Henry smiled, but this was just one small step. Rosie deserved even better than really good.
And that was exactly what he was going to give her.
Getting back to real life after Thanksgiving was hard. It reminded Rosie of when she’d been little and had looked around her living room on Christmas after all the presents had been opened. There were new toys, yes, but tomorrow it would just be winter, not Christmas anymore. She had that crumpled-wrapping-paper kind of sadness.
At least things with Henry were better. Something had shifted on Thanksgiving. True, he hadn’t declared his undying love or tried to kiss her or anything, but at least things between them were easy again, like they had been before the whole Bodie debacle. He still seemed tired all the time, and occasionally grumpy, but at least he no longer seemed grumpy with her, specifically. Rosie wished she’d given him a pop earlier, if a bottle of Coke was all it took to fix whatever had gone wrong.
Rosie poked her shrimp with a fork. Fish and shellfish week had not been a great success. Rosie hadn’t managed to fillet a single denizen of the deep correctly, and she’d nearly amputated her hand when she tried to shuck an oyster. And it had all been overcooked. And these shrimp, from the look of it, were going to be no exception. And they certainly weren’t going to win her Dish of the Day. Rosie couldn’t even win Dish of the Day on pastry week. As much as she tried to pretend it didn’t bother her, she was still embarrassed about that. Tripped up by a cheesecake. Mortifying.
So Rosie wasn’t surprised when Chef Martinet said her shrimp were overcooked and underseasoned. And she wasn’t surprised when Yumi won Dish of the Day for her play on a Nicoise salad in a beautiful bite-size portion. But Rosie was surprised when, at the end of class, Chef Martinet stopped her on her way out of the kitchen.
“Rosie, a word, please.”
Chef Martinet had never called Rosie by her first name before. Ever. And even though Rosie sounded beautiful in her accent, Rosie couldn’t help but feel that this portended something ominous. Priya agreed, clearly, if the sympathetic look she shot Rosie was any indication.
“Come right up when she’s done with you,” Priya whispered as they made their way up to the front of the kitchen. “Make sure you’re in our room as quickly as possible. Promise?”
“Promise,” Rosie whispered back. “But why—”
“Never you mind.” Priya smiled. “Just be there.”
Rosie would have given anything to be filing out of the kitchen with her classmates, on her way upstairs to shuck her whites, shower the shrimp smell out of her hair, and find out what Priya was being so mysterious about. But instead, Rosie stopped in front of Chef Martinet, and said, “Yes, Chef ?”
“We are near to the end of the semester, as you know.”
Rosie nodded.
“And I am sure it will not surprise you to hear that I have seen no real improvement.”
No real improvement. It didn’t surprise Rosie, but that didn’t make it any easier to hear. Rosie reached down to her pocket, wanting to hold on to her plastic pilot’s wings for luck, but as she patted around in vain, she realized they weren’t in there. And now that she thought about it, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d put them in her pocket before heading to class. She could picture them, on her desk, waiting for her. But she hadn’t reached for them in so long.
“Chef Petit speaks very highly of you, but I did not, for myself, see anything spectacular with your pastry.”
“No, Chef,” Rosie said, almost in a whisper. Because there had been nothing spectacular about that cheesecake.
“It is not— As you know, one is not required to stay the entire academic year at the École.”
No. No. This couldn’t be happening. This was so, so much worse than anything Rosie imagined Chef Martinet might possibly say. Rosie knew, of course, that being asked to leave was a possibility, but hearing Chef Martinet actually say it out loud was so much worse than Rosie had ever imagined.
“In fact, many students do not return for the spring semester. It is quite common. From what I have seen, I believe you should not return after the holidays,” Chef Martinet said. “Perhaps it would be best.”
Her voice, as she said that, was almost kind. And that was maybe the worst part of all of it. Because anytime Rosie had allowed herself to worry about being asked to leave, or listened to Priya’s fears about getting “chucked out,” Rosie had imagined Chef Martinet kicking her out with a stern voice and a sour face. Not asking her to leave nicely. Like it was for her own good.
There was so much Rosie wanted to say. That she wanted to be here. That she belonged here, even if Chef Martinet didn’t think so. That she would prove it, somehow. But it all stuck in her throat, and Rosie couldn’t even get a word out.
“Think on it, yes?” Chef Martinet said, and then patted her on the shoulder. It was a bit mechanical, like maybe Chef Martinet was an alien who had learned how to comfort people by reading a book about human social responses, but it was a pat of comfort nonetheless. And it was downright terrifying.
Chef Martinet walked out of the back of the room—not up the stairs into the cafeteria, the way they always went, Rosie didn’t even know where that back door went—and Rosie felt all the air rush out of her in a single whoosh, like when Ricky had kicked a soccer ball into her stomach accidentally when they were little. Rosie clutched the cool stainless steel counter for support.
How was this possible? Rosie knew she was struggling. It wasn’t a secret. But she hadn’t thought she was struggling that badly, badly enough that Chef Martinet thought she should leave. She couldn’t leave! The last thing she could do was head back to East Liberty halfway through the year with her tail between her legs. The thought of Priya spending the rest of the year staring at an empty bed turned Rosie’s stomach. Or even worse, that bed filled with some other girl, some other girl who’d take Rosie’s place. Some other girl who would sit next to Henry at lunch. She couldn’t do it. She just couldn’t.
The final meal! Rosie gripped the counter harder, a shot of adrenaline coursing through her veins. Of course. The final meal. It was her last shot—literally—to prove herself. And if she could impress Chef Martinet, and even more importantly, Chef Laurent, they’d have to let her stay. They’d have to. All she needed to do was cook a final meal that was so perfect it guaranteed her a spot in the spring semester.
Easier said than done. But at least it was something. A chance. A lifeline.
When Rosie entered the stairwell to leave the kitchen, she almost jumped as she realized she wasn’t alone.
“Hey.” Bodie reached out and touched her arm. “Are you okay?”
“Were you—were you eavesdropping?!” What was he doing there, in the hallway, listening to her private conversation? Rosie was furious. Furious. She couldn’t remember ever being so mad. She wasn’t even sure who she was mad at, she just knew that she was mad.
“I wanted to make sure you were okay.”
“You could have done that without listening in on a private conversation!” She felt like a cartoon, red-faced, arms wheeling, steam shooting out of her ears. She wished she could explode Bodie Tal with a stick of dynamite, like he was Wile E. Coyote, and shoot him far, far away from her. Where was good Rosie, quiet Rosie, responsible Rosie now? That Rosie felt a million miles away.
“I didn’t think you’d tell me what she said.”
“You’re right. I wouldn’t have. Because I didn’t want anyone to know. Especially not you!” She smacked him in the chest with both hands, then stepped back, horrified at herself. “Sorry—I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay—”
“I don’t—I don’t hit people—it’s not a thing I do—”
“It’s okay, you’re right, I shouldn’t have listened in—”
“You shouldn’t have. But I shouldn’t have hit you. Gosh.” Rosie laughed shakily. “I’m sorry. That was uncalled for. Even if your mother should have told you that it’s not polite to eavesdrop.”
/> “Trust me. That gem was not on Mom’s list of unconventional advice. She’s got some great tips on how to prevent sun damage, though,” he said wryly. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”
“Where are we going?”
“Someplace where things make sense.”
“Someplace else? Without showering? I smell like shrimp,” Rosie said.
“That makes two of us. But I’m betting you’d rather not head upstairs to change and face any questions from your posse.”
“I don’t have a posse.”
“Are you kidding? You have the posse,” Bodie said. “You, Priya, Yumi, Marquis, Hampus, Henry. It’s more than a posse. It’s a clique. The height of exclusivity at the École. Nobody else could ever sit at that lunch table. I’m surprised you guys don’t wear pink on Wednesdays.”
“You like Mean Girls?” Rosie asked, trying to process what he’d said. What, had Bodie Tal wanted to sit with them? He’d always seemed perfectly happy at his table full of beautiful people. It’s not like he’d ever complained about sitting with Clara before.
Clara. What would she think, if she knew what Chef Martinet had said? Well, obviously, she’d think that Rosie had it coming. She probably wouldn’t believe it had taken Rosie so long to get kicked out. Rosie could hear her and Elodie laughing about it already.
“Mean Girls is a great movie,” Bodie said. “Come on.”
Rosie figured out where they were going before they got there, but that didn’t make her any less happy to see Chef Petit’s boulangerie. Away from Chef Martinet, away from the École, away from her failure. Away from all of it. She could feel the tension in her chest easing as they pushed open the door, bell jingling. She breathed in the intoxicating aroma of butter and sugar, and thought, for the first time, that things might really be okay.
“Bonjour, étudiants!” Chef Petit called from behind the counter. “Ah, Bodie, is it time already?”
“Like you would not believe,” Bodie said. “Cool if we head back?”
“Of course, of course.” Chef Petit waved them on as Bodie stepped behind the counter as confidently as if he’d been working there every weekend since school started. “Call for me if you need anything!”
“Thanks, man,” Bodie said as he disappeared into the kitchen. Within, there were tall stacked rolling racks filled with baguettes and boules and croissants. There was an industrial stand mixer so big it was almost up to Rosie’s shoulder, several enormous ovens, and all the counter space was crowded almost to the point of clutter. It smelled even better back here than it did in the front.
“When I have a crap day,” Bodie said, “there are two things I do.”
“Enlighten me.”
“One: bake something. Something easy.” He opened the freezer, rummaged around in it, and pulled out a rectangular Tupperware. “Two: eat ice cream. Preferably with hot fudge.”
“Is that ice cream? Did you make that?” she asked, trying to see into the Tupperware, but all she could see was opaque white. Probably vanilla.
“Yeah. I made it at the École, then brought it over here—they have an ice cream maker and Chef Petit doesn’t.” He popped off the lid, and Rosie peered in. Definitely vanilla. “I’m just happier in the kitchen here than at the École. All those rules. Chef Martinet criticizing everything. Telling me I cook like I don’t care about it. News flash: I don’t care about cooking. I care about baking. Sometimes I feel like I can’t breathe there, you know?”
“Believe me, I know.” Rosie hated the way her voice sounded. All whiny and desperate and sad. “So what are we making?” she asked briskly. “Ice cream, hot fudge, baking . . . a brownie sundae?”
“Brownie sundae? Please. This is France. We’re not in Bald Eagle, Ohio, anymore.”
“East Liberty,” Rosie corrected automatically.
“I knew it was something patriotic.” He shrugged. “We’re making profiteroles.”
Profiteroles. Little cream puffs filled with vanilla ice cream and drowned in thick chocolate sauce.
“Ha! I knew it!” he said triumphantly. “You already look ten times better. There is nothing as satisfying as making choux pastry.”
It was exactly what she’d been thinking. Choux pastry was literally one of her favorite things to make in the whole world. But she didn’t tell him that. Instead, she grabbed an apron from a hook on the wall and tied it on.
Together, they melted the butter with water in a saucepan, then added the flour, stirring with a wooden spoon until it pulled away from the sides and formed a ball—that was Rosie’s favorite part, the way it came together like that. There was something so satisfying about it. Then they scooped the choux into bags and piped them into little circles on a baking sheet, competing to see who could do it better—Bodie was faster, but Rosie was neater. As the pastry baked, they made the chocolate sauce on the stovetop, and by the time they’d assembled a huge plate of profiteroles, Rosie hadn’t thought about Chef Martinet for quite some time. Until, of course, she took a bite, and it was good—really good—and she wished Chef Martinet could taste this dish. Rosie sighed and put her spoon down.
“What’s wrong?” Bodie asked. “I know it’s not the profiteroles, because they’re perfect. What are you thinking about? Imagining what Chef Martinet would say?”
“Don’t do that.”
“What?”
“Read my mind,” Rosie said. “I don’t like it.”
He chuckled, but then he looked at her, really looked, and Rosie had to look away. He cleared his throat, then said, “You know you’re not going anywhere, right?”
“I’m not—I won’t.” She wasn’t. She couldn’t. “I’m going to cook the most incredible meal that . . . that . . . trout has ever eaten.” Rosie struggled to think of something to call Chef Martinet, but trout felt right. “I’ll show her I belong here. I will.”
“Of course you will. And your dishes will be amazing, I’m sure. But even if they’re, um, not . . . you’ll be okay. You can stay here.”
“Okay?” Clearly, Rosie wasn’t getting what he was trying to say.
“Chef Martinet’s not in charge.” Bodie set his jaw, like someone was challenging him. “She doesn’t make the final decisions. About anything. Denis does.”
A chill passed through Rosie’s whole body. An ice-cold chill of dread that no amount of profiteroles could fix.
“Bodie.” Rosie needed to be as serious as she possibly could. She needed him to understand. “Do not talk to Chef Laurent about me. Do not.”
“I already have—”
“No!” Her voice sounded anguished, even to her. “Don’t. Please. I don’t want your charity! Your pity,” she spat.
“Not like that! Not like that,” he said hurriedly. “Not about this. Not about Chef Martinet. Just about . . . you.”
“Explain. Now. What did you tell him about me?”
“How much you love baking, too. How great it felt not to be the only one.”
“Oh.” That was fine, then. Rosie relaxed a little.
“The only thing I didn’t tell him was how beautiful you are.”
And just like that, Rosie was decidedly un-relaxed. She blinked at Bodie, half expecting he’d be a fish or something when she opened her eyes again, because this had to be a dream. But no matter how much she blinked at Bodie Tal, he was still a hot guy in chef’s whites, and not a fish. A hot guy who was staring at her like she was, in fact, beautiful.
This was insane. Rosie had never even had a real boyfriend, and now Bodie Tal, professional hot guy, former boyfriend of many professional hot girls, thought she was beautiful? Had every guy in East Liberty just been missing something for the past sixteen years? He was crazy. This was crazy. This was not the kind of thing that happened to her.
Rosie realized, suddenly, that he was standing close. Very close. She hadn’t noticed him stepping nearer, but he was near now, very near, his chest almost pressed against hers, his face close enough that she could see the freckles dancing across his nose, t
he freckles she hadn’t noticed until Halloween.
“Rosie, can I—can I kiss you?” he asked. He brought his hand up, and it hovered near her ear, like he’d maybe been about to tuck her hair behind her ear, or cup her head in his hands, but then stopped himself, as if he’d thought better of it.
She could have kissed Bodie, and maybe it would have meant nothing, or maybe it would have meant something, but she knew, with an ache that thrummed through her, both painful and powerful, that it wasn’t Bodie she wanted to kiss.
“Bodie, I—”
“That would be a no, then.” His hand dropped.
“You don’t really know me, Bodie,” she said gently.
“I’d like to,” he said, and for the first time, she saw the cracks in his confident facade. Rosie wanted to reach out and touch his arm, but she wasn’t sure how he’d receive it, if he would read it as more than she meant it.
“I’d like to know you, too. Just. Um . . . You know. As friends.”
Rosie winced at the awkward string of words that had tumbled out of her mouth. She was not prepared for this. Letting down hot famous guys was not a skill she had previously needed.
“Sure,” Bodie said, half-heartedly. “Friends.”
Rosie didn’t really know what to say after that. But what she did know was exactly who she wanted to kiss.
And she wasn’t going to wait anymore.
Dad, you are a literal lifesaver,” Henry said into the computer screen propped up on his bed. “For this, I’ll do all the math you and Mom want.”
“Do you have any math for me to do?” Marquis asked from behind Henry, trying to lean into the frame. “Because I’d love to have dinner in the kitchen at Les Oies.”
“You are here for ties. Not to third-wheel,” Henry said.
“Then pick a tie!” Marquis gestured to the ties lying over his arm. Henry had never thought he’d be grateful Mom had made him pack a suit. But he was even more grateful that Marquis was letting him borrow a tie so Henry didn’t have to wear a novelty tie with hot dogs printed on it—the only one he’d packed.
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