Dieter blew a kazoo. “Go and go and go!”

I unraveled three paper towels from the roll next to the sink, ripped them off, wet them, and lay them under the cutting board—a trick Walter had taught me to keep the board stable.

I might not be the fastest chopper, but I knew what I was doing.

I sliced off the tip of an onion, and put it flat side down on the board so it wouldn’t roll. I cut it in half and pulled off the peel. Then I pressed my left hand flat on the top of one half and made two horizontal cuts.

Kashish, kashish, kashish.

Before I could stop them, my eyes jumped to Keya’s board. With every kashish of her blade, a mound of perfectly formed rectangular bits tumbled onto the cutting board. And just like that, she was done with her first onion.

01:01…01:02…

I had to get moving.

I turned my onion and started vertical cuts across the surface.

What was I doing? The cuts were ugly, uneven. Jeez, I hoped Walter wouldn’t get to see a close-up of this.

I tried not to think about anybody else, but Keya’s kashish, kashish, kashish was impossible to shut out.

“Look at her go!” It was Chef JJ. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see her and Dieter at the end of our counter.

01:52…01:53…

I started on my second onion.

“And would you look at those pieces, like a machine cut them.”

They were definitely not talking about my chopped onion.

Just then, there was a loud clatter.

We all stopped and looked around.

At the second counter, Gordy stood with his long arms up over his head like he was surrendering, and both he and Phoenix were staring at something on the floor between them.

“How do you drop a knife?” Phoenix said. “You could have killed me.”

“I’m really sorry.” Gordy’s hands were shaking.

“Don’t just stand there. Pick it up!” Chef JJ shouted. “And why have the rest of you stopped?”

“Tick-tock. Tick-tock,” Dieter said.

02:28…02:29…

This was it, my chance! All I had to do now was not drop the knife. It wouldn’t matter how messed up my cuts were. You drop the knife, you’re automatically last.

Don’t drop the knife. Don’t drop the knife. Don’t drop the knife…

I used the words to shut everyone else out and keep my rhythm.

Don’t (chop)…drop (chop)…the (chop)…knife (chop).…

As I made the last slice, I heard Dieter sing, “Don’t drop the knife” right along with me, then laughter.

No, no, no. Had I been saying the words out loud?

I looked up. Everyone’s eyes were on me.

“Way to set the bar high,” Chef JJ sneered. “But so we’re clear, just because you can hold on to your knife, doesn’t mean you know how to use it. You got lucky.”

“CUT!”

Chapter 16

Interview with Phoenix Carter, Age 12, Middlebury, Vermont:

You want to know how I’m feeling? I don’t think it’s fair that girl—Keya, right?—brought her own knives. I mean, did you, like, inspect them? I seriously hope so, because they could have been…I don’t know, like, not regulation. They inspect footballs at the Super Bowl, right? Isn’t it, like, the same thing? I still came in second with the regular knives, so I probably would have won with her special ones. I mean, it’s not as if I care. As long as you don’t get eliminated, what difference does it make? You just need to be the last one standing.