And upon further reflection, she added . . .
Rosie
Please tell me you washed that bucket
Rosie saw the three dots pop up that meant Ricky was typing, but then they disappeared without any new text. Which didn’t make Rosie feel confident that her brother hadn’t accidentally ingested something lethal. But there wasn’t much she could do about that from France. So Rosie slipped her phone back into her pocket and finished her lunch.
Later that night, when they were getting ready to go out, Rosie had nearly forgotten her Henry-not-actually-asking-her-out embarrassment. Nearly.
“Why am I even reading this?” Yumi muttered from her position on the floor, lying on her stomach, stripy-socked feet poking up into the air. She flipped another page in the magazine. “Seriously. Why? I don’t even know who any of these people are.”
“You will come to know them, and you will come to love them,” Priya said, her voice slightly garbled as she carefully smudged eyeliner across her lower lash line, a task that apparently had to be accomplished with one’s mouth hanging wide open. Rosie sat across from her, cross-legged on Priya’s bed, holding up a small circular mirror so Priya could do her makeup in their room and not in the communal bathroom down the hall. The bathroom seemed like it should be big enough for ten girls, with its multiple stalls and four showers, but it had been a bit of a madhouse that morning as everyone tried to get ready before class. And right now, Rosie was willing to bet that all of the available sink space was covered in makeup bags and dangerously hot curling irons and girls jostling for space.
“Why is this magazine so aggressive?” Yumi flipped another page. “I mean, HELLO! What’s that exclamation point about? It doesn’t need to shout at me.”
“We have OK! in America,” Rosie said. “I think that’s worse. It’s aggressively declaring its mediocrity.”
“HELLO! is simply greeting you enthusiastically.” Priya switched to her other eye. Rosie moved the mirror slightly, tracking her. “Oh, Yumi, I’m so glad you’ll now be fully updated on the whereabouts of the royals.”
“These royals need to calm it down,” Yumi said. “They’re everywhere. Charity functions. Schools. The Serengeti. Is there any inch of your country that isn’t crawling with royals?”
“Pretty sure the Serengeti isn’t in England,” Rosie said.
“Shoreditch, at the very least, is a decidedly royals-free zone,” Priya assured them.
“There are way too many of them. Are you sure all these people are really royal?” Yumi squinted at the magazine. “None of them look familiar.”
“There are always more royals than you think,” Priya said meditatively, like running into princes was just a thing that happened, sort of like you might run into your mailman at Walmart and feel weird about it, unsure if you were supposed to say hi or not.
“Hat game’s on point, though,” Yumi said. “Can I tear out this picture for my inspo board?”
“That hat? That hat’s inspiring you?” Rosie asked skeptically. The hat looked like a sea creature rendered inanimate. Yumi shrugged.
“Who is that? Eugenie?” Priya glanced away from the mirror, down at the image of a startled-looking woman in a hat that seemed about to take flight from her head. “Yeah, go for it. How did I do?” she asked Rosie.
“Perfect,” Rosie said. The shimmery copper eye shadow made Priya’s eyes look enormous, and her eyelashes were so thick and dark, they looked like a different species from Rosie’s eyelashes. Rosie’s eyelashes turned blond at the tips, giving the impression that they disappeared millimeters before they actually did. Rosie had seen a picture of a naked mole rat in one of Owen’s animal books and had thought they’d had pretty similar features, when it came to eyelashes.
“I don’t know why you’re making an effort,” Yumi said. “Not that your makeup’s not bangin’, because it is, but I don’t think there’s anyone here worth putting makeup on for.”
“Are you having a laugh?” Priya asked, aghast. “Have you even looked at Bodie Tal? The boy is seriously fit.”
“If you like that D-list celebrity baby kind of thing.” Yumi sniffed.
“Rosie. Back me up?” Priya pleaded.
“He’s cute,” Rosie admitted, recalling her jacket-riding-up fantasy.
“Are you blushing?” Yumi demanded. “Is that a blush? Are you kidding me?!”
“No female is immune to the charms of Bodie Tal,” Priya said triumphantly.
“I’m immune. I’m extremely immune. He’s overrated. And definitely not as cute as he thinks he is. You know the ego on that guy needs its own chair in the cafeteria.”
“He helped me get a pot,” Rosie said in a near-whisper.
“I’m sorry, what was that?” Yumi cupped her hand to her ear.
“He helped me get a pot!” Rosie said, and now she was the one who was shouting. “He helped me get a pot,” she said, at a more normal volume, although this was now the third time she’d said it, and it was no less weird or random than the first time she’d said it. But Priya was nodding at her sagely, like the pot was, in fact, of great import.
“He got you a pot?” Yumi slow-clapped sarcastically. “Well, let’s get the young man a Nobel Peace Prize. A pot. You’ve got to be friggin’ kidding me.”
“No one’s saying he needs a prize,” Priya said. “Just that he’s insanely gorgeous. And speaking of insanely gorgeous . . .” Priya turned to Rosie, waggling her eyebrows. “Can I do your makeup? Please? But only if you want, of course,” she added hurriedly. “You’re lovely as is. But I’d be happy to. My sisters and I always do each other’s makeup.”
“Makeup is a tool of the patriarchy,” Yumi said from the floor. She’d flopped over onto her back, but her feet were still up in the air, kicking tiny little flutter kicks, like she was swimming.
“Bollocks,” Priya scoffed. “It’s fun. Rosie? What do you think?”
“Sure,” Rosie said. “Why not?” Because, honestly, why not? Maybe going-out Rosie always wore makeup. Nobody here knew any differently. How odd, Rosie thought, and how freeing, to be in a place where nobody knew anything about her. There was freedom in that, a freedom that made Rosie feel like she was really breathing for the first time in a long time, pulling in deep lungfuls of air, when before she’d only been able to get shallow gasps.
Rosie closed her eyes as Priya instructed and felt the whisper of a brush over her eyelids. Tickly, but nice. Unlike the eyeliner, which turned out to be literal torture. She blinked uncontrollably as Priya made repeated attempts to stab her in the eyeball. Or that’s what it felt like, anyway. She continued to blink as the mascara went on, and if she ended up resembling anything other than a waterlogged panda, she’d be downright shocked.
“Perfect.” Priya smudged her thumb under Rosie’s left eye. “Would you like to see?”
“You look the same,” Yumi said, deadpan. “You looked fine before and you look fine now. This is all a conspiracy by Big Makeup to steal money from women’s paychecks. It’s worse than the wage gap.”
“Honestly.” Priya tutted as she held the mirror up for Rosie. She reached up an experimental finger to poke one of her eyelashes, unable to believe they were really that long, or that dark. That they were hers. She wondered what Henry would think. If he’d even notice. If he’d think she looked different at all. If maybe she always looked like this, he’d actually ask her out. Rosie blinked at her reflection again. He’d probably think she looked the same. She was, after all, still Rosie. Even if a Rosie who wore makeup and went out on a Saturday night was almost unrecognizable.
“Can we get out of here?” Yumi stood up, chucking the magazine onto Priya’s bed. “You guys ready, finally?”
“We’re ready.” Priya patted Rosie’s knee twice, like Mom would have. Rosie closed one eye, looking at the silver shimmer on her eyelid.
“Great. We’re ready to go.” Yumi already had her leather jacket on. “Does anyone even know where we’re going?”
Rosie
didn’t know. But she couldn’t wait to get there.
So here we are,” Marquis said as they waited in the courtyard outside the École. Henry rocked back and forth, rolling his gym shoes over the cobblestones. It was darker than he’d thought it would be at seven p.m. And colder. Not Chicago cold, but cold enough that he probably should have worn something warmer than a hoodie. He’d considered running back in to grab something warmer at least a dozen times, but hadn’t, worried he’d miss Rosie. Which made no sense, because Marquis could have just asked them to wait, but Henry felt, fervently, that he had to be here when she got here. That it would be unlucky or something if he wasn’t. “Think they’ll be here soon?”
“Dunno. Probably.” Henry cast an anxious glance up at the windows on the girls’ side of the third floor. He saw nothing but the golden glow of lights in the windows, which were oddly shimmery. Was it raining? No. Please no. Henry felt something small hit the top of his head. Then another something. Yup, definitely a drizzle. Perfect.
“You sure you wanna go out, man?” Marquis was squinting up at the sky. “We could just hang out in the common room or something. Bet there’s some weird French TV we could watch.”
“No way.” Henry pulled his hood up, which did absolutely nothing. Now he just felt wet cotton instead of wet hair. “We’re going out.”
Not that there was anything wrong with the common room. It was pretty cool, actually. The common room was on the first floor, across the hall from the cafeteria, and just as big—it looked like it had also been a ballroom back in the day. But now it was full of comfy chairs and huge couches and, yes, a TV. Definitely an awesome place to hang out, and certainly a lot drier than wherever it was they’d end up going. But he wanted to actually go out with Rosie, away from the building, into Paris, where it felt like anything might be possible. Like Henry might even be able to muster up the courage to really ask her out. And to kiss her, finally, with no Madame Besson in sight. He couldn’t stop replaying that moment on the roof over and over again, wondering what would have happened if they hadn’t been interrupted.
He had to kiss her. He had to at least try. Or he was going to lose his mind.
“It’s raining,” Marquis said, stating the obvious.
“If we wait for a dry night, we’ll never go anywhere,” Henry argued. “It rains a lot in Paris.”
“Fine. You win,” Marquis capitulated. “I guess it’ll be good to get out of here for a while. I wasn’t emotionally prepared for school on Saturday.”
Henry agreed. True, it was a half day, and true, it was cooking, not actual school, but still. There was something weird about not having the full weekend. And they hadn’t even started their academic classes yet. That would come Monday. Henry was trying to imagine having his cooking classes and math and English in the same day, and struggling.
The door opened, but it wasn’t Rosie who came out. It was Bodie Tal, wearing a distressed leather jacket.
“Henry, right?” Bodie asked, pulling a hand out of his pocket.
“Yeah. Hey.” Again with the bro handshake. Henry still felt like he was doing it wrong.
“Bodie, this is Marquis,” Henry said.
“Marquis! Hey, man!” Somehow the bro handshake looked a lot more natural when Bodie and Marquis did it. Was there something wrong with Henry’s hand? Was he missing some kind of bro chromosome? “Chopped teen grand champion. Dad said that pain perdu you did with the Ho Hos in the final round was killer.”
“Thanks, man. I appreciate it.” Marquis grinned.
“Dude.” Henry found himself at a loss for words. “You won Chopped ?!”
“He didn’t just win it. He destroyed it. Dad was a guest judge—said it wasn’t even close.”
“It wasn’t,” Marquis said, and Bodie laughed.
“Hey, I think I’m meeting up with Fernando and Clara and Elodie at some club,” Bodie said. “You guys wanna come with?”
“At seven p.m.?” Henry asked. Henry had never been to a club before. But he had a pretty good idea that seven p.m. wasn’t the right time to go to one.
“Yeah, I don’t know.” Bodie rolled his eyes. “Fernando was pretty set on it.”
“He’s a determined guy,” Marquis said. “That dude squeezed himself into the tightest pair of pants I’ve ever seen in my life. It was, like, a twenty-minute struggle to get them on. I was worried that he was going to ask me for help.”
Henry thought of Hampus’s now-familiar early morning squats-in-boxers routine. Things could definitely be worse.
“Well, think about the club,” Bodie said. “It’s over on the Rue des Haudriettes if you wanna come later.”
And with one last “See ya,” Bodie Tal headed out into the night.
“Chopped ? Seriously? Chopped ?” Henry asked.
“Yes. Seriously. Chopped. So where are we going?”
“I don’t want to go to a club.” Even thinking about going to a club with Rosie made Henry feel all sweaty and weird. Dancing was not his strong suit.
“Yeah, nothing about that look screams I’m ready to hit the clubs.” Henry knew Marquis was teasing, but he couldn’t resist tugging at the hem of his shirt self-consciously. He’d spent way too long picking out this specific long-sleeved tee, hoodie, and jeans, which were in no appreciable way different than any of his other long-sleeved tees, hoodies, and jeans. “Am I missing something? Do you know where we’re going?”
“Um . . . no,” Henry admitted.
Probably a thing he should have figured out by now. But that was one of the biggest problems with this entire enterprise—he’d never had a plan.
When he’d stood behind Rosie and blurted We should go out, Henry didn’t even really know what he was saying. He wanted to ask her out. But he didn’t think standing behind her and blurting out weird declarative statements was the way to go about it. Not that he really knew what the right way to go about it was. He had an absurd vision of himself dropping a note off at Rosie’s station that read, Will you go out with me? Check Yes or No with little boxes. Or asking Priya to ask Rosie if she liked him. All of his dating ideas came straight out of third grade.
Which is why he’d been relieved when Yumi had commandeered the conversation, assuming he’d been talking to the entire table.
“Okay, well, what do you want to do? Get some food?”
“Food is good.” Henry looked back up at the windows. Food was good. They could all get something to eat together. And then, maybe, on the walk back, Henry could get Rosie to hang back a bit, and it would be even better than sitting on a roof, the two of them alone, on the streets of Paris. . . .
“You’re being weird, man.” Marquis assessed Henry critically. “Like . . . twitchy, somehow.”
“Not being weird.”
“You are, but that’s okay. I can take over.”
“Take over?”
“Relax.” Marquis clapped Henry on the shoulder. “I don’t know what’s going on right now, but relax. I got this.”
The door to the École swung open with such force that it banged against the stone doorframe. Backlit by the glow from within, there they were: Yumi, Priya, and Rosie. Rosie. Henry had never seen her with her hair down before. It tumbled, almost to her waist, curling softly, like a Disney princess’s. And there was something different about her eyes. They seemed bigger, somehow, and darker, with the same shine the rain had given the cobblestones in the courtyard.
“Okay, boys.” Yumi hopped down the stone steps, neatly sidestepping a rapidly forming puddle in a dip on the bottommost stair. Rosie hung back with Priya, helping as Priya struggled to open a very capable-looking black umbrella. “Where are you taking me?”
“I’m about to change your life,” Marquis said.
“Is that Hamilton?” Yumi asked, consternation evident on her face. “Are you Elizabeth Schuyler?”
“Uh . . . maybe?”
The umbrella whooshed open with an audible pop, and Rosie and Priya hurried down the stairs beneath it.
&nbs
p; “Then by all means, lead the way,” Yumi said. “Where are we going, again?”
“You’ll see when we get there.”
“But I want to know now.”
Yumi and Marquis were already making their way out of the courtyard, bickering as they went. Henry stepped back to walk with Rosie and Priya.
“I think there’s room under here,” Rosie offered, tipping the angle of the umbrella up to let him in.
“There’s room for everyone under this umbrella. The thing’s bloody enormous,” Priya said as Henry ducked under the umbrella to stand with Rosie. “I’m worried Mum thinks I’ll melt if I get wet. Like the Wicked Witch of the West.”
Henry knew they were allowed to leave the École, but it still felt illicit to exit the courtyard, cross through the wrought iron gates, and turn down the Rue des Minimes. Large as it was, the École disappeared from view entirely as they rounded the corner and turned onto another street, the vast building swallowed up by the twists and turns of the medieval city.
Marquis led them down a street so narrow it wasn’t a street at all—more of an alley, really. Henry spotted a small restaurant with a couple lingering over an empty plate and two small cups of coffee in the large window. Two glass lamps with real flames inside flickered on either side of a blue door, and painted on a sign that swung out into the alley above the doorway, he saw a French word he definitely knew. Crêpes.
“Crêpes,” Yumi said lustily. “It may be a cliché, but it’s a cliché for a reason.”
Crêpes were perfect. Casual, but delicious, obviously the right choice for their first real night out in Paris. Henry owed Marquis. Big-time.
“Crêpes,” Rosie said, smiling up at the sign. “The only crêpes I’ve ever had came from a Bob Evans. Or the ones I tried to make myself, but it’s hard without the right pan.”
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