And actually do you know where my gym shoes are?
Ricky
The gray ones
“Who’s Ricky?” Henry asked, casually, like there wasn’t a coil of jealousy curdling in his stomach.
“My brother,” she answered, and his stomach uncurdled. “I love him, but he’s completely helpless. Ricky loses everything, but nobody can ever stay mad at him. He misplaced the trophy after state finals last year and didn’t even get in trouble. The trophy turned up two weeks later in an Arby’s bathroom and the coach said, No harm, no foul, and that was that.” Rosie rolled her eyes as Henry laughed. “He’s a year older than me, but you’d think he’s the baby. Owen, the actual baby, managed to remember I was on a plane and don’t know where anyone’s gym shoes are. See?”
She held up her phone again:
Owen
Are you too old to get those wings from the pilot? YES OR NO.
“He’s never been on a plane before, either,” Rosie said, shrugging. “He had a lot of airplane questions.”
“This was your first flight?” Henry asked.
“Yeah,” she said, coloring slightly. “We’re more of a driving family, I guess.”
“Then we gotta get those wings.”
The fasten seat belt sign switched off, and Henry was out of his seat in an instant, trying to unfold his body from the position it had been cramped in for so long. He grabbed his backpack and slung it on. Who cared if there were twenty-one rows in front of him? He was ready to go. With Rosie. And he was going to get her those wings.
“Henry.” She was standing now, too, a beat-up navy backpack with the initials CJR stitched onto the front resting on her seat. Rosie was shorter than he thought she’d be, her eyes about level with his chin. “We are not getting the wings. They are for kids. Little kids.”
“Or kids at heart,” he argued. “Just say they’re for the baby!” Henry pointed to the baby carried by the guy standing in front of the seat next to Rosie.
“I’m not scamming the baby out of his wings.” The baby chose that moment to spit up all over his dad’s shoulder. Henry grimaced sympathetically.
“That baby doesn’t even know what wings are. He’d probably try to eat them! Honestly, we’re saving him from a choking hazard.”
“I’m too old for wings, Henry,” Rosie said as she stepped out into the aisle, the line finally moving toward the doors of the plane. Toward Paris and everything that meant.
Henry waited until they got to the front of the plane and approached the flight attendant in her navy suit and printed scarf, and he said, “Excuse me, ma’am?”
“You are not seriously doing this,” Rosie muttered.
“My friend here has just successfully completed her first aviation experience.” He gestured to Rosie proudly. Rosie looked like she was trying to turtle into her sweatshirt and disappear.
“Congratulations,” the flight attendant said warmly.
“Thanks,” Rosie said, a lot less warmly.
“And we were hoping she could get a pair of wings to mark this momentous occasion.”
“They’re normally just for kids—”
“I told you, Henry—”
“But it sounds like this was a big day.” The flight attendant winked and pulled a pair of plastic wings out of her pocket. “Enjoy Paris, you two.”
“Well, that was completely mortifying,” Rosie said as they walked onto the jet bridge, but she was laughing.
“That was not completely mortifying. That was barely even mildly embarrassing,” Henry scoffed. “And you’re glad you have them now, aren’t you?”
“Maybe.”
Henry thought her smile meant more than just maybe. And as she looked down at the plastic pin in her hand, he felt something within him soar.
“Come on.” Out into the airport, he moved to the side, stepping out of the way of the tide of people streaming off the plane. “Pin them on.”
“It’s silly.” She hesitated, turning the wings over in her palm.
“Yeah,” he agreed. “It is.”
Those chocolate-colored eyes met his, and they crinkled with a smile. She pinned the wings onto her hoodie. Henry saluted her, and she laughed.
“I guess this is it, then,” she said.
“This is what?” he asked.
“The beginning.”
Rosie touched the wings on her sweatshirt like they might keep her safe somehow, like the little plastic angel that had swung from the rearview mirror of Nana’s car before Mom had said she shouldn’t drive anymore. Cole had driven that car off to college in Akron, but Rosie doubted Cole still had the angel swinging from the rearview mirror.
It was silly to place any amount of faith in a piece of plastic. But Rosie found her hands migrating to the wings again, tapping them surreptitiously. She snuck a glance at Henry as he walked confidently through the terminal. He was silly. That whole thing with the wings was ridiculous. And yet . . . she was glad she had them. Maybe silly wasn’t the worst thing to be.
It was certainly better than overwhelmed, which was how Rosie was currently feeling. If Rosie hadn’t met Henry on the plane there was a definite chance she might have barfed in the middle of Charles de Gaulle airport. A representative from the program had told Rosie and her mom that someone from the École would meet her and any other students flying in that day at the airport, but the airport was enormous—full of places to get lost in.
“Come on.” Henry walked decisively to the left like he knew where he was going, threading through the crowds of people, backpack slung casually over one shoulder. Rosie struggled to keep up, making sure never to lose sight of the dark hair and black hoodie. “Bagages,” he said.
“What?”
“Bagages,” he repeated. “That’s gotta be baggage claim. Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Rosie agreed. Obviously. But she could barely process anything, she was so distracted by the burble of French around her, the women making click-click-click sounds as they trod down the walkway in heels, wheeling smart roller bags behind them, casually tossing their elegant scarves around their necks. There were other Americans, too, mostly wearing sweatpants, and Asian tourists talking in languages Rosie didn’t know well enough to identify, and a group of rowdy Brits who shouted, “Sorry, love!” when Rosie walked into them accidentally, distracted by the food kiosk with the stand-up poster of a pop that read COCA LIGHT instead of DIET COKE.
It was such a little thing—a stupid thing, really—a pop ad, almost identical to one she’d seen at home. Except there was that difference, that one small difference, that meant Rosie was in a different country. It took almost every ounce of willpower she had not to abandon Henry and run into the Relay store so she could dive into the candy bars and study their labels, or peruse the pops in the big refrigerated case or see who was on the covers of the magazines here.
“What?” Henry asked. She’d slowed in front of the Relay enough that he’d noticed. “French candy!” he shouted joyously, and barreled past her into the store.
How had he known what she was thinking? He was rifling through the candy bars near the register, grabbing great big handfuls, wrappers crinkling as he tried to stuff them into his grip. “Rosie! Look at this.”
“It’s a Kit Kat,” she said, somewhat disappointed that up close, French candy looked pretty much the same.
“A Kit Kat Chunky,” he said, like that made all the difference. She watched as he piled all of the chocolate onto the register, the Kit Kat and a Lion bar and a Bounty with coconuts on the wrapper and lots of different things with red-and-white Kinder labels. Kinder. Wasn’t that German? Like kindergarten?
“What are you going to try first?” Rosie asked as they left the store, Henry clutching a bulging plastic bag.
“We are trying the Lion bar. Because it has the best wrapper.”
Henry unwrapped the chocolate, splitting the cartoon lion’s face in two. He broke off half the bar and handed it to her. She took a bite.
“It’s so sweet!” Rosie c
overed her mouth as she talked through her food.
“You think it’s too sweet? I thought you were all about dessert.”
“I don’t eat a lot of candy. I like baked goods.”
“Well, I like this.” Henry finished the rest of the bar in one bite. She offered her half-eaten half to him, and he tossed that in his mouth, too. “It tastes like a Twix.”
“With Rice Krispies in it.”
“That’s what the crunch is.” Henry nodded, and Rosie found herself pleased by his approval. “Nice.”
Henry tossed the wrapper into a trash can and they filed onto the escalator, descending under a sign with a helpful arrow pointing them toward bagages. Carefully, Rosie jumped off the last step—she’d never really trusted escalators—and right away she spotted a woman holding a clipboard, standing next to an East Asian teenage girl who sat on top of a giant suitcase. Rosie would have recognized the logo on the back of the woman’s clipboard from a million miles away.
“Look.” Rosie tugged on Henry’s sleeve and pointed, like she was a kid at the state fair who had just spotted the fried Buckeyes stand. “She’s from the École.”
“Then I guess that’s where we’re going.”
Henry readjusted his backpack and loped toward the woman. Rosie followed, her heart hammering in her chest.
“Bonjour,” the woman said, and Rosie panicked, for a moment, thinking that maybe she’d misunderstood the website. Rosie was almost positive that the only language requirement she’d seen listed was English, but maybe she’d read it wrong and the whole program was in French. “Who have we here?”
“Henry Yi and, uh, Rosie . . .”
“Radeke,” Rosie supplied automatically, relieved to hear English.
“Radeke. Right. Rosie Radeke and Henry Yi, reporting for duty.”
“Our Chicago arrivals.” The woman crossed something off her list. Now that Rosie really looked at her, she was younger than Rosie had thought. Maybe just out of college. Her dark hair was cut short, showing off simple pearl earrings and a perfectly tied silk scarf knotted at her neck. So many of these French women were wearing scarves! Had Rosie missed a memo somewhere? The only scarf she’d brought had UNIVERSITY OF AKRON and GO ZIPS stitched on it in gold and blue—last year’s Christmas present from Cole after he’d been accepted early decision—and it was definitely more functional than fashionable.
“Chicago?” The girl sitting on her suitcase spoke for the first time. She was clutching a tiny paper coffee cup and wearing sunglasses indoors, which was sort of weird, although the fluorescent lighting in the bagages area was pretty aggressive.
“I’m from Bucktown. You know Chicago?” Henry asked.
“Not at all. Deep dish pizza and hot dogs?”
“You’ve got the important stuff down.”
“I’m Yumi.” She waved at Rosie and Henry. “From Tokyo.”
“That’s gotta be a long flight.” Henry whistled.
“You have no idea. If my parents loved me enough to fly me direct, it would have been twelve hours and forty-five minutes. But since they don’t, it was twenty hours and thirty-one minutes. Thanks, Mom and Dad.” Yumi took a sip of her drink and grimaced.
“This was the biggest coffee they would give me,” she complained. “Can you believe this merde? My Barbies drank bigger coffees.”
“It is not the size of the coffee that matters, it is the quality,” the woman with the clipboard said.
“Sure. I bet that’s what you tell all the baristas.” Yumi winked. “My flight landed at five forty-five this morning. Madame Besson and I have had a lot of bonding time.”
“Ah yes, of course, my manners. Forgive me.” The woman smoothed her scarf, which was already perfectly smooth. “I am Madame Besson. I work in operations at the École.”
“Learned a lot about the fascinating world of operations,” Yumi said. “Glad we had this special bonding time, Madame B.”
“Of course.” Madame Besson did not look particularly glad. “As soon as you get your bags, and our students from New York return from les toilettes, we may head to the École.”
“Speaking of les toilettes . . .” Henry dumped his backpack at Rosie’s feet. “I might head that way myself.”
“Where in Chicago are you from?” Yumi asked Rosie as Henry wandered off. “Not that I’ll know what your neighborhood is when you tell me, but feel free to share.”
“I’m not from Chicago. I’m from Ohio. East Liberty, Ohio,” Rosie added, as though anyone outside of Maumee County had ever heard of East Liberty.
“East Liberty, huh?” Yumi pushed her sunglasses up on top of her head. “Just how many Liberties does Ohio have?”
“More than enough. Trust me.”
“God bless America.” Yumi took another swig of her coffee. “My mom’s American. Dad’s Japanese. I’ve only ever been to California, though. I’ve still got a lot more of the country to see.”
“Well, maybe you should come to East Liberty. You know what they say about Ohio: So Much to Discover.”
“Really?” Yumi asked skeptically. “Do they really say that?”
“Um. No. Not really. But it’s the state slogan.”
“Sounds like false advertising.”
“What about ‘Ohio: It Is a Place,’” Rosie suggested.
“Love it.” Yumi grinned, and Rosie grinned back.
“Hey, Yumi.” A tall, lanky black guy with closely cropped hair plopped down next to Yumi on her suitcase, his knees folded up like he was sitting on a doll’s chair. “You have any more of those green tea Kit Kats?”
Kit Kats again? Maybe they were French. Rosie was reconsidering everything she thought she knew about candy.
“No,” Yumi said. “You ate them all. And that was supposed to be my stash for the whole semester.”
“I’m starving,” he moaned, clutching his belly dramatically. Rosie’s stomach gurgled loudly in response. “Sounds like I’m not the only one,” he teased, but Rosie didn’t mind. He teased like she was in on the joke, too.
“Guess I should have gone for that sad-looking plane croissant,” she said wryly. “I’m Rosie.”
“Marquis.” He held out his hand for Rosie to shake. “And airplane pastry is never acceptable.”
“Agreed.” Rosie smiled. “It’s nice to meet you. Are you, um, from New York?” Rosie had never met anyone from New York before. She wondered if he’d eaten at any of Chef Laurent’s restaurants. Or Marcus Samuelsson’s. Or Daniel Boulud’s. Or at Jean-Georges. Le Bernardin. Eleven Madison Park. Rosie’s mind boggled at the possibilities. In East Liberty, she had the choice between eating at Applebee’s or Cracker Barrel. And that was it.
“It’s the shirt, huh? Is the shirt too subtle?” Marquis looked down at the silver Brooklyn Nets logo on his T-shirt.
“He’s not even from Brooklyn; he’s from the Upper West Side,” Yumi complained. Rosie nodded along like she knew what the difference was between Brooklyn and the Upper West Side.
“One Hundred and Twenty-Sixth Street is not the Upper West Side. It’s Harlem.”
“According to a think piece I read online, pretty much everything is the Upper West Side now,” Yumi announced.
“That doesn’t even make any sense—”
“Also Marquis washed dishes at Red Rooster this summer.” Red Rooster! That was one of Marcus Samuelsson’s restaurants! “And he won the Chopped Teen Tournament,” Yumi continued. “So, you know, he’s a boss. Maybe he’s almost as good as me. Although I have some doubts about his knife cuts.”
“My knife cuts are fine, Yumi!” Marquis ran his hands over his head. “How do you even know that?”
“I googled you while you were in the bathroom.”
Rosie prayed Yumi wouldn’t google her. Rosie’s own online footprint would reveal only the fact that she’d won the Holy Cross Lutheran Church Bake-Off every year since she’d been old enough to enter. And it would probably turn up the article the East Liberty Gazette had run after Rosie had been accepted
to the École. The headline blared “Recipe for Success” above a terrible picture of an uncomfortable Rosie desperately clutching a whisk. It wasn’t exactly Chopped. Good gravy. Chopped! Rosie was seriously out of her depth.
“Looks like the Midwest is here. Finally. Can we go now?”
Rosie turned around to see who had spoken. This girl had white-blond hair, tumbling in long, loose waves that framed her face. Rosie was never sure exactly what contouring was, but she was pretty sure this girl was contoured. And a quick glance at her feet revealed suede booties with dangerously high heels. Heels! Who wore heels to travel? Or to cook? Rosie looked down at her own beat-up gym shoes, and Marquis’s immaculate Nikes, and Yumi’s lilac high-tops. Rosie’s feet, at the very least, fit in. And yet Rosie couldn’t help but wish she had a pair of suede booties, even though they were obviously so wrong for the kitchen. This girl just looked so . . . together, in a way that Rosie didn’t think people were together in real life. And she found herself wondering with a pang if Henry would think this girl was pretty, not that she had any right to wonder that. She’d only shared row twenty-two with Henry. Nothing more.
“This is Clara Parker-Green,” Yumi drawled. “Of the New York Parker-Greens.”
“Whatever, Yumi.” Clara turned to Madame Besson. “Are we leaving now?”
“I’m Rosie,” Rosie said, but if Clara heard her, she didn’t acknowledge it. Well. Rosie shouldn’t have expected everyone to be as friendly as Henry. And Yumi. And Marquis.
A loud beeping alarm startled Rosie. She jumped and looked around. Was that a fire alarm? Did they have to evacuate?
“It’s the belt starting on baggage claim.” Clara was definitely looking at Rosie now. “Have you not been to an airport before?” she asked curiously. “Wait a minute—are those plastic pilot wings on your sweatshirt? Like for little kids?”
“Let’s go get your stuff.” Yumi jumped up and grabbed Rosie’s arm before Rosie could die from shame, and pulled her toward the baggage claim carousel with a big number five on it. “Come on, Marquis. You can help us carry it.”
“It’s not that heavy,” Rosie said, but Marquis pushed himself up to standing and ambled along behind them.
Love À La Mode Page 3