Chasing His Kickass Luna Back by Jane Above Story

Abby
We exit hair and makeup, and I can’t help but feel like an impostor beneath this
mask of perfectly-caked makeup. Just like yesterday, it feels like an
uncomfortable facade, a porcelain mask covering the real Abby. I can’t help but
wonder to myself: why is this amount of makeup necessary for a cooking show?
Shouldn’t my abilities be judged, not my face?
I glance over at Karl as we walk out of the hair and makeup room. He’s still
wearing his blue surgical mask, but the makeup that I can see on his face is
much lighter than mine.
“Geez, Abby,” he says as he looks at me. “You like like a...”
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“Don’t,” I hiss. I don’t want to think about it, not now. Instead, I focus my
attention on my chef’s jacket. The fabric is stiff and a little itchy from the
starching they put it through to look ‘camera-perfect’, much unlike my own

uniform, which is comfortably worn down after years of use.
“Need help with that?” Karl offers, his own jacket already perfectly buttoned.
“No, I’ve got it,” I snap, my nerves fraying. But after another failed attempt, I
relent. “Okay, maybe I don’t ‘got it’. Please help.”
Karl moves to button my jacket with a precision that borders on surgical.
“There,” he says, stepping back to examine his handiwork. “Perfect.”
But I don’t feel perfect; I feel like I’m about to come apart at the seams.
“Three minutes!” a production assistant yells from down the hall, waving a
clipboard frantically.
Three minutes. The weight of the entire morning—the mad dash, the almost-car
crash, the last-minute change in sous chefs—crashes down on me.
My hands are shaking and my heart is pounding, this damn makeup is too thick
and cakey, and this stupid uniform is too stiff and itchy. I feel like a prisoner in
my own body right now.
“I can’t do this, Karl,” I say, my voice quivering. “I’m not ready. I didn’t even get

to familiarize myself with my station yet like everyone else. How am I supposed
to compete?”
“Abby, look at me,” Karl says, taking my trembling hands into his. His grip is firm,
grounding.
I look up, and even with the mask, I can feel the intensity of his gaze, willing me
to listen. “You’re one of the most—no, you’re the most—dedicated, passionate
people I know. You’ve been through so much already just to get here, Abby. You
can do this.”
“That’s easy for you to say,” I shoot back, pulling my hands away. “You’re not the
one whose career is on the line. If I fail today, it might destroy my restaurant’s
reputation.”
“You’re right, I’m not,” he says gently. “But I know what it’s like to have
everything riding on one moment. Trust me.”
“How? How can I trust everything will be fine when the whole morning has been
a complete disaster?”