Short Story: Sheila and the Studio

Last year was the first time I entered the NYC Midnight writing contest. The important part as far as I was concerned was that every participant is guaranteed feedback from the judges, no matter how well they did. The stories have to follow a prompt (a genre, a subject, and a character), and the first round has a max word count of 2,000 and has to be written in 8 days. Last year I didn't make it past the first round, but I got some great feedback and I actually liked the story I came up with!

The prompt I had last year was genre: thriller; subject: unanimous; and character: a butcher. It was not easy, but I managed to come up with something. Here's Sheila and the Studio!

Sweat beads up under my red headband and down behind my long brown ponytail, and I fight the urge to wipe my hand across my brow. One hand is holding a chef’s knife, the other had been holding fresh jalapeños - neither would be wise to put near my face. Still, the August heat combined with Maryland’s naturally high humidity is bearing down with an almost oppressive force, and having a hundred people stare at me as I cook is not helping.

Around me, five other chefs and cooks are laboring away at makeshift cooking stations on the main stage of the state fair. We each have a single prep table, two induction burners, a couple of large bottles of water, an assortment of pots, pans, and bowls, and whatever food we’ve brought with us for our dishes. We’re each trying to have our food come out on top in the eyes of our mayor, Roger Allen. He’s a divisive figure in the way anyone with a strong personality and a lack of social skills can be in a small town, but the Studio was particularly incensed by his recent election. They are certain that his deputy mayor, Liza Sanders, would be much more friendly to them, and they had all lobbied hard to get her elected as mayor. Her loss still rankles the higher-ups of the Studio, and they make sure everyone around them knows it.

I’ve only been in Pasadena for around three months, so I hadn’t even been here for the election, but if I wanted to be a part of the Studio, I needed to go with the flow. Roy, the head of the Studio, had approached me not long after I opened my diner, Daisy’s Place, and had given me a song and dance about how the Studio made sure the food service providers of the community worked together to build a stronger presence in town. I hadn’t been that interested, until he mentioned that they worked together to get better ad pricing in the newspapers in the area. While it sounded faintly illegal, I was not about to turn down cheaper ads, so I signed up. It wasn’t that big of a deal, right?

As I put the jalapeños in a pan with some onions and garlic to start softening, I eye the tray of ground beef next to my box of food. The secret ingredient each of us has to use in our dishes, because whoever had designed this cooking competition had watched too much Food Network, had been provided by the local butcher, Bethany. She stops by Daisy’s Place every Wednesday on the way back from her big farm runs, and I always make sure to hold on to an extra slice of French silk pie for her. She had warned me about the Studio, saying that they were creepy, but she hadn’t been able to articulate exactly why. Well, it’s been a couple of months now, and not only do I understand why she thinks they’re creepy, I fully agree.

Before we started cooking, all six of us had been backstage, getting our stuff together and chatting excitedly. We’d been told two days ago that Mayor Allen would be our judge, and given a list of his likes, dislikes, and most importantly, his allergies. I was glad that the only thing in that last category was hazelnuts, since it wasn’t something I usually used. My diner focuses on a mix of Mexican-American and Midwestern comfort food, so I tend toward more simple recipes that rely on some spice and a lot of cheese and cream. Hazelnuts don’t really come into play until dessert time, and I was not about to try to make dessert on a stage in front of God and everybody.

Bethany came into the backstage area carrying a large cardboard box, and the rest of us spontaneously applauded. Her freckled face flushed with pleasure, and she paused long enough to drop a curtsy in her denim overalls and Wonder Woman t-shirt. She was nearly as tall as Roy, though skinny where he was broad, and she kept her silver-blond hair braided tightly down her back. “Make way, make way, secret ingredient coming through!” she called as she moved to the area that had been set up as a pantry. I saw Roy lurking back there, and I turned back to my supplies, reassuring myself for the third time that I had brought my rolling pin in case I needed to make tortillas.

“I can’t believe you’re going to have to feed that scum-sucker, Allen,” I heard Roy say right behind me, and I let out a yelp of surprise. I turned around to see him entirely too close, looming over me with a look of insincere concern. “Oh, I’m sorry, did I scare you?”

“Who, me? Scared?” I tried to laugh it off, but my voice was an octave higher than normal, and I felt certain he could hear my heartbeat thundering through my flannel shirt. Considering how close he was standing, he probably could feel it. Creep. “What can I do for you, Roy?”

Thankfully, he shifted back just a little bit, giving me a couple of inches of breathing room. “I was just saying, I can’t believe you’re having to feed that bastard, Allen. You’re all going to have to cook something wonderful for him, like he knows anything about good food, and he’s going to judge you! As if he has any room to judge anyone.” Roy stared down at me, almost like he was trying to see into my brain. “It’s time someone did something about him, don’t you think?”

Now, here’s something about me - at heart, I’m lazy, and a coward. I know that arguing with Roy is going to take so much more energy than I possess, and it’s not going to achieve anything in the end. However, by making some placating noises at him, I can get him off my back, and get back to what I was doing. That’s the only way I can justify what I said next.

“Oh, absolutely. Somebody should do something about him, no doubt.”

It wasn’t until the words left my mouth that I realized how quiet the backstage area had gotten, because once I finished speaking, the room exploded with cheers. I looked around frantically and saw that all of the other chefs, all of whom were also part of the Studio, were cheering and coming in to give me a high five. I suddenly got a very bad feeling about everything.

“You heard it, ladies and gentleman! It’s unanimous - today’s the day we take care of our Mayor problem!” Roy sounded like a preacher at a mega church, and the other chefs were cheering as though he had laid on hands and made them whole. I, on the other hand, felt frozen. Surely he didn’t mean anyone was going to do something to Mayor Allen, did he? What would anyone do, anyway?

Just as I was asking myself the question, I saw the answer - Roy pulled a bag of hazelnuts out of the backpack he wore, and, moving swiftly, he crushed them in a food processor until they were powder. Then he pulled on gloves and started mixing some powdered hazelnuts into each tray of meat Bethany had delivered. The secret ingredient was going to include an allergen chosen especially for the mayor, and we all were going to have to cook with it.

I looked around wildly at the other chefs, waiting for one of them to say something, make some kind of protest, do something to indicate they realized that this was a problem, but none of them did. Two of them, brothers who owned a Greek restaurant and coffee shop, were arguing with each other in Greek, but that seemed pretty normal for them. Jeremiah, the chef for the only nice hotel in town, was sharpening his knives again, giving everyone a chance to see just how expensive his knives were and wonder, once again, just what he was doing in Pasadena of all places. Sara from the Italian restaurant was scrolling on her phone, one earbud in her ear and head bobbing to something only she could hear.

That left Alistair, a delightful older man who ran a British tea room and gift shop. He was sitting on a stool next to a table covered with his things, head down, lips moving as though in prayer. I didn’t want to interrupt him in such a moment, so I hovered while I waited for him to finish. It didn’t take long before he lifted his head and looked straight at me. “Ah, young Sheila, are you nervous?”

That felt like such a loaded question. “I don’t know… Shouldn’t we do something?”

Alistair smiled beatifically. “Ah, but it was put to a vote, and it was unanimous. We have made our decision, and we must abide by it.” He stood slowly, then patted my hand. “Best of luck in the competition, my dear. I’ll do my best not to beat you too badly.”

Before I knew what was happening, someone with a clipboard was shouting “It’s time! Chefs to your stations, right now, please!”

And now here I am, stirring onions and peppers, rolling out a couple of flour tortillas, and trying desperately not to use this ground beef that has the potential to kill the mayor. I can’t call the police - we’re being watched too closely by both the audience in front and Roy and his right-hand woman, Clara, behind us. In less than an hour, I’ll be delivering my food to be tasted, and the judge may very well die, if not from my food, than from one of the other dishes he tastes. What am I going to do?

I look out into the audience, trying to distract myself, and I make eye contact with Bethany. She gives a big wave, and I realize with a start that she doesn’t know what the Studio has done to her product. She would have a fit if she knew.

A microphone appears like magic, and I yelp in surprise, barely managing to avoid cutting myself. “Sheila, the owner of Daisy’s Place, a brand-new diner in town, is our final contestant. How do you find our little competition?” He thrusts the microphone at me, and I realize I have my chance.

I have to act before I let myself see the way the Studio is staring at me. “It’s wonderful! Big shout out to our butcher Bethany for the secret ingredient. I know this blend was made especially for our mayor’s palate. Thanks, girl!” I grin while staring directly at her, willing her to understand what I’m saying.

Bethany frowns, confused, then I watch the fury come across her face as the penny drops. She storms away, and I manage a deep breath for the first time in over an hour. Behind me, I can hear Roy muttering to Clara, but we’re in front of a large audience. He’s trapped, just like I am.

I’m barely able to plate before time runs out. Looking around at the other dishes, I know I’m not winning the competition, but that’s not the important part anymore. What matters right now is the judge.

I don’t know how Bethany managed it, but instead of Mayor Allen, Deputy Mayor Sanders is sitting at the judging table. She looks like she had just been pulled from the line for a roller coaster, but she’s gracious about the last-minute change in plans. The other contestants look stunned as they deliver their food to her table. I just grin and shake her hand.

I come in fourth place out of six - not great, but it is my first ever competition. The deputy mayor makes a comment about the nutty flavor everyone’s dish has, but she seems content overall. She even made a point of asking for my business card and saying she’ll stop by my diner!

As I’m cleaning up in the tent, I hear Roy approach. I tense, waiting for the ax to fall. “You’re very lucky, you know, that nobody can prove the change in judge was your fault. Don’t think the butcher will always be around to save you, though. We’ll be watching you.” After looming a little longer, he turns on his heel and walks away. The other chefs throw dark looks my way, but none of them make a move toward me.

I make a note to increase the insurance on the diner as I pack up the last of my things. He’s right - I was lucky this time. I’ll have to be more than lucky next time.