Later that morning, Henry’s alarm jolted him awake. He opened his eyes and was greeted by the sight of Hampus doing squats in his boxers.
Henry shuffled down the hall to the boys’ bathroom, still mostly asleep, showered, still mostly asleep, and put away two chocolate croissants downstairs at breakfast without ever really waking up.
“These are the circumstances in which one drinks coffee,” Yumi said as she sat across from him at breakfast, clutching her mug like she was afraid someone was going to take it away from her. Henry didn’t drink coffee. He couldn’t stand the taste. Yumi suggested that now might be a good time to start, and as Henry blinked at her, he wondered if she had a point.
Henry was starting to wonder if seeing Rosie on the rooftop might have been a dream. She looked way too well rested. No dark circles under her eyes, no frizz escaping from her neat braid, nothing. There was even a faint crease on one of her cheeks from, Henry assumed, her pillowcase. Maybe all of it—including the moment Henry almost kissed her—had been a jet-lag-induced dream.
Even when they got down to the kitchen and class started, Henry couldn’t wake up. Hampus coughed delicately, and Henry jumped. He must have closed his eyes for a minute. Just a minute. But Chef Martinet was still focused on the large steel pot heating up on the range at the front of the classroom, and not on him. Maybe he wouldn’t be falling asleep if they were doing something a little bit more interesting. Today, they were learning how to boil water. Boil. Water. Henry wondered if their next lesson would be watching paint dry.
Apparently, this was a classic culinary school thing. First, they’d learn how to boil water. Then, they’d move on to knife cuts. And then somewhere down the road, they’d actually start cooking. Henry would have enjoyed making that omelet more if he’d known he would be relegated to boiling water for the foreseeable future.
Chef Martinet instructed them to boil two quarts of water in a saucier. Sighing, Henry started looking around for a pot. Well, not a pot. A saucier. Which was kind of like if a pot and a frying pan had a baby—the base was as wide as a frying pan, but the edges were straight, like a pot, and they were only a couple inches tall. He wondered what they were going to be boiling water for. The saucier was way too shallow for pasta. Poached eggs, maybe? Maybe they were on some kind of egg spree. That kind of made sense. Eggs were about as fundamental as you could get.
Without the countdown timer ticking away on the whiteboard, people were moving through the kitchen much more civilly. Most of the pots and pans seemed to be hanging from the ceiling near the walls toward the back of the room, their copper surfaces gleaming in the sunlight like they were part of a magazine spread.
By the time Henry got there, there was only one person left: Bodie Tal. He handed the saucier in his hands to Henry.
“Oh, uh, thanks,” Henry said awkwardly.
“No worries.” Bodie grabbed his own saucier. “Can you believe this?” He leaned in conspiratorially. “Boiling water? Seriously? Is this some kind of joke?”
“I don’t think Chef Martinet jokes.”
The two of them glanced toward the front of the room where Chef Martinet stood by her saucier. She looked like she’d just bitten into a lemon. Bodie laughed.
“I’m Bodie, man.”
“Henry.”
They clasped arms in some sort of bro-y handshake that Henry was pretty sure he’d executed incorrectly.
“Henry, with the perfect omelet. Right?” Bodie said.
“That was yesterday. This is a brand-new day. Yeah, sure, I can make an omelet. But can I boil water?!”
Bodie laughed again. Henry was shocked by how, well, normal he seemed. He’d expected the guy to be completely full of himself. To name-drop his dad at any and all opportunities.
“Hi, guys,” Rosie said as she approached them. She rose up on her toes, reached once, wobbled, reached again, and just barely made contact with the bottom of the saucier. “Oops,” she said as she tipped sideways, bumping Henry with her shoulder, now almost as close to him as she was on the roof. What would have happened last night, if Madame Besson hadn’t needed a cigarette? Would they have kissed? Would everything be different now? He wanted desperately to know if she would have kissed him, if she was thinking about last night, too, but he felt so awkward about the whole thing, he could barely even look at her.
“Here you go.” Bodie grabbed the saucier, lifting it easily off the hook, and handed it to Rosie.
“Thanks,” she said, and a faint tremor of what Henry could identify only as fear passed through him. Rosie blushed. The same end-of-season-raspberry blush he’d seen before now blossomed in both cheeks and traveled down her neck, disappearing beneath her chef’s jacket. No. Henry could not think about what was beneath Rosie’s chef’s jacket. Definitely not right now. Not in class.
“No worries,” Bodie said breezily. “I’m on saucier distribution duty today.” He grinned at Henry. “I’m Bodie.”
“Rosie,” she said, adding “It’s nice to meet you,” before turning to leave with her saucier.
As Henry walked back to his station at the front of the room, he glanced back at Bodie. Was it him, or did Bodie’s gaze linger on Rosie as she bent over the range? Henry walked right into Hampus’s broad back because he’d been looking behind him, and he cursed himself for not watching where he was going. You had to pay attention in a kitchen. If you didn’t, people got hurt.
Rosie was wrong—Henry wasn’t a potato maniac. He was a literal maniac. Determined to stop obsessing over something that wasn’t there, Henry went to fill his saucier and began to boil water.
Don’t look behind you. Stop! I said don’t look!”
Priya’s hands encircled Rosie’s wrists as she drew Rosie close to her, her nails digging into the soft flesh of the underside of Rosie’s arms.
“Ow! Priya, I’m not looking. I was never looking.”
Priya relaxed her grip, but barely.
“Were you. Just talking. To Bodie Tal?” Priya hissed.
“Um. Yes,” Rosie said. Why did that simple yes make the kitchen start to feel a bit warm?
“What did he say? What did you say? Did he look the same as he does on telly?”
“Priya.” Rosie tutted. “Come on. You’ve been in the same room with him for days. You know what he looks like.”
“But not up close! Not talking close! Oh God, Bodie Tal!” Priya was practically swooning. Rosie half expected her to start fanning herself with a dish towel. “The episode of Paul Hollywood: City Bakes where Bodie shows Paul around LA changed my life. Bodie makes a donut–ice cream sandwich! Shirtless! And then he eats it! Shirtless! And it’s all drippy!”
“That’s not sanitary.”
“It was a beautiful moment and I shan’t have you say a word against it. So? What did he say?”
“Um . . .” Rosie was having a hard time remembering what, exactly, he’d said. What she did remember was the gray-blue of his eyes. And how strong his arms had looked when he’d reached up to grab the saucier for her. She’d found herself wishing that his chef’s jacket would ride up a bit so she could see, in real life, a glimpse of the abs she knew were under there. Sadly, the jacket had been plenty long enough. “Something about pots?”
“Something about pots,” Priya repeated, disappointment evident on her face. “Pots.”
“Yeah. Pots.”
“Don’t look behind you!” Priya’s nails were digging into Rosie’s wrists again. “Don’t look!”
“Priya, I’m not!”
“He’s. Coming.”
And by the time Priya hissed the last syllable of coming, there he was, Bodie Tal. At their table. Fully clothed and not eating any kind of ice cream sandwich.
“Just coming to check on the saucier,” Bodie said, his hands stuck casually into his pockets, the sleeves of his chef’s jacket pulled up. Rosie struggled not to stare at his tattoos. She saw a whisk, and a skull and crossbones, and what she thought might have been a pair of peaches. From behind her, Rosie
heard a faint wheezing sound that she hoped wasn’t Priya hyperventilating. “Wanted to make sure I’d gotten you a good one.”
“So it’s like a full-service saucier delivery,” Rosie said.
“Exactly,” Bodie said, and he laughed. Rosie had made Bodie Tal laugh. Priya wheezed even louder.
“Bodie! Man!” The guy who shared Bodie’s table was waving at him. “Your water is doing something weird.”
“How does water do something weird?” Rosie asked.
“I’m very talented.”
Priya pinched Rosie. Rosie swatted her hand away. Priya pinched her again. Bodie looked back and forth between the two of them, amused. Rosie slapped Priya’s hand again, harder than she’d meant to.
“Ow, Rosie!” Priya hissed.
“Sorry!” Rosie whispered.
“Bodie!” Bodie’s table partner was still waving. “Come fix it! I’m not dealing with this!”
“Excuse me, ladies.” Bodie shrugged and walked back over to his station.
Priya leaned over and Rosie caught her wrist mid-pinch. The two of them stood that way, frozen, smiles plastered on their faces, until Bodie was safely back at his station and not looking at them anymore.
“Stop attacking me!” Rosie said. “I mean it. No pinches, no pokes, no grabbing!”
“I’m not attacking you! I’m prodding you because you’re not producing a proper response.”
“A proper response to what?”
“Um, hello? He was flirting with you!” Priya left her mouth hanging wide open as she turned to stare at Bodie Tal, who was busy fussing with his saucier on the stove. Rosie was tempted to tell her to close her mouth or a fly would get in there, like Mom would have.
“No, he wasn’t,” Rosie scoffed. Priya was being ridiculous. Guys didn’t flirt with Rosie. They asked her for highlighters, or to remind them what the homework was. But they didn’t flirt with her. And Bodie Tal, of all people, certainly wouldn’t flirt with her. His last girlfriend had been an Aerie model, for goodness’ sake.
“Maybe you’re unable to recognize proper flirting. It could be a condition. Like having a vitamin deficiency.”
“I can—” But Rosie found her protest dying on her lips before she even finished the sentence. Could she recognize flirting? Maybe she should tell Priya about what happened on the roof last night. Because she had really thought Henry had been about to kiss her, but then nothing happened, even after Madame Besson was safely downstairs. And then he’d been falling asleep at breakfast, and so weird over by the sauciers, like he couldn’t even look at her.
“Rosie?”
“Huh?”
“What is it?” Priya asked curiously.
“Nothing.” Better to say nothing. Because who knew what Henry meant? Or almost meant? Or what he was thinking now? The fact that he couldn’t even look at her meant one of two things: either it had all been in her head, or Henry instantly regretted trying to kiss her. And Rosie didn’t really want to talk about either of those depressing possibilities.
“Certainly doesn’t seem like nothing.”
“It was. Come on. Boil your water.” Rosie gently turned Priya to the stove.
“Water is boring,” Priya moaned. “I want to talk about Bodie.”
“You can drool over Bodie later.” Rosie ignited Priya’s burner. “Maybe if you’re lucky, they’ll serve ice cream for lunch, and Bodie will eat it with his shirt off.”
“Don’t get my hopes up!”
They boiled their water without any more visits from Bodie Tal, and even though there wasn’t any ice cream at lunch, Rosie was still happy to be in the cafeteria and done with boiling water for the day. Priya peeled off to grab a drink first, and Rosie stepped into the lunch line behind Clara. Even after spending all morning in the kitchen, not a hair in Clara’s fancy fishtail braid was out of place. Dismayed, Rosie looked down at her own sloppy braid, frizzy strands escaping every which way. How did Clara do it? Was it hairspray? Some kind of secret braid alchemy Rosie wasn’t privy to? Maybe she’d learned it at the same time she learned to boil water “with precision.” Rosie still wasn’t sure how Clara could be better at boiling water than everyone else, but Rosie was starting to feel like there was a lot she didn’t understand in Chef Martinet’s kitchen.
“We’re going out tonight, right?” the girl with the pink hair asked, looking back over her shoulder to talk to Clara.
“Obviously.”
“Curfew’s a real downer, though.”
“Ugh, I know, Elodie. Don’t get me started.” Clara stopped to scoop some farro onto her plate. “Nothing in Paris happens before midnight.”
Privately, Rosie felt plenty happened before midnight. Like the first two hours of a good night’s sleep. But Clara and the girl with the pink hair—Elodie—didn’t ask her opinion. Rosie spooned some of the arugula-farro salad onto her own plate and headed to her table.
She slid into the seat she now thought of as hers, next to the empty seat she now thought of as Henry’s. Yumi and Marquis were already there, and then Priya joined them, and Hampus, and Rosie found herself waiting for Henry, pushing her salad around the plate without really eating any of it. Which was silly. Good gravy! She could eat without him. Just to prove she could, she took a big bite.
“We should go out,” Henry said, so fast she almost thought she hadn’t heard it. He stood behind her with his tray, ostensibly about to sit in the empty chair next to her, so she felt rather than saw him. And her whole body froze. Henry wanted to go out. With her. Henry was asking her out?!
Rosie wished she didn’t have so much salad in her mouth. She tried to swallow it all, in one huge lump, and then coughed a little as she forced it down. She hadn’t imagined last night. Henry must have been about to kiss her. Because here he was, asking her out. She had to answer. What was she going to say?!
Yes, obviously. Right? Yes. She was going to say yes. And the idea of saying yes made her feel kind of nauseous, but the idea of saying anything but yes made her whole being shrivel up like an overcooked mushroom. She imagined the two of them going somewhere, together. Alone. They’d hold hands. Kiss, maybe. For real this time, with no interruptions from Madame Besson. Rosie had to say yes. But her throat felt like it had closed up, and she was having trouble saying anything. Rosie stuck her hand into her pocket and curled her fingers around the little plastic pilot’s wings she kept bringing with her everywhere, squeezing them once for good luck. Yes, she thought. Rosie, say yes.
“Duh, loser,” Yumi said. Somehow the fact that there was a piece of arugula stuck next to one of her incisors did nothing to diminish her tone of authority. “It’s Saturday night. Of course we’re going out.”
Priya tapped discreetly on her own incisor, and when Yumi smiled, the arugula was gone. And so was Rosie’s feeling of excitement. Of course Henry wasn’t asking her out. He just wanted to go out. Like, out of the building. A perfectly reasonable thing to want to do. Rosie bent her head over her salad and tried to hide her flaming cheeks behind her hair as Henry sat next to her.
She ate quietly while ideas about what to do tonight ping-ponged around her. Rosie still couldn’t quite believe that they were allowed to leave the École and explore on their own—especially at night. Yes, they had a ten o’clock curfew, but as long as they were back in the dorm by ten, they could go anywhere they wanted. Rosie had a ten o’clock curfew back home, too, but she couldn’t remember the last time she’d been out after dinner. Certainly not on her own. It was her older brothers who had always been going to some party, trying to sneak back in without waking anyone up.
A wave of homesickness washed over Rosie as she thought of being back in her bed in Ohio, listening to Ricky and Cole whisper as they crept past her door. Under the table, Rosie pulled out her phone and clicked open Mom’s most recent e-mail.
Hi, sweetie! I’m sure your omelet was great—I know you make the best ham and cheese in East Liberty! (Shhh, don’t tell the guys at work! ) Doing anything fun this weekend with
your new friends? Don’t forget to wear comfortable shoes for walking around! And take pictures. Lots of pictures! Oh—here’s a picture of Owen with his meerkat habitat diorama. He wanted to show you. Love you bunches! Miss you!
Rosie scrolled down to see a beaming Owen standing in the kitchen, clutching a wobbly-looking model of what was apparently a meerkat habitat while Reed skulked in the background, attempting to avoid the camera. Well, at least Rosie had successfully sold Mom on the fiction that her omelet was okay. The lie made her feel kind of squirmy, but it was better than telling Mom her first couple days at the École had been a bit of a disaster. As she held it, Rosie’s phone vibrated with a notification:
Ricky
BREAKFAST OF CHAMPIONS!!!!!!!!!!
In the picture that popped up next, he was eating Cinnamon Toast Crunch out of an orange bucket from Home Depot. Rosie laughed.
Rosie
Why are you up so early??
Ricky
FIFA qualifiers streaming them live on my phone
Rosie
and why are you eating out of a bucket?
Ricky
I couldn’t find any bowls so I improvised
Ricky
Very avant-garde and chef-y, right?
Ricky
Like that guy you like who serves corn ice cream in a corn cob?
Ricky
Corn ice cream sounds weird, Ro
Ricky
Also where are the bowls?
Rosie paused to take a bite of her salad before composing her response.
Rosie
Dominique Ansel is a pastry GENIUS and if he makes corn ice cream, I’m sure it’s delicious. Also think about how sweet corn can be? It totally makes sense. Anyway, you should tell Dominique about your cereal-bucket innovation. I’m sure he’d be impressed. And bowls are in the same place they’ve been for YEARS, in the cabinet to the left of the sink.
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