Run It!

By Mary Ramsey

Daughter of a billionaire heiress and the orphan son of a fisherman, Elena Rose walks the line between her father's wild artistry and her mother's upper-class persona.

Now on the cusp of her own culinary career, she is in her freshman year at a prestigious boarding school. The yearly competition brings out the best from her class, namely all the children of famous alumni. This includes her beautiful, gifted cousin, Prayikina.

The world seems to expect them to be rivals, but that couldn’t be further from the truth. During the week-long competition, they support each other through intense competition and face the daily drama of the elite school together.

But can Elena find a way to honor her heritage and stay true to herself?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Next Chapter
• Release date: Dec 30, 2021

Book preview

Prologue

The greatest day of my father’s life was not the day he left his south Russia fishing village after the death of his parents, or the day he landed his first real job at the age of ten, quickly taking command of a kitchen full of full-grown men. It wasn’t even the day he graduated from Toshaini-Kai Institute, the most exclusive culinary academy/boarding school in Japan. No, not even that victory could compare to the moment he would truly cherish.

At twenty-five, having graduated from university, he was living in Copenhagen, working for the company of his adopted family. The food science corporation was the brainchild of Warren Nakiri, Alicia Blair Nakiri’s father.

Remy Moceanu had worked for the family for most of his life, even having attended school as her personal aide. She’d found him working in a kitchen, living as a desolate homeless child. According to stories, Alicia begged her mother to buy out Remy’s employment contract. But it was only after she’d defeated him in a cook-off did he agree to leave with her of his own free will.

He never wanted to be a servant, but he kind of liked the idea of having a friend. So they grew up together, often as each other’s only companion. And sometimes more. One day, out of the blue, she pulled him into the bathroom.

I’m fucking pregnant, she shrieked, as if the baby were a virus or a pimple.

Remy was appropriately shocked. He and Ali had fooled around on many occasions, but he’d always assumed she was on birth control. After all, she was always the one who came into his room and seduced her way into his bed.

She explained that she’d gotten jealous when her sister Erica had announced she was expecting and had stopped taking her pills. She also expected a ring—size four. Remy ran his fingers through sweaty, shoulder-length hair. This was for real. Ali’s parents were both kind to him, nurturing his talent for cooking and giving him a permanent position in their billion-dollar company. It was a decent fate, one his late parents would have envied. But did he really want to be stuck with Ali Blair for the rest of his life?

He’d nurtured dreams of moving back to Russia, running a restaurant that paid tribute to his heritage, and becoming someone who would make his parents proud. That was what he wanted more than anything—to make his family proud. If Ali was telling the truth, if she was carrying his baby, he couldn’t leave her. So he traveled to London to buy a ring with the help of Ali’s parents. Warren and Grace Nakiri knew he was a good man, well-educated with a good future. They also knew their daughter and agreed to leave the wedding planning to Ali to avoid her tempestuous wrath.

The night before their flight, Remy presented Ali with a rose-gold band adorned with a single sapphire. As planned, they snuck to the airport, boarded a private plane, and eloped on a small island off the coast of France. The day was truly beautiful, from the comfortably warm weather to the sight of his beautiful, pregnant bride.

My mother was frustrated with her morning sickness and the fit of her dress, even going as far as to curse out any offer of a souvenir photograph. She thought the weather was both too hot and too cold. The venue was tacky, and then there was the lack of guests. She was resentful that she didn’t get her princess moment, and she made her feelings known.

After their return home, Remy went back to work, now with increased responsibility while Ali stayed at home, attempting to avoid stress. Even with his efforts, the next few months would be a long, strenuous ride. Months later, Alicia gave birth to a little girl via a scheduled c-section. Remy stayed with his wife, holding her hand as she was put under for surgery. Since Ali requested full sedation, the nurse handed Remy his daughter to hold.

That moment, Dad always told me, when his hands touched the warmth of my hospital blanket, was the greatest moment of his life. His little angel looked so much like him; it was like he was holding a piece of his own soul. His hands trembled.

Throughout his career, he’d held all manner of animals from chickens to pigs, octopus to lobsters, but he’d never held a child. To him, I seemed more like Ali—beautiful with the soft pale skin of royalty. He was not worthy of being in my presence. And then I opened my sparkly red eyes and smiled.

Remy had been born with dark red eyes, a unique trait that he always attributed to his Romanian heritage. To see that trait in me brought about a sense of love and hope. He wiped tears away. I was his child to raise, to teach, to love.

Hours later, Mom woke in her hospital room to the sight of him rocking me in his arms. Don’t I get to hold her?

Remy knew he had to act compliant if only to determine a name they would both agree on. Can we name her Elena?

Who is Elena?

Remy could only imagine the paranoid thoughts going through his wife’s mind; Alicia had been his only lover and he had no eyes for other women. His courage was fading but this was truly important to him. Elena was my mother.

Dad said she’d reached her hand to his face, looking at him with a look of true love, even as I began my first baby tantrum. How about Elena Rose Nakiri?

Remy smiled. As you wish. My father already knew why my mother would want the baby to have her last name. The name Nakiri stood for a lot more than Moceanu. And he wanted his daughter to have all the opportunities she could.

Yeah, you can take her back, Ali said as she shoved me over towards my father. See if you can get her to quieten down.

The moment I was back in my daddy’s strong arms, he’d said, I calmed down, finding true peace. My daddy held me, looking out the window in prayer. Elena Rose, you’re my little miracle.

In that moment, he told me, he felt his mother’s spirit watching over him.

1

Press Start

Now begins my story. I’m one of over a dozen second-generation alumni of the Toshaini-Kai Institute. When I was fifteen, I made the finals of the Freshman Fall Festival. Standing in the arena in front of hundreds of students, teachers, and alumni, we, the top eight were given our moment of glory.

In this miraculous turn of events, all final eight are all the children of former alumni, shouted the perky MC. Moma Yukihira, the daughter of the current dean of students, Samuel Yukihira, and his lovely wife Megan!

Shy, Moma smiled behind her curtain of black hair.

You better rock the finals! shouted Kintaro. Her brother had won the competition final his freshman year and he seemed to be the polar opposite of his baby sister, his energy as fiery as his red hair.

The MC laughed and pointed the spotlight. Next, show some love for Giovanna, daughter of legendary Italian alumni Tony Aldini!

Gigi, the supermodel blonde, walked in like a pageant queen. From backstage I watched her image on the big screen, in awe. But I knew beauty came with a price. Her dreams were not in her father’s kitchen. But that’s a story for later.

When the applause died down, the MC pointed to the next student, my awesome cousin. Now, a girl who needs no introduction, Prayikina Nakiri-Hayama!

The dark-skinned girl with blonde hair was the definition of cool as she formed the peace sign and blew a kiss to a very specific area of the audience.

Kyle Thompson, son of the meat heiress Isla Mito!

The blond-haired muscular American boy struck what could only be described as a pro-wrestling pose. Whatever next?

Now put your hands together for the crown princess of punk rock—Elena Rose Nakiri!

The crowd roared as my image appeared on the big screen. I’d grown to look a lot like my father, from his iconic height to my long black hair. For the competition, I wore face paint under my eyes like Daddy always did. I strutted to my seat, shimmering with a confidence that could have only been learned from a Dutch-Japanese socialite mother. I found my space while the MC called out what seemed like a long list of people who need to be defeated.

The match-ups were as follows: Prayikina vs Davis, Tomas vs Moma, James vs Giovanna; and I was to face off with Kyle. Looking at the cheering sections, one would think I was at a disadvantage, but I wasn’t worried about beating him. Although undeniably athletic and supermodel hot, the guy was a one-note meathead. The MC gave a brief explanation of the competition schedule before giving the local press more photo opportunities.

I reached for Prayikina’s hand. So cool, right?

My cousin nodded. I can’t wait to get started. Have you seen your mom and dad?

Not yet. That was the real high point to come. As soon as we were dismissed, I ran to the hallway in the backstage area to reunite with my parents for the first time in nearly a year. I can’t believe I’m in the finals!

As usual, my father was standing two steps behind my mother, waiting for her to speak first. My mother, dusting down her bright white pantsuit, simply shook her head. Don’t get cocky, your road is long from over. After all, your father was a failure.

My father snickered. I’m sorry dear wife, but if I remember correctly, I tied for second place while you were eliminated in the prelims.

Thankfully, my mother grumbled and stomped off, her departure finally allowing me access to my best friend. Hi, Dad, I said with a chuckle. It’s been a while. I held opened my arms for a hug.

My father stood a little taller in her absence. A strong, imposing man, he wore a leather jacket with denim jeans, letting his black hair hang shaggy and loose in a way that made him look like a movie star. He scooped me up in his arms. How the fuck have you grown up so much?

Dad! I laughed. I’d need to hit six feet if I ever want to walk in your shoes. I took the opportunity to give him a kiss on the cheek. He was my knight in shining armor, someone too perfect for this world.

You can walk in my rancid-ass shoes anytime.

I’d be honored, but I’m sure Mom would be pissed. I stood on my two feet while still in his arms. Speaking of Mom, that fact-drop about her prelims was bad-ass, but she’s totally going to make you pay.

Yeah well, it’ll be worth it. I love you so much. And I’m so proud of you. My father took out his red bandana.

Old and worn, it was the source of his ‘power’ and the reason he’d graduated alongside classmates and friends who’d had more tuition. For whatever reason, wearing the bandana did more than keep his long hair out of his face. What it did to his energy was the equivalent of drinking a bottle of vodka while snorting a line of cocaine. It brought about a fiery spirit that was truly awe-inspiring. I assumed he took it out just to hold, but his next words shook me to the core.

Elena, I want you to have this.

Really? I cupped my hands over my face. I’d witnessed my father cook; I knew the power of the bandana. Do you think it’ll work for me?

He shrugged as if it was not a big deal. Worth a try, right?

I blinked tears from my eyes. Father always believed in me. I’m really scared. What if I lose in the prelims, like Mom?

Do you remember what I told you about being scared?

I nodded. A lifetime of stories echoed in my head. His father died at sea while his mother died of illness not long after. You were on your own, and you were scared, but you found your courage through your cooking. That was what I loved about my father. He taught me to be brave, but also grateful. When you cook, you go to war, fighting with everything you have. So, when you win, you can truly savor the victory. If you lose, you go down in a blaze of glory. I had my father’s eyes, his hair, his punk-rock cooking spirit. Now I just hoped I had his talent. Tying for second place would still be quite an accomplishment.

My father cupped my face. Lost for words, he smiled and kissed my forehead. No matter what, Elena Rose, you’ll always be my champion, my princess, and my precious little girl.

He felt thinner, weaker. I had no idea if he was sick or just stressed. I hated leaving him alone with my mother. She was verbally and emotionally abusive on a good day. On a bad day… I didn’t even want to think about it.

Thanks, Dad. My heart was overflowing with pride. As long as I had my father by my side, nothing was impossible.

2

Rockstar

The opening day of competition started bright and early. First up, at eight in the morning, was Prayikina vs Davis in Battle Kale. The MC made the announcement, putting two hours on the clock, and then like a proper host spent the entire time attempting to shove a microphone in the contestants’ faces.

Prayikina was more than willing to talk about her Indian-inspired dish. She was close to her dad, Akira Hayama, an Indian chef adopted at ten years old by a Japanese faculty member. He grew up at the school but never turned his back on his heritage of South Asia. He taught his daughter the culture of spices, aromatics and the courage to experiment. She didn’t even need the entire clock time and easily defeated her opponent’s kale-wrapped venison.

I knew her secret. She’d somehow created a version of Paneer, an Indian cheese, using quick-setting gelatin. The texture was like a fluffy cloud molded into a tofu-like shape. I could only imagine what spices she used to complement the peppery bitterness of kale. That was just the amazing star she was.

Prayikina did a victory lap around the arena, shaking hands. From our seats, Gigi and I ran up to her, giving hugs, squealing for joy. We both had a while to wait for our matches, so after Prayikina was whisked away for interviews, Gigi and I moved to the now-empty front row.

Oh! Kale chips, Gigi said, discreetly stealing a family-sized bag from the display table.

How do you know those aren’t decorative? The spread of kale in all its forms reminded me of something out of a creative smorgasbord in Iron Chef, offering up the illusion that kale actually came in a wide variety of edible forms.

With how much our parents pay in tuition, I’m sure the faculty can afford actual food on their displays. She sat back down.

I was mesmerized by Prayikina. She was such a happy person with a sense of confidence I could only aspire to.

Eyes on the prize, right? Gigi said with a laugh.

There’s a prize this year?

Same as every year. Winner gets their moment of glory, seeing their name in lights, added to the long list of past winners, honor of our ancestors and all that.

It would be nice if there was an actual prize, beyond bragging rights, I said, reaching for a chip, since I was actually kind of hungry. Sometimes it felt like we were nothing more than performing seals, bringing fame and the press to the school.

We’re chefs, all we have are bragging rights. You should know that better than anyone.

Because of my mom. I couldn’t help but laugh. Yeah, you can say that again. Gigi had a wall of pageant trophies and other talent awards. She was a beautiful blonde champion: the daughter my mother always wanted. For that, I was so unbelievably jealous. I guess that was the prize we were all competing for: the love, admiration, and approval of our celebrity parents.

At noon was the second match: Tomas vs Moma in Battle Winter Melon. I never liked the stuff. To me, it was always one of those vegetables that tasted awful, partially because of its status as a superfood. It had the texture of honeydew with the taste of unripe cucumber.

Moma created a stew that masked the bitterness of winter melon. At least that’s what I heard from the announcer. I was beginning to zone out in my folding chair. I knew my parents were someplace in the audience, or maybe touring the campus. I could have gone for a walk but couldn’t risk missing a front row seat of the Giovanna vs James drama to come.

When the re-decorated table was revealed, Gigi shook her head with an audible groan. Tomatoes.

I could see why she was annoyed; compared to the previous matches, this felt like a slow-pitch in her favor, but I failed to see why this was a problem. All she had to do was suffer a little boredom and use her Italian roots to sail through to the next round. When the timer started, Gigi walked over to where Prayikina and I sat, taking out her compact to check her lipstick.

This is bullshit. I’m about ready to walk out.

My first thought was to locate Gigi’s father, to force him to talk some sense into her, but Prayikina was on the case already.

Gi, you can act like a diva, or you can walk away with the victory and the entire arena will adore you even more than they already do.

I don’t know, I’m not feeling it.

Just do what you love, I suggested. You don’t even have to go with an Italian theme.

You know what? You’re right. I’m going to go out there and do what I love.

Gigi did exactly that, creating a raw, vegan spaghetti marinara. She was a master of herbs and spices, creating a salad alongside a thick tomato-based sauce with flavors that were more Japanese than Italian, offering a sweeter, more tangy experience. I can’t even remember