Page 10 of The Baking Games

This guy is going to kill us. I don’t know who taught him to drive, but he wasn’t listening, or they were drunk. He’s taking every turn like we’re running from gangsters with large guns and fast cars.

“Can you slow down?” I ask for the third time. The producer sitting next to me doesn’t seem to notice that our deaths are imminent. She continues staring at her phone, frantically typing. She’s probably typing out her last will and testament.

“It’s fine,” the guy responds in very broken English.

“Isn’t this scaring you?” I finally ask Nina, the producer with the big doe eyes and giant fake boobs.

She giggles. Actually giggles. She doesn’t laugh. It’s a giggle like a cartoon character from the fifties. “Nah. Dmitri knows how to drive very well. He drives me all the time.”

“Uh-huh,” I mumble, staring out the window. I wish I had my phone right now. This drive is both terrifying and boring. “How much longer?”

“About ten minutes.”

Ten long minutes.

I keep going back and forth in my mind as to whether this whole thing was even a good idea. Leaving Sadie and my job and for what? The chance of winning a prize? How do I know I’ll even make it past the first week? And then I’ve lost everything.

Well, not really. Sadie will still be there, and unfortunately, so will Big Thelma. She’ll probably spend her time getting meaner. Doing push-ups and eating doughnuts at the same time. The image makes me smile for a moment. Maybe I’ll be here long enough to actually miss Big Thelma, but I’m not sure I have enough time left in my life for that to happen.

I guess I’m overthinking this. Sadie isn’t a baby. She’s a grown woman with a job and a life outside of me. Parents must go through this when their kids get older and leave the nest. Only Sadie hasn’t actually left the nest. Neither of us can leave the nest because we can’t afford a new nest.

We pass a sign that says Sweet Haven, which then takes us down a long dirt road with the biggest live oak trees I’ve ever seen. Swaths of Spanish moss hang from them over the road. It is really beautiful, and nothing like the suburbs. If I lived here, I don’t think I’d ever leave.

I guess I imagined Sweet Haven would be an actual town, but it’s not. It’s a dot on the map.

“Do people actually live here?” I ask.

Nina nods. “A few. It’s not overly populated because there’s so much marshland. There are a few restaurants and shops; otherwise, it’s mostly old family land. Big Civil War era houses and such.”

We finally pull up outside of a beautiful Southern home. This place is like something out of a storybook. It’s white with black shutters, two stories tall, and covered in porches. It seems like every door and window has a porch.

“This is it?” I ask, craning my neck to look at the house.

“Yep.”

“It’s big.”

“You haven’t seen anything yet,” she says, giggling again.

I step out of the SUV when Dmitri finally gets out and opens my door. He doesn’t seem to get in a hurry unless he’s actually driving. Then we’re trying to beat the speed of light. Or sound. Whichever one is faster.

But to open my door or remove my luggage? Nah, Dmitri has all the time in the world.

“Thanks,” I say, stepping out into the ungodly hot Southern sun. I look around for more contestants. “Where is everybody?”

“Oh, we were very careful to bring each of you at different times so you don’t see each other until you’re inside.”

Hmm. That seems weird. We don’t know each other, so what does it matter if we see each other? Oh well. I don’t really understand how all this TV stuff works. I’m sure they know best.

Nina and Dmitri walk me up the stairs and then set my rolling suitcase and duffel bag at the front door. They both turn and start walking down the stairs.

“Wait! What am I supposed to do now?”

Nina giggles yet again. “Open the door, silly!”

Without another word, they hop into the SUV and speed off. This whole day has been one of the weirdest of my life. For all I know, this is all one big prank. Or they’ve dropped me at a very fancy serial killer’s house just to amuse themselves.

I throw the duffel bag over my shoulder and grab the rolling suitcase, slowly turning the doorknob to the big, old house. It’s heavy wood and creaks when I open it, which is a bit spooky at first—that is until I see the inside. Good, dear Lord. It’s gorgeous.

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