“Sorry. Do you need a napkin or something?”

“Not unless you’re going to make another run at spilling it.” She blew into the cup and sipped. As she drank, my eyes drifted to the buttons covering her jean jacket: Come to the dark side—we have cookies; “BBQ may not be the road to world peace, but it’s a start.”—Anthony Bourdain…

“Whatcha got?” she asked.

“Huh?”

She pointed to the box.

“Oh, doughnuts.”

“You mean like at Dunkin’ Donuts.”

“No. Not like Dunkin’ Donuts.” This girl would laugh in my face if I told her these were life-changing doughnuts. “These are…different, and they’re filled with butterscotch cream.”

“Ooo, butterscotch cream,” she said in a voice that made clear she still wasn’t impressed. “Can I see?”

I opened the box.

“Not very pretty, are they?”

“Okay, that’s it!” Jeanine stood up. “Move!”

“What?” I said.

“Up! Now!”

Before I knew it, Jeanine had pulled me off the couch and was dragging me to the other side of the room.

“What’s your problem?”

“Don’t you know what trash talk is?” Jeanine said, searching the room for open seats.

“Did you hear what that girl said?”

“Uh, yeah, I heard what she said. She was trash-talking you. Classic trash talk. Newsflash: she wants you to think you don’t have a chance. She wants you to give up before you even start. Look at these kids—that’s what they all want. Duh. You’re the competition. Solve-a-Thon, cooking competition, it’s all the same. Never, ever listen to the competition about anything.”

We found a small sliver of space on a couch by the door. “I can sit on the armrest,” I said.

“Oh, no need for that, hon, we can scooch,” said a woman with bright yellow hair and sparkly lips. “Move over, Immy.” She shooed the girl next to her. “See, plenty of room. I’m Ingrid, and this is my daughter, Imogen.”

Imogen had the same hair and lips as her mom, but was also wearing a pink toque.

In case your mom isn’t a chef, a toque is one of those tall hats that chefs wear. Because my mom is a chef, I can also tell you that there are one hundred folds in a toque for the hundred ways you can cook an egg. Just a fun fact.

“Thanks.” I sat. “I’m Tris. And this is my sister, Jeanine.”

Jeanine squeezed in next to me. “Imogen, are you aware of the bias against female chefs in professional kitchens? Do you really think girly toques help?”

“Jeanine, they were being nice,” I whispered. “They weren’t trash-talkers.”

Jeanine turned her back on Imogen and Ingrid. “No, they’re not trash-talkers. They’re krill. Do you want to be krill or do you want to be a shark?”

“Krill?”

“You know, krill, the fish that all the other fish eat. Do you want to be krill, or do you want to be a shark, the fish all the other fish fear?”

“Are those my only choices?”

“You think this is a joke? Nobody wins something like this by accident. You understand that, right?”