“I’m just not going to apply,” I tell Di as I punch down my bread dough. It needs a second rise. With a few hits, it deflates. I look at my belly and wish I could do the same. Make it go from soft and squishy to washboard abs that would make other guys take notice. And maybe ask me out. I should probably do some sit-ups or crunches, whatever those are, to make that a reality. I’m not really big into sports or fitness.
Di waves her arms in the air. She looks like a crow flapping. Her latest outfit has a lot of flowing, black material. The micro braids pinned on top of her head like a giant nest only add to the image. Plus Di is tall, taller than most of our teachers, so the nest looks like it’s way up in a tree.
I’m tall too. It’s how we first saw each other the first day of high school, literally over the heads of the entire class. Di says it was a sign. I said it was genetics. Plus all the growth hormones in dairy products. She said we were friends. And we are.
“Theo, you have to,” she says. “It’s an amazing opportunity. And as your hag—”
“You’re not my hag,” I interrupt. “I hate when you call yourself that. We don’t have to be clichés. We can be best friends and that’s it.”
Di rolls her eyes. “Same thing. As I was saying, you know I’m always right. I said you should try to get into the school’s baking program. Now you’re the star of it.”
“I don’t know about star,” I say. She’s right though. She insisted I apply to this program. It’s very selective and elite. But I got in. Di knows I love being in the kitchen, the feel of dough under my hands, the smells, the decorating, the tastes, the goodies at the end of it all. The problem is, I can’t help eating the delicious results. I’m sure when guys look at me they see a huge giant. A big, fat gay guy who bakes. It’s the recipe for a joke. And I’m the punch line.
“You don’t have any confidence. That’s your only problem,” says Di.
Di is the opposite. She drips confidence. She is a plus-size diva, proud of her curves and stature. When she couldn’t find the kind of clothing she wanted to wear, she started sewing. That landed her a spot in our school’s fashion program. She has even sold some of her designs and runs a small online business.
“At least look at the application,” Di says pushing the printout at me. “It’s at HEAT, the hottest restaurant in town. And you could win a ton of cooking equipment and a whack of cash. Which you will totally need when you get into culinary school.”
“If I get in.”
“When. And you actually know how to use the equipment! How cool would it be to cook in a real restaurant?”
“If I get in,” I repeat.
“When,” Di repeats. “And are you forgetting who owns HEAT?”
Kyle Carl Clark, or KCC, as he’s called, just happens to be my favorite Toronto chef. I see him all the time doing interviews and cooking segments on TV and in magazines. He opens one trendy restaurant after another, each one a success. It doesn’t hurt that he looks like a model with his broad chest, muscled arms and scruffy, salt-and-pepper facial hair. His restaurants are hot. So is he.
It’s annoying how often Di is right. I would be an idiot not to take advantage of this opportunity.
“And it’s down on Church Street, right in the middle of the Village,” Di continues. “The Gay Village. Your people! This cooking competition has your name written all over it. You need to apply.”
I take the paper and sigh. I’ve seen it already. It popped up on my phone’s feed last night. I actually considered entering. Everything about the competition is tempting. But I decided that I can’t do it.
“I can’t,” I say, trying to hand the paper back to her.
“Can’t or won’t? Give me a reason. A good one.”
“It’s a cooking competition. I’m a baker.”
“You cook all the time,” Di says, waving my excuse away with her hand. “Your food is great. Next?”
“I’m too young.”
“There wasn’t any mention of age restrictions. And seventeen is hardly too young. Try again.”
“My mom won’t like the idea.”
“I already texted her, and she’s cool. I told her it wouldn’t get in the way of classes.”
I hate that Di is friends with my mom. They shouldn’t even have each other’s numbers.
I dust flour off my apron. “Look at me,” I say. Di rolls her eyes again. I keep talking. “I’m chunky. You know how judgy gay guys can be.” Someone at school actually told me I should think about getting an eating disorder if I want to get laid. I pretended I didn’t hear. Yeah, people can be jerks, but I can’t deny I should probably lose some weight. I just need to look at myself or grab a handful of my flab to know it’s true. “I don’t want everyone looking at me.”
Di looks me up and down. “The problems with your body are in your head. You’re cuddly, like a teddy bear. With a lot of muscle from all the kneading and lifting you do in here. If I was a guy, I’d be all over you.”
She sees teddy bear. I see whale. Anyway, it doesn’t matter if Di says she’d date me. She’s not a guy. She doesn’t understand gay-guy weight standards at all.
Di hasn’t finished. “I’m fatter than you, and I’m in fashion. Yes, the industry is built on appearance. But I’m not going to let a bunch of judgy bitches hold me back. You can’t either. Especially if you’re planning to open up bakeries across the city. Soon everyone will know your face and your baking.”
I cover my dough with plastic wrap. I do want to open a bakery. Then, all going well, maybe a chain of them. One day I’ll have the perfect business, the perfect body (slim and toned, with no flab) and the perfect guy who is crazy about me. Everything will fall into place.
“Right now I’m the Pillsbury Dough Boy. You’re different than me, Di. You’re not afraid to take crazy chances,” I say. Her outfits alone make that clear.
“But you try new things all the time when you bake,” Di persists.
“That’s not the same. You can eat your mistakes, and then they’re gone. Baking is the one thing I feel good about. I don’t want to get rejected and end up feeling bad about myself or worse about my looks. And I definitely don’t want to start feeling bad about my baking. I know I should be cooler about everything, but I’m not there yet. I’ve decided.”
Di gives me a huge grin. “I knew you’d be like this.”
“I’m not like anything.”
Di keeps grinning. “You are. You don’t believe in yourself. But I believe in you. That’s why I already sent in your application.” She waits for me to close my mouth before she says, “You can thank me with brownies.”
I pull the tea towel free from my apron and tug it between both hands. “You did what?” I chase Di around the counter. “I’m not making you brownies. I’m making you a noose!” For a bigger girl, she can move fast.
She laughs as she darts out the door. “The soy-caramel brownies,” she calls over her shoulder. “I love those.”