“That was an awful thing for her to call you,” Rosie said. Yumi nodded her agreement, then transferred her death-stare away from Marquis and over to a table up by the salad bar, where Clara was holding court, sitting in between the girl with the pink hair and Bodie Tal. Of course she was. Rosie couldn’t have imagined Bodie Tal sitting next to any other girl here. Except, maybe, the girl with the pink hair, who was just as beautiful as Clara, but cool in an alternative way, with her black winged eyeliner and that cotton candy hair, like the punk Barbie to Bodie’s hipster Ken. Maybe the École wouldn’t be all that different from East Liberty High. Sure, it wasn’t the football players and the cheerleaders sitting together here, but it was the same sort of system. The cool people, Rosie mused, must always be able to find each other, wherever they go. Maybe they had some sort of tracking device implanted so they could locate each other. Like homing pigeons.
Rosie found herself almost mesmerized as Clara tossed her white-blond hair over one shoulder, laughing at whatever Bodie had said like it was the funniest thing that had ever happened. Well, sure. Rosie would be having the time of her life, too, if she’d cooked an excellent omelet instead of her own “poor effort.”
“Oh, I’m most definitely cursed.” Yumi dunked the last bit of Rosie’s roll into her stew. “Nothing else would account for me being stuck sharing a room with that blond nightmare.”
“You don’t get along, then?” Priya asked. Everyone looked at her. “What? Maybe the whole . . . um . . . sloppy fold situation . . . was a bit of an outlier?” Priya had whispered the words sloppy fold, like they’d be less offensive at a lower volume.
“Definitely not an outlier,” Yumi said. “She’s the worst. The literal worst.”
“Then why did you decide to share a table with her?” Rosie asked.
“It’s not as if I had a choice, did I?” Yumi looked around at all of them. “Miss Bossy Boots plunked her knife kit down, glanced at the spot next to her, and then she gave me this look, like, Are you intimidated, loser? and obviously I couldn’t back down, could I?” Rosie felt she definitely could have backed down. But then again, Rosie was clearly loser material. Improperly cooked omelet material. Failure material. “You guys weren’t downstairs yet”—she gestured vaguely at Rosie and Marquis—“and the spot next to Perfect Boy was already occupied by his giant friend, so that left me sharing a table with Roomie Dearest.”
“Hampus,” Henry said. He’d almost finished his stew, Rosie noticed. “That’s my giant friend. Tall friend. Roommate. He’s a really nice guy.”
Rosie wondered where he was sitting. He was so tall, he should have been easy to spot. She looked around the room at her fellow students, feeling strange that she’d only met about half of them. There were just twenty in total—she should know everyone. Were they ever going to do, like, an ice-breaker, or something? Rosie thought about the getting-to-know-you games she’d run this summer, when she was a counselor at Bible camp. She tried to imagine standing up in front of the room, saying, My name is Rosie, and I like rhubarb, and failed. But still. She’d like to know who everyone was.
“Who’s your roommate, Marquis?” Yumi asked, reaching over and grabbing the roll off his tray, too.
“Hands off!”
He tried to grab it back, but before he could, Yumi licked it.
“Licking? Seriously, Yumi! You don’t mess around!”
“I do not.” She took a big bite. “Who’s your roommate?”
“Fernando. He’s, uh . . . over there.” Marquis pointed up to the table by the salad bar, the Bodie Tal table. Rosie guessed he meant the tan guy with dark curly hair, sitting across from the pink-haired girl. “He’s Spanish. From Barcelona. Seems cool.”
“Wait, Rosie,” Henry said. “Who’s your roommate?”
“Priya.” Rosie realized she hadn’t introduced Priya to the boys. She was a terrible roommate. Priya waved cheerily at them. “Priya, meet Henry and Marquis.”
“Pleasure,” Priya said. “I’m the knob who was late on the very first day.”
“You weren’t that late,” Henry said, and Rosie wondered if this was something he always did, the way he seemed to try to make everyone feel better, to let them know that things weren’t so bad.
“Late enough. And my omelet was bollocks, so that’s my doom sorted. D’you think Chef Martinet will purchase my ticket back home for me? Or will I have to get it myself?”
“You know what? Screw those omelets.”
“Henry!” Yumi teased. “My God! The language!”
“Seriously. It was the first day. Those omelets don’t matter.”
“Sloppy Fold over here might beg to differ,” Marquis said.
“I will literally murder you.” Yumi pointed her butter knife at him.
“With that knife? Good luck,” Marquis said.
“I know where you live,” Yumi threatened him. “When you least expect it, I will end you.”
“No girls in the boys’ hall. Strictly enforced. Weren’t you listening to Madame Besson?” Marquis asked.
“Madame Besson can’t protect you from my terrible vengeance.”
“You know what matters?” Henry said, his volume rising as he talked over Yumi and Marquis. “We’re here. In Paris.”
“Paris,” Rosie whispered, because, quite honestly, she still couldn’t totally believe it. In an old house in Paris . . . Her first memory of Paris, leaning against Dad’s chest as he read Madeline. Paris, a place where little girls were fearless and pooh-poohed tigers at the zoo, no matter how big their teeth were. Rosie’s favorite page, the one where they broke their bread. Rosie pointing at the table, asking What are they eating, Dad? And you couldn’t tell from the picture, not really, but he’d make it up, inventing wildly fantastical dinners eaten by twelve little girls in two straight lines.
“Here. In Paris,” Henry said. “At the École Denis Laurent. At a place thousands of people wanted to be, and we made it.”
“Hear, hear,” Priya cheered.
“We are here to cook. And to eat. And for adventure. And that’s what matters. Not some dumb omelet,” Henry concluded.
“Is this the end of your inspirational speech?” Yumi asked.
“Shh, you’re ruining it,” Priya said.
“Um, yeah. That’s the end,” Henry said, seeming to shrink into himself a bit. “Sorry. I didn’t meant to get quite so . . . weird . . . about everything.”
“You’re right, Henry. Who cares about the omelets?” Honestly, Rosie cared very much about the omelets. But she could try to pretend she didn’t. “What matters is being here. Learning. And exploring.”
“God, I can’t wait to explore,” Priya said wistfully. “I’ve only ever been here with my mum before, and she barely let me off the leash. Certainly not enough to do anything interesting.” She stifled a yawn. “Maybe exploring tomorrow, though. I’m knackered.”
“You’re knackered?” Yumi asked skeptically. “I was on a plane for—”
“Twenty hours and thirty-one minutes,” Rosie, Henry, and Marquis said right along with Yumi, then they all burst into laughter as Priya looked at them, befuddled.
Maybe Henry was right. Maybe the omelet didn’t matter. Maybe what mattered was this.
Henry’s feet were suffocating. That was his first thought. He scrabbled up to sitting, kicked the covers aside, and pulled off his socks. His eyes adjusting to the darkness, he looked across the room to see Hampus sleeping contentedly, a black silk sleep mask pulled over his eyes. Paris. The École. Right. Henry must have passed out the minute he lay down. He hadn’t even remembered to take his socks off—or his jeans, for that matter. Apparently, he’d fallen asleep fully dressed.
Sighing, Henry reached over to the nightstand to check his phone. Four a.m.? Seriously? His alarm was set to go off at seven o’clock and he knew he could have used three more hours of sleep, but he was wide-awake now. Stupid jet lag. Stupid brain. Quietly, Henry got out of bed and slipped into the hallway, shutting the door behind him.
Maybe a drink of water would help.
The lights in the hall were on but dim. He padded into the bathroom, splashing water on his face from the tap. Henry scrutinized his face in the mirror. He looked awful. Like something that might pop out of your TV in a horror movie.
Back out in the hall, Henry hesitated in front of his door. He didn’t want to wake Hampus up, but the last thing he wanted to do was lie in bed and stare at the walls. So he just kept wandering, walking past Marquis’s room, and others belonging to guys he didn’t know, until, at the end of the hall, there was a door without a number on it.
He tried it, because why not, and much to his surprise, it swung open. Henry stepped through, climbed up a flight of plain stairs in a whitewashed hallway, and, pushing open the door at the top, found himself on the roof.
It was cool up here but not cold, and Henry loved the rush of the air on his skin. Breathing deeply, he looked out past the edge of the rooftop and saw hundreds of other rooftops spread out before him, illuminated here and there by the glow of streetlights.
“I still don’t understand why you ate it.”
He wasn’t alone. Farther along the roof, near another door, a figure in plaid pajama pants and an enormous navy sweatshirt paced back and forth. It was Rosie, her hair piled in a messy bun on top of her head, a phone pressed against her ear.
“Well, of course Owen didn’t eat it. You know what? Here’s a good rule of thumb: going forward, if Owen doesn’t eat something, you don’t eat it, either.”
Crap. He didn’t want to scare her, and he didn’t want her to think he was eavesdropping. Henry froze in the doorway, unsure of where to go, or what to do.
Rosie burst out laughing. “No, I wouldn’t consider pooping purple ‘an adventure.’” She turned and saw him. Henry tried to look as un-creepy as possible but was having difficulty deciding what the most casual way to stand in a doorframe was. “Ricky, I gotta go. Sure. Yeah. Put Mom on one more time. But then I gotta go.”
She was waving at him now and walking toward him, smiling, so maybe he had figured out a really good, super-casual doorway lean.
“Good night, Mom.” She was close enough that Henry could see her mouth “Sorry” as she pointed to the phone. Henry shrugged and flapped his hands at her in a way that he hoped looked like he was telling her to take her time. “I’m going to sleep now. Yes, literally right now. I promise.” She held up crossed fingers. Henry stifled a laugh. “Love you, too.” Rosie hung up and slipped the phone into the pouch of her sweatshirt. “Sorry about that.”
“No, I’m sorry,” Henry said. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“You didn’t. Promise,” she said. “And it’s okay; you can close the door. The one I came through didn’t lock.”
Henry let the door swing shut behind him with a creak and stepped onto the roof, closer to her.
“How long have you been up here?” he asked.
“Three a.m.?” She shrugged. “I think? Gosh, was I really on the phone for that long? I don’t know. All of a sudden I was just . . . awake.”
“Yeah. Me too.” Even in the dark, Henry could see her so clearly. She tugged on the ends of her sleeves, pulling them down farther over her hands. “Did you know we could come up here?”
“No. I just found a staircase at the end of the girls’ hall. Actually . . . can we be up here?” She peered at him. “You know, the whole no-boys-and-girls-on-the-same-hall thing.”
“I’m not on your hall,” Henry said.
“True. And I’m not on your hall,” she said.
“So . . . I think we’re good.”
“It’s a very literal interpretation of the rules.”
“One that I’d be happy to explain to Madame Besson, if she comes charging up here in her nightie.”
“Nightie?” Rosie chuckled.
“What? Is that a weird word? Nightgown?”
“I don’t know. Maybe? It just sounded funny. Come on.” Rosie started walking to the middle of the roof. “We can sit over here.”
Henry followed her over to some kind of mechanical something—a fan, maybe—and sat next to her, his back leaning against the metal whatever-it-was. They sat quietly for a moment, looking up at the night sky. Henry knew the sun wouldn’t rise for hours yet, but he imagined he could almost see the first faint traces of dawn approaching. Next to him, Rosie shifted, drawing her knees up and tenting them beneath her sweatshirt.
“I can make an omelet, Henry,” she said quietly.
“I’m sure you can.”
“No. Really. I know how to cook an omelet.” He was startled by her sudden vehemence. “A good omelet. I make them all the time. And I have never—never—done anything like what I did today.”
“I believe you.”
She turned to him, her brown eyes dark, and looked at him like she was searching for something.
“Thanks,” she said eventually, and Henry wondered if she found what she was looking for. “Today was beyond embarrassing.” She slumped even farther down, almost her entire body engulfed by the sweatshirt.
“Worse than asking a flight attendant for plastic wings?”
“Much, much worse,” she said, but she was smiling now. “I’d rather ask a million flight attendants for a million wings.”
“What would you even do with a million wings?”
“Fly anywhere I wanted.”
And there was a wistful quality to the way she said it that made the joke Henry had poised on his lips stay there. If Henry had a million wings, he wouldn’t want to fly anywhere. He wanted to be here. With her.
“What’s your favorite omelet?” Henry asked.
“No more omelets,” she groaned.
“Come on. Face the dragon. Favorite omelet.”
“Ugh. Fine.” She sighed. “Cheese. I’m boring. But a really, really sharp cheddar. And so much cheese that it oozes out and winds around the tines of your fork and is difficult
to eat.”
“That’s the best,” he agreed, able to picture the pull of a forkful of melted cheddar so clearly in his mind. Dinner suddenly seemed like a long time ago.
“Do you have a favorite omelet? And, just in case you weren’t sure, this is the weirdest getting-to-know-you game I’ve ever played,” Rosie added.
“Do you think I could get everyone to go around the room tomorrow and name their favorite omelet?”
“If anyone could, it would be you.”
Henry didn’t know exactly what she meant by that, but it pleased him, nonetheless.
“Favorite omelet. Come on.”
“Hmm. Okay. This place in my neighborhood, the Bongo Room, does a potato and chorizo omelet I really like.”
“Potatoes in the omelet?”
“Yeah. And on the side. Extra crispy. They’re really good.”
“Double potatoes? You’re a potato maniac,” she teased.
“You have no idea. I’m a potato fanatic. Potatoes make everything better.”
“I think you said potato when you meant to say chocolate.”
“Potatoes are better than chocolate,” Henry scoffed.
“Now I know you’re a maniac.”
“And yet, here you are, alone on the roof with me, in the middle of the night.”
“Hey, I’m not worried about me,” Rosie said. “I’m worried about any innocent potatoes that might wander by.”
“I wouldn’t eat a perambulatory potato.”
“A perambulatory potato?” Rosie practically spat through her laughter. “What is that, your band name?”
“Yeah.” He grinned. “Wanna play the tambourine?”
“I’d be honored.”
She was smiling now, really smiling, and Henry hoped that stupid omelet test was all but forgotten. A yawn broke through her smile, and Henry wondered what time it was now.
“We probably shouldn’t fall asleep right now, huh?” Henry asked reluctantly.
“Definitely not.” Rosie shook her head. “Can you imagine what would happen if Mada
me Besson found us up here?”
“My mom would murder me,” Henry said. Which was probably the lamest thing he could have said. But it was true.
“My mom would be so surprised she’d have some kind of cardiac episode. And then I’d be responsible for murder.”
Henry laughed. But he didn’t stand up yet. And neither did she. He realized how close they were sitting, almost huddled together against the wind, their backs pressed against the metal thing, her leg not quite touching his, but nearly. Henry watched her blink once, then twice, her long lashes briefly covering her widening eyes. He wondered what would happen if he leaned in, closed his eyes, if her lips would be there to meet his. And then Henry found himself leaning in, closer to her, his leg pressing against hers as he moved.
Rosie froze several inches away from him, and her eyes popped wide open.
“Henry,” she whispered. “Did you hear that?”
“Hear what?”
“That creaking sound. It sounded like the door.”
Henry hadn’t heard anything. But he hadn’t exactly been paying attention. Rosie peeked her head around the metal structure, then immediately popped back to face him.
“It’s Madame Besson,” she said, white-faced. “Smoking.”
“Is she wearing a nightie?” he asked, deadpan.
“Not the time for jokes!” she whispered, but she was laughing, silently. “What are we gonna do? She can’t see us up here.”
“It’s okay,” Henry said, not sure if the pounding of his heart was from almost kissing Rosie or from being afraid Madame Besson might catch them. “We’ll just hide up here and be quiet until she leaves.”
“Quiet,” Rosie agreed. She mimed locking her lips and throwing away the key, and then she pulled her knees back under her sweatshirt, scooting in closer to the metal thing and closer to Henry.
Henry thought he could hear Madame Besson exhaling farther down on the roof, but it was probably only in his mind. They sat together, silent, almost motionless, waiting to hear the creak of the door. They’d been about to kiss before Madame Besson had arrived. Hadn’t they? Or had he been leaning in for a kiss Rosie was about to dodge, before she was saved in the nick of time by the creaking door? Henry wished he could tell, but short of asking Rosie—mortifying—he didn’t know how. Eventually, Madame Besson left, and after waiting to make sure it was safe, Rosie and Henry silently disappeared down two separate staircases, nodding good-bye to each other, still afraid to make any noise. Back in his room, Henry was unsure if Madame Besson had saved him from making a total idiot of himself, or completely ruined the moment.
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