it all.

Dust particles simmered in the light of dusk. Falling. Floating.

Annie listened. She could hear the ringing in her ears and the beat in her chest; the remnants of his words leaving an odd taste in her mouth. "We were meant to move. It has nothing to do with what happened last week, Alfred. I was never cut out for this."

"That is not true and both you and your son know that," Dempsey snapped at once, placing his briefcase on the counter before producing a folder of documents. "These are contacts to a lawyer I know. They've drawn up statements that only need your signature and you have all the right to—"

"But what if they were telling the truth?" Her eyes were weak, gaze darting from corner to corner of the room as she watched the rest of the world spin. "Isn't that what critics do? I mean, I never expected them to come but that's the entire purpose, isn't it? Perhaps there really was something I could do to improve the décor or the glassware and they were right!"

"But raise it to the authorities so that they could shut you down?" Dempsey could not believe he was spelling this out. "A petty case blown to such an extent... those people are nothing close to the truth!"

The room was empty in that moment. An occasional creak of the floorboards upstairs accompanied the wind outside the windows and the light of the setting sun, filtering through the glass and falling on nothing. The silence implored the weight of further words; too light and it would slip through the gaps between fingers and too heavy, would become a burden.

"I didn't come for an argument," said Dempsey. Tight-lipped. "I came to declare myself no longer part of that association. I've resigned."

"Not because of one small incident, Alfred," Leroy's mother stared up at him in disbelief. "You can't do that."

The critic help up a hand, closing his briefcase with a sigh. He slipped the folder onto a nearby box before reaching into the inner pocket of his coat.

"Small incidents say many things that lead to something great. Anything other than the truth—well. I don't settle." He produced a thick, padded envelope that, at a glance, seemed nearly predictable of its contents. "A small sum."

For a moment, her eyes seemed to flicker like a flame; heated and ablaze, the embers of a fire sparking not once but several times that matched the beat in her chest. "You know I can't take this."

"I am no altruist, Annie," said the man. "This is not a gift of pity and neither is it out of some silly kindness." He shoved the envelope into her hands, holding her gaze and looking almost as though he was about to cry.

"This is for your son."

The owner of the once quaint, quiet little diner could see her breath escaping her lips disappear in wisps, removing the rest of the words she had and leaving her quite disarmed. "For someone without kindness in your heart, you sure are emotional."

Dempsey let slip a smile, hiding his eyes by pretending to adjust the position of his eyeglasses. "Vanille must think himself an expert at lying. He hasn't had much of an appetite lately and has refused to look me in the eye for days. He must have seen what happened."

"Why don't you talk to him?"

He turned to leave, shaking his head with a sigh. "And let him know that all I could do was give you a meager sum? He has every right to be disappointed in me. Today was a selfish attempt of my own to relieve that bit of my guilt."

=====================

[Vanilla]

"The student will be allowed a maximum of one cube per food sample," was all I could hear from the general area in front of me, presumably from one of the examiners. "There will be fifty-six of these in total and there is a maximum time of one minute before the student will be called upon to give a definite answer. Should the student not have an answer within a minute—"

"It will be considered a fail," I finished under my breath, not the most excited about being blindfolded for an hour. Or, well, a couple of minutes if it was as hard as everyone seemed to make it out to be.

It wasn't until I had the very first sample in my hands that I felt for myself the extent of difficulty this challenge would pose. Each sample, reduced to perfect one-inch squares without any identifying factor except its taste and possible scent; their original size, shape, texture and colour that may differ from cut to cut, removed—the hurdle was high.

Naturally, I wasn't the kind of person who'd go around blindfolding myself and tasting food samples (of a fixed shape and size) every now and then, making this my first official identification challenge that removed a primary aspect of my five senses.

Without prior experience and nerves in complete disarray, I bit into half the cube. This was a grave mistake, which I'd come to realize mid-chew that smelling the product or trying to pull it apart would have given my mind a pre-emptive answer which would have narrowed down my options first and perhaps directed my taste buds into identifying something at a faster rate by expecting what the taste would be like.

Fortunately, I was... well, fortunate.

"It's an orange."

"What kind of orange?"

I paused. The fact that they wanted their answers as specific as possible did not necessarily bode well and all of a sudden, it became clear as day to me why everyone would have expected the worst from me, an inexperienced freshman who clearly wasn't part of the middle school division.

"Blood orange." Distinctly raspberry-like in addition to the usual citrus notes of an orange; the only species of its kind to possess a firmer texture and a unique tartness. Unsurprisingly, this had to be the opening act of fifty-six samples.

"That is correct."

Good god this is going to take long, was all I could think as someone standing to the right of my stool slid a glass of water into my hands. I sipped it, holding the water in my mouth for a second before swallowing to get rid of the citrus. "The next sample is on your plate."

I felt for the cube, hearing the scribbling of pens somewhere from the examiner's table and footsteps, clear and crisp, in the distance.

Dense flesh. Sweet. Crisp. Low acidity. "Apple. Fuji apple."

"That is correct."

By this point I was naturally beginning to wonder what everyone else in the gallery were thinking, perhaps even curious to see the look on their faces. This taste test was on an entirely different level compared to those that I'd seen online, purposefully picking ingredients that were easily confused with one another and requiring a specification of the exact type or species.

"Sorry, can I ask a question?" I raised a tentative hand, not quite knowing where to look.

"Go ahead."

"Will I be required to differentiate cheese types in the coming stages?" The answer was obvious. All I was doing, really, was trying to buy time so that my tongue (with a hole) could recover and clean itself with the additional few seconds.

"No. It's too easy."

As expected. Taste tests of such high calibre were usually done with cheeses, which, compared to things like apples and oranges, were far more easily differentiated even with a blindfold since their key characteristics were identified through taste and texture. "I understand. Thank you."

First years who wanted to live on campus may very well have had their hopes dashed at this very moment. Not that I actually wanted to, well. My uncle does.

Aromatic. Astringent. Sour. Texture difference. It's too small to be cut into an inch. "Lime. Kaffir Lime."

Warm. Flaky. Mild. Slightly fatty. This is white fish, but is it tilapia or halibut? High or low water content? They taste so similar. "Halibut." A lucky guess.

Natural oils. Slightly fishy. Firmer than the one before and definitely oilier. "Mackerel."

Miraculously, I'd somehow breezed through the first fifteen without much of a second thought; relying on instincts whenever things tasted all-too-similar and merely remembering that I was in no pressure to complete or pass the test. Either way, I was nearing the twenties and already starting to consider this a chore when the examiners declared a new rule.

Apparently, I would be given a chance to ask any question regarding the sample at any stage above twenty. Just, only once.

To say the school was rich enough to offer me a one-inch sample of foie gras was an understatement because following this were samples of expensive names littered across. Luxury foods came pouring in and although it wasn't something I should be complaining about, I couldn't help but think that it left certain groups of students in the dust. Especially if they hadn't had the privilege of tasting such luxury foods before.

"Sashimi. Bluefin tuna," I said, confident about this one. Reaching for my glass of water, I waited for the usual answer from the examiners but was puzzled to hear silence. By this point in time, I was sure that the school simply despised the idea of first years living on campus, making this so purposefully hard to pass. They weren't let me having it.

"And what cut of the tuna is this?"

You're kidding, was my first instinct.

Truth to be told, I did not know the answer. Having accurate and sensitive taste buds did not necessarily mean being able to taste things that I've never before had. Sashimi was uncommon and a prime luxury back home and for myself to have had the privilege of eating it twice was, already, a miracle.

It's okay Vanilla, you've read about this before. Take the clever guess. They're unlikely to give you the most expensive cut since that would mean they have to do something with the rest of it after slicing off a cube. The cheapest, then? But no, the texture wasn't as firm as I remembered it to be and had a bit of a chew. Taking it apart in my mouth required some time but not as much and so it has to be—

"I think it's chutoro."

There was something happening up in the gallery that I, of course, could not see. Something that resembled a disturbance in the air and made me fairly uncomfortable knowing that I was being watched.

"That is correct."

A miracle! Completely ridiculous how that seemed to work. I was just beginning to think that this fifty-six wasn't going to be much of a challenge if all I needed to do was narrow down on the likelihood of probable ingredients the school has stocked up in their storage and take my pick from there by logical reasoning. This wasn't just about taste at all.

Alas. I was wrong.

Nearing the thirties, I was hit with another series of ingredients that were almost impossible to differentiate without sight, size, and shape. It was the stage that would have made the confident few regret ever thinking this was an easy challenge.

Strictly speaking, I was barely halfway through the fifty-six and already, I was experiencing some form of food fatigue—or rather, my taste buds were exhausted.

Stuck between eggplant types and whether the sample was even an eggplant at all, my head was spinning. Naturally, I haven't had raw eggplants in my whole entirely life and the fact that they were asking me to specify the type of it was simply ridiculous. "Indian eggplant."

"That is correct."

This was unfairly followed by a Chioggia beetroot, which I almost couldn't tell apart from the Burpee's golden, a beet that I'd always been able to distinguish from its bright yellow shades. Since beets and eggplants were mainly differentiated by their colours, sizes and shapes, I... well, I was not having a good time trying to tell apart mild or subtle differences in tastes.

Would I have preferred to have known the length, shape and size of every eggplant? Honestly, no. There wasn't enough capacity in my brain to store those kinds of information and so picking out the most useful and necessary was vital to my personal brand. I hope Leroy's not in the gallery watching me fumble with food samples.

Surprisingly enough, the forties were back to fruits; luxurious, expensive fruits that set themselves apart from the first couple of stages and intentionally weeded out those who could never afford such luxurious in their lifetime. I'm repeating myself, aren't I? Well, it just isn't fair.

Had it not been for Uncle Al, who's had the status and financial capability to bring me and Miss Julie to all sorts of places for reviews and openings, I wouldn't have had the privilege to taste any of them. After all, how was anyone to know that there were strawberries the size of palms and melons as sweet and rich as honey?

"Yubari Melon."

"That is correct."

I've lost count. What stage was that so far? I was tired and full and water wasn't going to cleanse my palate at this point so all that my mind could concentrate on was the fact that I wanted this to end as soon as possible.

"Here is sample fifty."

I felt for the cube in front of me, somewhat used to the blindness now but also feeling slightly nauseous just wondering how long I was going to have to keep this up for. So desperate I was that I caught myself wishing for this entire thing to end by the examiners dealing their wild card right this instant; something that I wouldn't be able to identify to no matter how hard I—oh. This was hard.

"The current record for this test is the one you are challenging now, Mr. White. No first year has ever made it past this stage."

The sample was absolutely unscented. Placing it right under my nose did nothing to narrow down the many options and I was just beginning to wonder if I'd lost my sense of smell. The cube was firm and dense but its texture, far too generic to actually identify. It tasted plain. Almost tasteless. Slightly earthy.

"Unflavoured and uncooked, is that right?" I posed to the person standing by my stool.

"Yes, like everything else."

I was speechless. How could they possibly be so ruthless, handing out such a tasteless ingredient and expecting a first-year student to identify it in a minute?

"I'd like to ask a question regarding the ingredient," I sighed, placing my final bets on the chance card and upon being given the green, went on. "How is it usually cooked?"

The examiners took a moment to discuss before giving me a fairly informative answer. "It is found mostly in East Asian cuisines. Sometimes in herbal soup, sometimes fried, sautéed, or boiled."

Herbal soup? This was completely beyond me. Si Yin was practically the only East Asian person I was familiar with and back home in middle school consisted of everyone who was not my friend. The furthest I'd been to was the Philippines with Uncle Al and even then, it was more Southeast Asia than anything else. Either way, I hadn't had herbal soup.

"Does that answer your question, Mr. White?"

I nodded slowly. "Well, I... I guess." Waiting for the aftertaste in my mouth to connect the dots and perhaps serve me the answer on a silver platter, I held onto the other half of the cube—running my fingers along its edges.

Firm. And very dense. Almost crunchy.

Figuring that this was my last attempt at their wild card, I popped the remaining half of the cube into my mouth and chewed. Slowly.

Fried. How? Sliced; diced; whole? Complimented by something strong and of intense flavour. Cayenne pepper or sour cream; truffle oil or something insanely mouth-watering. Humble, earthen roots.

Roots.

"Roots," I let slip—knowing that I was getting somewhere with this line of thought. "It's a root, I... I've had this before."

Warm. Crisp. Notes of fall; of fiery red leaves crunching underneath one's foot. Warm. Very warm and smoky and brown and red that it was almost. An almost.

"It's a lotus root."

====================

"Don't be sad, all bananas taste the same." Si Yin said after the exam, joining me as soon as I emerged from the examination hall rubbing my eyes and feeling fairly disoriented by the sudden excessive amount of light entering my eyes.

Right after spending my chance at having a question answered by the examiners, I'd been dealt two unexpected blows: artichokes and bananas. The former, wiping off my entire ability to taste in an objective manner and throwing off my taste buds that were, already, in disarray, and the latter, an intoxicating mix of aroma compounds and isoamyl acetate. The combination of both ultimately led to the banana cube tasting nothing else but a sickly sweetness that was harder to identify than something else with a wider or greater flavour profile or at least some level of depth in taste.

I drank my fifth gulp of water. "Well... it was a fifty-fifty chance. Only candy apple bananas and red ones can taste so weirdly sweet. I don't do very well with shallow flavours."

Si Yin held a hand to her heart. "You just called bananas shallow! I feel bad for the bananas. Plus, you broke the darn record by a stage and your cute little face is probably going to be on every front page of er, whatever it is that our school press does."

I let out a listless laugh, feeling the awful lack of energy start to accumulate in my legs. Si Yin on the other hand, was skipping around and handing me these little glucose squares that she happened to have stowed away in her bag.

"Anyway, you got club meetings?" She asked as we were about to round the corner. "It's first official day so everyone's got briefings and stuff like that, right? I know we kinda do. Wanna head to the commons for a snack?" My companion gave her tummy a pat.

I stared her in the face. "I've just had fifty food samples forced down my throat, Si Yin. I don't think I'm very hungry but if you'd like my company while you snack, I'd be happy to follow."

"You're not going anywhere." There was a voice over my shoulder that startled us both, stunning us into silence before we turned to see the vice-president of the ever-loyal, ethically-upright school press. Which I so unfortunately have joined. "White, come with me."

"So that I can generate more news and delicious stories for you to pick up on," I stood my ground, turning away. "I appreciate the sentiment but no thank you."

"No, it's just an emergency press meeting we're having right now to decide who's covering what for the next week, silly boy," snorted Keith, rolling his eyes and placing his hand on my back whilst propelling me in the opposite direction. I struggled to wave at Si Yin. "Either way, someone's got to write about your amazing performance today in that taste test. Don't worry, I've already had someone else cover it—all you gotta do is give us the interview and you'll be famous in no time. I mean, you beat the record."

None of that actually registered in my head. I was too busy trying to apologize and wave goodbye to my friend that, well, I ended up being dragged all the way to the tiny little clubroom where several others were already seated in foldable chairs.

Emily, the other first-year journalist who'd teased me on our very first meeting, did not look very impressed by my entrance.

"You never said a thing about having a magic tongue," she hissed the moment I slipped into the seat next to her, eyes narrowed and fierce. "The story would have speculated otherwise and not, well, lowered everyone's expectations of you so that you could so triumphantly exceed them."

"So you were suggesting I wouldn't be able to get past the third stage?" I sighed, upset.

"With that tongue you almost bit off, yeah," Emily shrugged without a bat of an eyelash. For there to be someone more brutally honest than myself was indeed a miracle existence. I cleared my throat, adjusting the frames of my glasses on the bridge of my nose.

"Well at least you've got yourself a story now that I did. Would have been much less interesting if I'd met the expectations of others, you know."

"Quiet, quiet!" Keith called for attention by smacking this finger-pointer he had on a mobile blackboard, rolling it into view while everyone else wrapped up their conversations and faced the front of the room. "Let's start the meeting."

"So, on here," he pointed out the bulleted points scribbled across the board. "We have key upcoming events that need compulsory coverage and following that, op-ed ideas that will make our weekly updates sell like hotcakes." Ambitious.

"First-years, since you'll be participating in the orientation camp next Saturday, I'm leaving you guys to cover that. Work out a different angle each and send me your nutgrafs by Wednesday afternoon—make sure nothing clashes. We want different perspectives on this."

I hurried to take down notes.

"You guys," Keith moved on to the second years who'd already had their laptops out. "Half of you will work on op-eds and the other half, on that exclusive tea party for the top thirty-five happening this Friday. That, or the sophomore camp next Saturday. Sort it out among yourselves and see which of these op-eds you wanna do. Fresh ideas must run by me or we'll just be ending up with Chef Wesley's biceps—a terrible disaster. Not happening again."

"Free lancers, volunteers, I need you to get interviews."

This seemed to pale the entire room.

"People of interest, examiners, judges, the camp's organizing committees, key profiles everyone will want to be taking note of for the cross-year competition segment during the camps, whatever. Just, uh. Leave this guy's story to me," he pointed me in the face and I was mildly offended.

Emily raised a curious hand. "Who do we have our eyes on?"

"I don't know," Keith was back to being overly dramatic, sarcasm lacing every bit of his tone. "People like Violet Birchwood, first year aiming for a top spot, Layla Tenner, final year student and most likely picked to be a captain for the cross-year segment, Leroy Cox, who has never granted access to any interview regardless of the topic even though he's the youngest culinary student in the top thirteen... yeah you get the point. Newsworthy opinions."

I could tell from the dissatisfied look on Emily's face that she didn't particularly like being told off. That, or any general tone of sarcasm didn't sit well with her.

"We need exclusive stories, you know—that's what op-eds and lifestyle articles are for. Interviews with people we want to know about, how to rise up the rankings, tips and tricks for every course and the latest gossip about the chefs or, uh, non-chefs... anything that'll boost our readership," Keith gestured to the chalked-up list of ideas, bulleted and circled at every point of mention. "All graphics and photos, arrange a timeslot with our club photographer Jael or Fiona so that they can come along with you for the interview or if you need them to come up with some animated visual. Remember: no timeslot, no pictures. Unless you end up using your phone, then I guess that's up to you."

"He's not that bad of a leader," I leaned over to share with Emily, wondering why he wasn't elected as the club president in the first place. Keith was a final year student who, even without an internship (that course was only available for students in the college division), seemed to know what it was like in the pressroom.

Having spent some time with Uncle Al at the meetings of several publications he'd worked for, I'd observed a general procedure that mainly consisted of utter chaos. The fact that no one else had dared to interrupt him while he was giving out instructions was by itself a near miracle.

Emily, on the other hand, didn't seem to be as enchanted as everyone else was. "I'm not brooding over one article for two weeks, Keith Tang. I'll take Violet Birchwood. Prep will be sent to you by tonight." I blinked, slightly taken aback by her forwardness. It was nice of her to be enthusiastic all the same but by tonight?

All of a sudden, I felt admittedly relieved that I'd chosen not to opt out of the school press after this morning's escapade. What would I be without all these people to compete against and grow as a writer, a journalist, a critic? This was what I needed.

"Yeah see," one of the third-year seniors tapped her on the shoulder. "Birchwood doesn't speak to first years."

Emily narrowed in on this. "What?"

"I was her senior in middle school, and she refused to be interviewed by anyone of the same age or younger. By the time she hit her last year, no one could get a statement from her—we had to send someone from the high school division."

"That's stupid," my fellow first-year journalist scoffed, rolling her eyes. "It's fine. I'll get her to talk. We're in the same class."

The sophomores had turned away at this point, discussing the op-ed split among themselves while some of the freelancers charted up profiles and ranked them based on importance.

"If you say so," the senior who'd warned Emily gave her a shrug. "I'll leave her to you then. Anyone got leads on number three? We could offer him publicity on the site and on Instagram. Would do good for the cross-year comp. People would pick him."

"People already pick him, Stangard," Keith was back to rolling his eyes. "And we offered that to him last year when he started school by impressing Chef Lindy with that stupid chicken soup of his and Chef Louis getting him to demonstrate his French techniques in front of the whole class. Think of something else."

At this, I was beginning to see why Keith had settled with vice-president of the club. First impressions didn't seem to matter very much at this point; seeing that I'd had an extremely good one of him and considered his level of responsibility to be fairly admirable. All at the cost of being a micromanager.

"I ambushed him last Saturday at the welcome tea, but he wasn't very responsive," said one of the freelancers who, at this point, had moved Leroy's name up to the very top of the chart. "People want to know his secret to doing so well but he's got zero knack for wanting to show off."

"Let's offer him vouchers for the marketplace. Or, uh, a backrub," a small girl with curly auburn hair suggested after raising her hand, only to receive stares from the entire room. "Or... not."

"No no no," Keith paused, holding up his hands. "A backrub's a great idea—culinary students get tired all the time. Get him while he's at the gym or something. Does anyone have connections with his lodge mates?"

The image of Leroy getting a backrub from one of my fellow journalists was almost too hilarious not to laugh out loud. Hiding behind the pages of my notebook, I did my best to stifle the giggles that threatened to escape. Also, I'd have gone for the vouchers.

"Send our cutest member. Charm him as much as you can," another one of the freelancers was already scrawling ambush tactics on the chart, filling up the square beside Leroy's name. "This will only be our fifteenth time failing and you know what everyone says: fifteenth time's the charm."

Already, I was laughing. "I—I'm sorry, but I don't think that's how it works."

Half of the sophomore writers who'd ended their discussion decided to join in. "I'm in his class. That guy barely talks about himself and all he does is cook really well and cut really fast," she sighed, lowering her voice. "I was the thirteenth try."

"Okay guys, calm down," said Mr. Vice-president-who-was-himself-not-calm. "We'll figure this out. Go home, brainstorm, spill your ideas on the group chat tomorrow, okay? And whoever's doing the pre-camp op-ed, make sure the angle's different from the one we had last year, got that?"

Following this was a series of nods and sighs, accompanied by the lazy dragging of chairs before we proceeded to file out of the room one by one. Personally, there was no way I'd be upset with what Keith had assigned to each and every one of us. Writing about the orientation camp wasn't too bad a start for my debut story and all I had to do was come up with a unique angle after some research. No need to bother myself with difficult interviewees and backrubs and—

My phone vibrated once. Slipping it out of the pocket of my blazer, I checked the text summary.

____________________

From: Just Let Me Impress You

Text: Celebrating your new record?

______________________

My first response was to gawk at the name that Leroy had saved his number as. Absolutely ridiculous. I'm going to change that thing but not right now because I don't have the time and I had intended to pop by the library to look through the archives of past year school magazines.

Unfortunately, no. I've just had a meeting with the school press and we're a little tight on time for the new stories we have schedules, so I don't think I'll be celebrating anything. Also, there's really nothing to celebrate.

I'd barely walked a couple of steps down the hallway when my phone vibrated again.

____________________

From: Just Let Me Impress You

Text: Does dinner count?

______________________

From: Just Let Me Impress You

Text: Roth Hall. Kitchen 8. 2nd floor.

______________________

From: Just Let Me Impress You

Text: Just let me impress you.

_______________________

I stared at the screen of my phone, watching pop-ups run up the notification bar and feeling the beat in my chest go awry at every word. It wasn't as though things between us were settled just yet and giving in this time would only add one to his tab, meaning that I'd owe him a favour—which was what I couldn't afford.

The fact that I had found his company over Saturday dinner fairly pleasing, too, posed yet another problem. Every factored decision was in conflict.

I rounded the corner and found myself in the middle of Roth Hall, between the flights of stairs to the second and the ranking board where Leroy's name could still be seen listed in gold. I sighed; and took the stairs.

*

"Is, this... um," was all I managed upon entering the kitchen, wide and spacious and filled with at least twenty stations of which only one was occupied. "I wasn't aware we could book an entire kitchen." The weight of the door closed it with a click, louder than I'd expected it to be.

My companion, at the far end of the room keeping himself busy behind the instructor's station, looked up with a smirk. "You came."

"Yes of course," I cleared my throat, making my way across the room in tentative steps. Why was I feeling so hopelessly nervous about this? "It seemed as though I wasn't given an option to refuse. E-either way, I saw the caller ID you saved your number as and unsurprisingly, I did not find it very funny. However, something smells very promising, so. I guess I'll stay. Also, I'd like you to know that my expectations differ when you're cooking out of a single pan and when you have an entire kitchen to yourself."

He laughed, beckoning with a finger. "I figured. Take a seat—I'll serve you in a minute."

"Oh. That's um, that's very nice of you. Thank you." Unable to hide a smile, I settled for a cough that excused a hand raised to cover my mouth, shuffling closer to the pair of bar stools placed at the end of the station. "It's a very pleasant experience, watching your food being made in front of your eyes. I'm sure you know about teppanyaki-style steakhouses, restaurants that use teppan grills in front of counter seats where guests can enjoy watching their food being prepared and cooked in front of their while admiring the skill and showmanship of the chef. A-and I'm talking to much aren't I," I finished lamely, staring down at the marbled countertop. Embarrassed.

"If I minded you talking, I wouldn't have hung out with you eleven years ago, dumbass," he snorted, placing a fragrant bowl of soup in front of me before sliding a soup spoon wrapped in a napkin across the counter. "Lotus root soup with pork ribs and softened peanuts."

So amazed was I by the texture, clarity and fragrance of what seemed like a humble bowl of homemade soup, Leroy's former comment completely slipped my mind. That, and the fact that he'd called me a 'dumbass.'

"Lotus root. That's what they had for the fiftieth sample," I pointed out, unwrapping the soup spoon. "I've never had them raw, so the blandness and texture had me thinking for some time. That, and they'd given a cut without its characteristic holes. Oh, and they also mentioned herbal soup in the clue I'd—"

"You know that everyone in the gallery can hear whatever's going on down there, right?" Leroy turned to me with amusement in his eyes, the crackle and spit of oil filling the rest of the room. "I was there."

Stunned both by this new information and my first spoonful of soup, I was speechless. Leroy proceeded to place a basket of thinly-sliced, lotus root chips within my reach; along with a generous serving of sour cream.

The de-shelled, softened peanuts had given the soup an unmistakable sweetness that was accompanied by chunks of carrots and the fragrance of pork ribs, soft and cooked to perfection. The slices of lotus root had retained its characteristic crunch but was somehow tender as it should be, boiled and left to simmer for at least an hour or two.

"Jujube. Or is it Medjool," I asked, taking another sip of the soup and making sure to get some of the carrot in. "I can't tell."

Leroy was in the middle of prepping for what I assumed was an entrée. He turned with a cross between a smile and a frown. "You can tell I used dates?"

"Well yes," I peered down at my bowl of soup. Nearly half empty. "It's not in here but there's no way you could have achieved that level of sweetness absorbed by the lotus roots or in the broth itself. It adds another dimension of taste. Different from the sweetness of carrots or peanuts. Um... although I was wondering if you happened to include dried scallops as well. I'm not sure if the school has access to those but it might strengthen the intensity of the ribs while complimenting the sweetness you were going for. I-it's just a suggestion. You don't have to take it seriously."

This was the usual. Me, rattling away and eventually annoying people with my comments and oddball knowledge, and others eventually having enough to do with everything that I was. Leroy had paused; which was one of the key signs that would soon lead to the latter part of the usual.

"Why didn't I think of that," was all he said under his breath, going back to his prep. I blinked.

"You, uh, you don't find it annoying?"

He raised a brow. "What, you telling me how to improve? That's why you're here." He glanced at the basket of lotus root chips that I'd yet to touch. "Try that next."

Ah, so that why. It makes sense, then. I mean, someone like Leroy couldn't possibly want anything to do with me as, you know, a friend, other than someone who could provide reasonable feedback about his cooking. It wouldn't make any sense to invite the other thirty-three people ranked on the board with him either since they'd all be curious to know what he had up his sleeve. I get dinner and he gets feedback—a fair and beneficial transaction.

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but is this a lotus root party or, um, do you have too many lotus roots to spare," I posed, dipping the side of a chip into sour cream. At this, I noticed a tray of tender baked beets fresh out of the oven, a beautiful red, ready to be peeled. "Okay, or are you just using all the ingredients that I tripped up this afternoon and spent more time identifying. And that's my final answer. You're teasing me!"

At this, he laughed. A sound so pleasant and disarming that I caught myself staring for a second. Look away Vanilla! Look away!

"You beat the record. I had to," Leroy had portions of beautifully fresh scallops on his skillet and the room was filled with the insane fragrance of buttery goodness.

"Well you're only forgiven because of how good this all actually tastes. I'm raising my expectations for the entrée," I folded my arms triumphantly, waiting for his response. He, however, seemed to be interested in other things.

"What were you doing before this?" The skillet sizzled and sparked, browning the bottoms of the scallops with a caramelized crust.

I blinked, thrown off by the sudden change in direction and fumbled to piece words into sentences. "Um. Before this? Well, I, naturally, it's the first official day of club activities for, you know. Freshmen. So after the examination, I headed to the clubroom for a press meeting where we were... I'm not sure if you know what I'm talking about, but we were assigned stories to cover. Which means that my first publication would be about the freshmen orientation camp happening next Saturday. Does that sound boring?"

Leroy was honest about it. "I've never read anything by the school press, so. But I might now if you're writing."

"Uh um mmhm, I see," was all I managed without being overly emotional. It was an odd feeling. "Well, um. I'm looking forward to writing about it, but I haven't been able to come up with a new angle just yet. Might have to look into the archives in the library and speaking about archives," I decided to lighten the mood with something funny. "I heard they offered you favours in exchange for an interview! And to think you rejected every single one of them."

This got him smirking. He tried to hide it by turning away to plate the scallops over a bed of what I assumed was roasted beetroot puree.

"There's nothing to talk about."

"I'm sure we've talked about this before, Leroy. You're the youngest culinary student in the top thirteen and you've already secured your position in the top three. And you have a fan club that is dying to hear details about you, whether it's about your culinary skills or personal life. They said they'd be offering you marketplace vouchers and backrubs."

At this, he shook his head in disbelief. "They think I'll agree to that? One of them offered to pay my utility fees last year."

"What!" I paused mid-thought, mid-reach for another lotus chip. "That would have saved you half a grand at least and since you're working part-time, I thought a little help financially would have sold you at once."

He squared his shoulders in a lazy attempt. "It's hard to trust people actively trying to twist your words into a story they want to write." Crossing the distance, he presented a beautiful plate of seared scallops on a bed of asparagus, delicate against a smear of beetroot puree.

It wasn't hard to admit that Leroy had, impressed me with what could almost definitely be something out of a restaurant—exceeding my expectations that were, already, rather high. He placed another plate of scallops that looked exactly like the one I had adjacent to mine, pulling up the other bar stool before retrieving a set of utensils for himself.

"I can see they are trying really hard," I attempted to persuade. "Apparently, landing an interview with a name like yours would boost our readership by hundreds. I don't know if that's an exaggeration, but our seniors seemed all over you as a profile, so. Maybe you could agree to one of their offers tomorrow."

Leroy returned with a fork and knife, wrapped in a napkin which he placed beside his plate and stood by, something teasing the edge of his lips.

"Why don't you try?" He leaned against the counter, lowered gaze meeting mine. "Ask me."

===========================

A/N: Is it just me, or does it seem like my youngest pair experience more sexual tension than any of the adults in my writing career? HAHAHAHAHAHA. Since Xander isn't one to hide his sexual desires and Chip doesn't really, um, further the heat cuz he just melts under it but both Vanilla and Leroy are just like personalities that don't really back down from one another and it somehow creates this craAZy tension that I can't describe. 

I guess the only exception would be Io and Luka (especially when they are in heat *insert lenny face*). 

Also! I'm sorry if my updates are kinda irregular but if I do have some updating to do for any book, it's always on Sunday nights GMT+8. Sunday in general :> if you really don't want to miss out on my schedule or if like I'm heading overseas on a holiday, you can follow me on Instagram at hisangelchip (though I usually bring my laptop on holidays and write all the same because wHo nEEdsS a ReSt).

-Cuppie