Rosie had been so busy looking at Bodie’s pumpkin stem, she’d barely even noticed Clara and Elodie flanking him, dressed like an angel and a devil, but boy, she noticed them now. Clara looked like she was in the Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show, in a teeny white dress and full wings made of real feathers spreading out behind her. She was wearing sandals that laced halfway up her long legs, and a little halo stuck out on top of her perfect golden curls. Rosie looked at her and wondered, a little bit, how she and Clara could possibly be the same species, never mind the fact that they were both American teenage white girls. She felt like an amoeba looking at a gazelle.
Bodie left Elodie and Clara on the dance floor and went over to talk to Roland. The music cut out abruptly, and Rosie watched Bodie and Roland fiddle with the cords until, with a burst of noise like a sonic boom, Drake started rapping through the speakers. Rosie felt the bass thumping through the floorboards at her feet. She looked to the door, wondering if Madame Besson would come over and tell them to turn it down, but much to her surprise, it looked like Madame Besson was bopping her head in time to the beat.
And Rosie didn’t know if Drake was really that popular, or if something in the undeniable charisma of Bodie Tal was at work, but it was like a switch had turned in the room and altered its chemistry. Suddenly, in what seemed like only a matter of moments, everyone was on the dance floor. Hampus swinging his arms back and forth as Yumi jumped up and down like she was on springs. Priya twirling gracefully around the two of them. Fernando trying to get Clara to dance as she shuffled, surprisingly self-consciously, from side to side.
“You’re not dancing?”
It was Bodie, standing in front of her, shouting.
“I don’t want to give up my prime position over here by the cookies,” she shouted back.
“Are they good? The cookies?”
“They’re great!” This was the loudest conversation Rosie had ever had about cookies. “Really good, tight crumb structure. You can tell the butter is high quality. And each cookie is so consistent. And the piping!” She picked up another one, aware that she’d already eaten way too many of them but was probably about to eat another. “The piping on the front is beautiful, but the frosting still tastes good.”
“Thank you.” He grinned.
“Did you make these?” Rosie asked, surprised.
“Yeah! I love Halloween.”
“You love Halloween.”
Rosie couldn’t believe he’d made all of these. Firstly, they were so identical, they looked like they’d been made by a machine. But what she really couldn’t believe was that Bodie Tal was exhibiting the same level of Halloween enthusiasm that Owen had abandoned several years ago because he’d decided he was too old for it.
“Halloween is the best holiday ever. Costumes? Sugar? The sick orange-and-black color scheme? What’s not to like?”
Rosie laughed as he reached over her to grab a cookie and took a bite. She could smell his aftershave, again. She took half a step back.
“Do you think they’re a little too salty?” he asked, chewing.
“No, the salt cuts the butter. You need it to balance the richness. You did it perfectly, actually.” Bodie Tal, Halloween enthusiast. Unreal. “Just how much of this did you do? For the dance, I mean,” she clarified. “Did you make all this food? Did you do the decorations, too?”
“Oh yeah.” He nodded, chewing. “The École had never done anything for Halloween before. But missing it bummed me out too much, so I texted Denis and he made it happen.” Denis. Chef Laurent. Rosie would never get over it. “I know I’m kind of a baby about Halloween, but it’s my favorite episode of Cake Bomb every year, with Dad. We always do it together. We’ve done it since I was a little kid. We usually guest-judge Halloween Wars, too. Halloween’s kind of our thing. And I thought this might make me miss it . . . him . . . less.”
Bodie trailed off awkwardly, and Rosie wondered if he felt he’d shared too much.
“Last year’s season of Halloween Wars was the best!” Rosie said encouragingly, wanting him to feel less awkward. “I loved that vampire wedding cake. The raspberry ‘blood’ when you cut into it was awesome.”
“Why, Rosie Radeke,” Bodie said, and Rosie instantly regretted everything that had come out of her mouth. Why had she admitted she watched it?! What was she thinking?! “Are you a fan?”
“No,” Rosie said quickly, unsure why she was denying it now. “It was just. You know. On.”
“Sure it was.” Bodie smirked. “Dad’s gonna be so pleased. He’s always trying to break into that heartland demographic.”
“No.” Rosie shook her head. “I was watching for you.”
Was she high? Had Bodie laced these cookies with some kind of mind-altering substance?! Rosie was saying—no, shouting—things she definitely shouldn’t be saying or shouting, and definitely not saying to Bodie Tal. She’d basically just confessed to being a superfan. Mortifying.
“I can’t believe everyone’s dancing now,” Rosie said, changing the subject.
“DJ Pumpkin never fails.”
“DJ Pumpkin?” Rosie nearly sprayed him with cookie crumbs.
“Yeah. DJ Pumpkin.” He pointed to the stem on top of his headphones. “It’s my Halloween alter ego.”
“Your Halloween alter ego. Okay. Sure. Like that’s a thing everyone has. Mine’s Sad Cat.” Rosie reached up to poke ineffectually at her construction-paper ears, which immediately flopped back down.
“Want to dance, Sad Cat?”
“What? I . . . What?”
“Is that a what or a yes? Because I’m waiting for a yes.”
He had freckles. Rosie hadn’t noticed them before. A very, very faint sprinkling over his nose and across his cheekbones. There were some things, Rosie thought, that even high-def couldn’t capture. Only real life.
And when she exhaled, it came out as “Yes.”
Dude,” Marquis said. “What. Are. You. Doing.”
Henry knew he was driving Marquis crazy. Honestly, he was driving himself crazy. They were supposed to have left a long time ago, but Henry couldn’t decide on any of the equally lame costume options he’d assembled at the last minute. Because Henry had meant to think of something perfect, something Rosie would love, but between finishing his extra math for Ms. Whitman, writing weekly essays for Mr. Bertram, creating the Napoleonic Wars timeline for Monsieur Reynaud, and the thousands of other things he had to do, Henry hadn’t thought of anything good. Never mind the fact that way too much of his brain space had been taken up by the fact that the perfectly roasted chicken he’d attempted for Dish of the Day had again been deemed “boring,” “safe,” and “not you, Yi.” Whatever that meant.
Groaning, Marquis slumped over on Hampus’s bed with his head in his hands. Henry could just see the top of the name RUSSELL written on the back of his Nets jersey.
“Just wear the jersey, man,” Marquis said, his voice muffled through his hands. “Just wear the jersey.”
“I’m way too short to be a basketball player. It’ll look ridiculous.”
“Then don’t wear the jersey. Wear whatever you want. Wear a red T-shirt and say you’re a tomato. I do not care. I would just like to get down there before it’s November. This is a Halloween dance that a maximum of twenty people are going to. Who cares what you wear?”
“I just . . . I don’t want to look stupid.”
Henry decided. He whipped off his T-shirt and pulled on Marquis’s other Nets jersey.
“Everyone’s going to look stupid. I spent almost two hours in the common room this afternoon helping Yumi make fake eyeballs. Fake eyeballs. This is the level we’re at here.”
Henry grunted in response as he pulled open the bottom drawer of his dresser, dug around, and grabbed a pair of gray gym shorts.
“So why the meltdown? Who is this for? Ohhh.” Marquis sat up now, lifting his head out of his hands. “Who is this for?”
“Nobody,” Henry muttered, but even he knew that any kind of denial
would be a protesting-too-much situation. Methinks. Like in Hamlet. See, Mom? Henry thought. After finishing the revisions on his first paper, he was crushing it in English. Sure, he’d had to pull an all-nighter to make sure his last essay was perfect, but he’d gotten a ninety-seven, with a Well done written on the top in red pen. The next day he’d fallen asleep doing his homework in the lounge and had woken up to a concerned Rosie shaking him back to consciousness, but it was worth it to prove his mother wrong.
Probably because Henry had poured so much time into his paper, he hadn’t studied enough for his science test and now that grade was dipping down into the B range. He couldn’t win. As soon as one grade pulled up, another went back down. Henry felt like he was playing GPA whack-a-mole.
“It’s Rosie, isn’t it?” Marquis was now standing. Crap. Marquis was so much taller than him. Henry was going to look like a little kid in his jersey. Like he was trick-or-treating, and Marquis was his dad. “I know it is. You always sit next to her.”
“She sits next to me, too, sometimes,” Henry muttered.
“She does, man, she does!” Marquis laughed. “Let’s go make this happen.”
“Marquis,” Henry said desperately as they walked into the hallway. “Don’t . . . you know . . . say anything.”
“I won’t,” Marquis said solemnly, and much to Henry’s surprise, he pulled him into a hug, clapping him once, twice, on the back. “I don’t need to say anything,” Marquis continued as they descended the staircase. “Halloween will work its magic. You’ll see.”
Henry had his doubts. But as they got closer to the cafeteria, and the volume increased, Henry could feel the faint thrum of the bass deep in his bones and saw a flash of colored lights spilling out from under the door.
“I was not expecting this,” Marquis mused. “This is like . . . a real party.”
Henry nodded, agreeing. Not that Marquis could see him nod, given the lack of light. There was a mass of people jumping on the dance floor, no longer distinguishable as individuals. It was so dark in there. He looked—he couldn’t not look—for Rosie, wearing his hoodie. His hoodie. But he couldn’t see her anywhere.
“Hey!” Something small and very green was coming at them, waving. “Hey!” Yumi stopped in front of them, hands on her hips. “You’re only, like, a billion years late.”
“I had to fix my hair,” Marquis said, smoothing a hand over his head and his barely-there hair.
“Hilarious. Cute couple’s costume,” Yumi said. “You boys are adorable.”
“Thanks, girl,” Marquis cooed back at her. “Did you forget your pants?”
“Did you forget your . . . ugh, never mind. It’s too loud in here to think. Come on. Let’s dance.”
Yumi grabbed Marquis’s arm, and Marquis shot Henry a look that might have said Help! or it might have said Aww yeah or it might have said Are you coming? It was too dark to be sure. But Henry didn’t go anywhere.
Because the thumping bass slowed, and John Legend crooned from out of the speakers, and finally, Henry saw her.
Dancing with Bodie Tal.
On the one hand, Rosie was glad it was a slow song. All she had to do was sway back and forth. But Bodie was so close. His face was right above hers, his lips almost level with her eyes, and when she tilted her head back, even in the dark, she could see his clear gray-blue gaze. Looking at her.
Rosie glanced away, over his shoulder. She still didn’t see Henry. She tried to look at the dancing couples around her, wondering if he might have slipped in without her seeing, but it was so hard to tell who everyone was in their costumes, pressed together in the darkness.
Bodie was quiet as he steered her in a slow circle around the room. She was dizzy, almost. Maybe from the heat of the room, or the circular movement, or the scent of Bodie’s aftershave. It was so deep in her nose, it was probably working its way into her brain. She found herself leaning on him more than she had been, worried that she might stumble.
The song ended, and Rosie looked back up at Bodie, wondering why he had wanted to dance with her. He hadn’t said anything the whole time. It had been nice, but odd, or maybe odd because it was nice. She stood there, realized her arms were still around his neck, then dropped them, hurriedly. Bodie let go, too, and took a step back.
It was loud now, the rhythm frantic, rhymes spit rapidly as the dancing bodies surged and moved around them.
“Hey!” Rosie saw Clara tap Bodie on the shoulder, pouting at him playfully. He turned.
“Thanks,” Rosie muttered, because it seemed like the thing to say.
“Rosie—”
Clara grabbed his arm and squeezed his bicep, making a joke about something Rosie couldn’t hear. Rosie slipped away while Bodie was distracted, but froze on her way across the dance floor, catching a glimpse of a figure with dark hair slipping into the kitchen. Henry. Right? It had to be. Rosie hurried after him, wondering why he was leaving the dance already.
In the kitchen off the cafeteria, something clanged, like two pots colliding, then Rosie heard a giggle and a “Shhh!” Somebody else was in here. Rosie inched closer to the staircase down to the main kitchen, hoping to go unnoticed. But then a flash of neon green caught her eye. Yumi’s monster shirt. It had to be. Rosie peeked around the corner, then rapidly stepped back, because it wasn’t just Yumi. Yumi and Marquis were kissing—nope, forget kissing, they were making out—and if either of them saw her right now, Rosie would never be able to look them in the face again. Silently, feeling her way in the dark, Rosie crept down the stairs.
The stairs had indeed led her to the big kitchen. None of the lights were on, but the moon shone through the windows, bathing all the stainless steel in an iridescent silver glow. A full moon on Halloween. Like an illustration in a picture book.
“Henry?” Rosie whispered.
He stepped out of the shadows and into the moonlight.
“What are you doing down here?” she asked, walking toward him.
“Oh. You know. Nothing. Trying not to interrupt you and Bodie.”
“What are you talking about?” Rosie stopped in her tracks, stung by his tone. “I was waiting for you.”
“Really,” he said flatly. “That’s funny. Usually when I’m waiting for someone, I keep busy by messing around with my phone. Maybe next time I’ll try slow dancing.”
“It was just a dance. And not that it matters, but I wanted to dance with you.” This was not how tonight was supposed to go. Rosie was supposed to dance with Henry. And they were supposed to be kissing right now, not fighting in a kitchen!
“Yeah, it really looked like you were dying to dance with me,” Henry said sarcastically.
“Wow. Okay. Sorry I danced with someone else.” Rosie could be sarcastic right back at him. “Sorry I didn’t even know if you wanted to dance with me because you’ve been so . . . so . . . grumpy and weird and confusing!”
“Well, maybe I’m confused because you clearly like someone else!”
“Seriously?” Rosie took a deep breath. She couldn’t even remember the last time she’d been so frustrated. “You obviously don’t want to listen to me right now. Let’s just—let’s just talk about this later, okay?”
Rosie was halfway up the stairs before she remembered she was wearing his hoodie. She unzipped it as she stomped back into the kitchen and dropped it on the counter at the front of the room.
She didn’t wait to see if he bothered to pick it up.
She wasn’t there.
Every Sunday since they’d arrived at the École, Rosie had been waiting for him across the street from the boulangerie. But the morning after the dance, when Henry stopped on the stairs, right in the middle, and looked across the street to where she’d been every Sunday, she wasn’t there.
Henry clutched his bag stuffed full of brioche, his grip tightening around the paper. Although he was probably going to need a lot more than a bag of brioche to make up for last night. He’d acted like a petulant baby who needed a nap. And Henry did need a nap—he�
��d been working so hard, he constantly felt exhausted and grouchy, but that wasn’t an excuse. Henry was pretty sure Rosie could stay up for three days straight and she still wouldn’t yell at him. He’d apologize to her today.
But every time he tried to think of what to say to Rosie, for some reason all he could think about was Rosie wrapped in Bodie’s arms, looking up at Bodie in a way Henry was sure she’d never looked at him. The whole thing felt like a punch in the gut. Henry didn’t know if he wanted to stuff every last bit of brioche in his face right now or if he never wanted to eat again.
“Pardon!” a woman exclaimed from behind Henry. Right. He was blocking the whole staircase. He ran down the last couple steps and onto the sidewalk, just barely avoiding being sideswiped by a baguette.
“Désolé,” Henry mumbled as he nodded at her awkwardly, embarrassed by his bad French. She sniffed, shifted her baguette to her other arm, and passed by him. Henry watched her stalk out of sight, the baguette bobbing as she went.
And when Henry turned back to look across the street, there she was. Standing on the corner, hair piled messily on top of her head, smiling at him. Hope blossomed in his chest.
“Happy Sunday,” Rosie called. She held up two glass Coke bottles, one in each hand.
“I didn’t think you were coming,” he said as he crossed the street.
“New day, fresh start?” She handed him one of the bottles. God, she was nicer than he deserved. She should be yelling at him for being an idiot, not handing him a Coke and a clean slate. “Gosh, I sound like my mom.”
She laughed, but her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes.
“Here.” Henry thrust the bag at her. He wanted to say, I’m sorry. He’d meant to say, I’m sorry, but what came out was “I got you some brioche.”
“My favorite.” Rosie took the bag, and Henry hoped his peace offering was enough. “Wanna go sit by the river and eat?”
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