Page 8 of The Baking Games

I fill out the form, telling the producers about my background, education, and future goals. I don’t even care what the show is about or what I must do. That money has my name on it.

SAVANNAH

Two weeks have passed without a word from the reality show people. I knew it was a pipe dream. I’m sure thousands of more qualified people applied. Sadie had been so excited about it but hasn’t mentioned it in days. I think she knows it’s not happening, just like I do.

And it’s okay. I know it will all be okay. Somehow, I always skate by in life, just by the skin of my teeth. I don’t think I’m one of those people destined to do big, bold things. I think I’m one of the worker bees. You know, the people who keep things running in the world while other people take vacations, buy expensive handbags, and post about their exciting lives on social media.

But it really is okay. I always land on my feet. I have to believe I will this time. Somehow, I’ll come up with a way for Sadie to go to college, and maybe one day, I’ll come up with a way to open my own bakery. For some people, dreams just take longer.

I’m exhausted today for some reason. Big Thelma was on a roll this morning, yelling out orders like she was putting me through basic training.

“Stir that mix better so it won’t be grainy!”

“Your icing needs work!”

“Where’s that doughnut I was eating?”

Mind you, Big Thelma has no real training in the world of baked goods other than eating enough of them to put us out of business. She calls herself “self-taught,” which, from what I can gather, means she cooked and baked for her ten younger siblings growing up many decades ago.

And my icing doesn’t need work.

Some days, I wonder why I put up with her or any of it, really. The early hours. The boring, unfulfilling job. But then I see Sadie’s face at night and remember that I’m doing it for her. Sure, she’s twenty years old and not a baby anymore, but from the day she was born, she has been my baby. I have to do better for her.

After getting home from work, I fall onto the couch in a lump. I didn’t sleep well last night. Applying for that show got my hopes up, and I don’t usually allow that to happen. You see, although I’m a positive person, I don’t allow myself to get my hopes up about things. Historically, that hasn’t worked out for me.

For instance, I got my hopes up about my last relationship. His name was Connor, and he was dreamy… at first. He hung on my every word, told me how beautiful I was, and repeatedly said he wanted to marry me one day. We dated for exactly two years and twelve days before I broke up with him after a particularly bad argument. We only argued about one thing, really. It was always the same.

Sadie.

He thought it was ridiculous that she was over eighteen and I was still “taking care of her.” He couldn’t understand that we were all we had. Our mother was gone, and our fathers were never in the picture. Sadie was and will always be my top priority.

He blew up when I explained to him that we couldn’t get married until he accepted Sadie as a part of our family and someone who would always be close. At that moment, I realized that I didn’t want to be with someone who didn’t care about my sister like I did.

Sadie is a go-getter; one day, she will show me up in a big way. But for now, I feel responsible for making sure she gets to follow her dreams. She doesn’t demand that from me; I demand it from myself. Sadie always tells me to stop giving up my dreams for hers, but I just can’t.

Still, despite my recent breakup, I’m an optimist. I’m not sure I always live up to that description, though. I’m positive and practical. Is that even a thing?

My positivity is in the moment. I can fake it for long periods of time before I hide in my bathroom to cry. I’ve cried in all sorts of places. Behind the counter at the bakery. In my car. Into an empty icing piping bag. That almost suffocated me.

I feel like if I let my emotions bubble to the surface for too long, they’ll take over, and I might never get back to baseline. I must stay at baseline to survive. It’s funny the coping mechanisms you develop when you grow up like we did.

Just as I close my eyes to take a little nap, my phone buzzes in my pocket, startling me. I sit up quickly and fish it out, answering it on the third ring.

“Hello?” I say, sounding a bit breathless, like I just ran up a flight of stairs. I really need to get to the gym if pulling my phone from my pocket makes me out of breath.

“Is this Savannah Greene?” a chipper woman on the other end of the line asks.

“Yes, it is. Who’s calling?”

“This is Amanda Burton, the casting director for The Baking Games.”

My heart feels like it literally stalls in my chest. Like I need jumper cables to get it going again. I feel like my tongue won’t move. Do you know how hard it is to talk without a tongue? Turns out, very hard.

“Uh huh…” I mumble out, just to make some kind of sound. They don’t call you for a reality show unless they want you on a reality show, right?

“We were very impressed with your application video. The cake you made looked so delicious!”

For the application, I had to fill out an extensive form and make a five-minute video showing something I made, with clips showing the process. I made my famous coconut caramel layer cake. It’s usually a hit at parties. Well, the two times I’ve been invited to a party and made it.

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