“Know what?” Trash-talker asked.

“Names for food in French,” the girl said.

“You mean, you don’t?” Skinny Jeans said.

The girl’s eyes grew even bigger. “That’s not fair. That’s not even… I mean, why French? Why do people always think French food is so great? Have you ever had sata andagi? I bet they’re way better than French doughnuts.”

“Woah.” Trash-talker put her hands up like she was surrendering. “Relax. First of all, he’s messing with you. Second of all, what are sata andagi?”

“Okinawan doughnuts.”

“Cool.” Trash-talker picked up her jacket from the couch—the one she’d been wearing at the callback with all the buttons—and pulled out a tiny notebook and pen. “So I can just call them Okinawan doughnuts?”

“What are you doing?” the girl asked.

“I write down foods I want to try in here, so I don’t forget. You think if I just google ‘Okinawan doughnuts,’ I’ll be able to find places that serve them?”

“I guess.”

I should get a notebook like that, I thought. Or maybe I could just use my phone. Could I hate Trash-talker and be impressed by her at the same time?

“And you’re sure he was just…messing with me, you know, about the French?” the Disney character asked.

“Yeah, I’m sure. I’m pretty sure that’s his job.”

“No, it’s not,” Skinny Jeans snapped. “Wait, what do you mean, my job?”

Trash-talker rolled her eyes. “I mean, that’s why you were chosen. Because they thought you’d mess with people. You don’t think this show is all about cooking, do you? They want drama—you know, fights and tears and freak-outs. What did you think all those questions—winning is everything—were all about?”

The room went silent.

I wondered what kind of drama they thought I’d bring. What was I picked for: tears, fights, or freak-outs?

I grabbed a plate and circled the food table slowly. They had everything: bagels, cream cheese, cubed cheese, mini muffins, egg sandwiches, cut fruit. I guess it made sense that The Food Connection put out a good spread.

I hadn’t had a decent bagel in forever, and these looked like they didn’t come from bags in the freezer. They were nice and plump. I was just reaching for an egg one when I felt someone tap me on the shoulder.

I jerked away and looked up.

It was a girl. She was smiling and holding out bagel tongs.

I took the tongs, mumbled a thanks, and tried to glue my eyes to my bagel, but the more I tried not to see that girl, the more she was all I could see. Her face was red-brown like Mom’s herb pots, and her dark hair was twisted up on either side of her head like Princess Leia in that old Star Wars movie.

And she was still smiling.

If trash-talking was bad for your competitive edge, smiling was like dynamite.

“The bagels are really good.” She sounded like she’d just walked out of Hogwarts. She wasn’t from the East Coast. She didn’t even sound like she was from this country. “This is my second. I like the egg ones too. I’m Keya.”