Page 45 of The Golden Spoon
“It was him!” I stand, my folding chair tipping back as I do.
“What do you mean, Gerald?”
I step forward, shaking my finger at him. “This man sabotaged me! He destroyed my bake! He opened Pradyumna’s refrigerator! He switched Peter’s salt and sugar!”
“Are you getting this?” I hear one of the producers whisper.
“You better believe it,” someone whispers back.
The camera operator looks at me. He seems surprised that I should level such an accusation against him.
“What do you have to say for yourself?” I demand.
“Are you serious?” He looks to the crew for help, but the interviewer folds her arms in front of her chest.
“I’d like to hear it, actually. You are the only crew member here from that season.”
He rolls his eyes.
“Fine. But I’m telling you, we were not trying to hurt anyone. It was just for the ratings. The show had gotten too boring,” he says. “It was Melanie who wanted it done. We were ordered to do it.”
“Really? You sabotaged innocentBake Weekcontestants? Do you know how seriously people took the integrity of that show?”
“Yeah. Are you some kind of monster?”
“Oh, comeon, it’s not like I murdered someone.” He throws his hands up in disgust.
“Oh, poor form, Graham.” There are groans around me from the crew.
“I don’t need this shit,” he says, turning to leave.
I find myself growing calmer as the crew and producers become more agitated. A sense of peace washes through me.
“Make sure we add that to the documentary.”
“Oh, definitely.”
“What a scumbag.”
Someone picks my chair up. And I find myself sitting again, relaxed now.
Across from me, the interviewer has resumed her former stance and is leaning forward to ask me a question.
“Now where were we? I think you were going to tell us how you climbed up a drainpipe.”
“Yes, well, it’s really just a matter of physics,” I say, smiling.
HANNAH
I am wired up with a small mic that clips to the collar of my dress. I sit down in a plush armchair, one of two facing each other between two groupings of cameras and mics. The lights are hot on my face, but I am used to it now. I take a deep breath to ease my nerves. The interviewer sits across from me. She is a pretty brunette wearing a stylish designer suit. I have the same one at my apartment, so I know how expensive it is. She’s absolutely salivating to talk to me but tries to hide it by crossing her legs and leaning back in her chair casually. She gets the signal to start.
“I’m going to just jump right in. What happened that night, Hannah?” she asks. My heart jerks in my chest, but I maintain my composure.
I smile, falling into a rehearsed pose, resting my palms in my lap. I glance down at my hands. My nails are long and red, unbitten. I’ve been working on it. I’ve been working on a lot of things. I’m different. My mother noticed it right away when I returned. “There is something about you,” she’d said, circling me like a shark, trying to get to the bottom of it. She was the one who helped me pack up my life for New York. She knew I needed to move on from Eden Lake. She never even brought up Ben when she drove me to collect my things. I appreciatedthat. “I’ll come visit you in New York,” she’d said when she dropped me off at the airport. “My little TV star!” She hasn’t yet.
The news about Archie’s death blew up before we even left Grafton. By the time we reentered society, the four of us were already mini celebrities, and Betsy was already a villain. The calls and emails for interviews came in for weeks. You’d better believe I said yes to each and every one. As soon as my TV appearances began, I started to film myself baking and upload the clips to my YouTube channel. Within the first week, I had half a million subscribers.
The smile freezes on my face. There are still creepers, of course. People with their own YouTube channels and blogs dedicated to conspiracy theories. They love to speculate about what happened at Grafton. Some say it wasn’t Betsy at all. That the timeline doesn’t make sense. Some even think thatIdid it. I try not to let them bother me, but I can’t help it, my knees get weak and my palms go clammy every single time.
