Love À La Mode Read online

  The parents had apologized, profusely, as they’d filed into the seats next to Rosie, diaper bags and sippy cups swinging from every available appendage. “You’re stuck with us!” the mom had chirped, as the dad announced, formally, “Congratulations. You’ve officially lost the airplane lottery. An international flight with an eleven-month-old.” Rosie had waved off their apologies. She’d been babysitting for so long, she was pretty sure there was nothing this baby could do that would bother her. Honestly, she was glad to be sitting next to the baby. He’d distracted her.

  Before the family had arrived, Rosie had been sitting in her seat almost paralyzed with fear. Not so much because she thought the plane would crash—not really—but because she just didn’t know what would happen, what it would feel like when the plane took off, how she would feel, hurtling through the air thousands and thousands of feet into the sky. And it was that not knowing that Rosie hated. That was why she loved baking. Baking was all knowing. If you followed the recipe, you got exactly what you intended. An apple pie never surprisingly turned into lemon meringue halfway through the baking process.

  Maybe it was that not knowing that had sent Rosie’s stomach into a tailspin of anxiety on the five-hour drive to the airport in Chicago. What did she know about France, really? Aside from the food? Appallingly little. Maybe that was why she was having such a hard time imagining it, or believing that this was really happening, that she’d really be living in another country in a matter of hours. When she tried to picture herself in Paris, alone, all she could conjure up was a mental image of herself walking down foggy cobblestone alleyways, wearing a beret, even though Rosie was pretty sure she didn’t have the kind of head shape to pull off hats.

  It was funny—for almost as long as she could remember, Rosie had been desperate to get out of East Liberty. Desperate to be somewhere that things were different—somewhere where people didn’t know everything about her. Or think that they knew everything about her.

  But when it was actually time to go, it was a lot harder to leave than she’d thought it would be. Rosie had thought she’d be racing into the airport terminal, tearing straight toward an adventure that smelled like butter and sugar. But Rosie hadn’t raced anywhere. Hugging Cole, then Ricky, then Reed, then Owen, and then Mom good-bye, she’d swallowed back the uncomfortable prickling of tears against the back of her throat. No crying. Not today. This was everything Rosie wanted.

  When her mother had first told her about the École, Rosie had been lying on her stomach in bed, watching old clips of Chef Laurent’s first TV show, Laurent du Jour, on YouTube. Mom had knocked on her bedroom door, and Rosie hadn’t even looked up when she came in, hadn’t looked up until her mother had dropped a packet of papers right next to her.

  “Chef Laurent, Rosie,” Mom had said.

  Her mom knew all about Rosie’s Chef Laurent obsession. Well, Rosie wouldn’t call it an obsession—but everyone else did. She did own all of his cookbooks and read his blog religiously and watch all of his shows—the ones currently on the air and the ones she could only find online. So maybe she was a little obsessed. Which didn’t even really make sense, because he wasn’t even a pastry chef, like Rosie wanted to be. But there was something about him, the way he casually tossed off jokes in the kitchen as easily as he flipped a crêpe, something that made Rosie feel warm and safe, like she was sitting right there at the table with him, about to tuck into a perfect roast chicken or a salade Lyonnaise. But the idea that she could actually be in the same kitchen as Chef Laurent was something she didn’t even know how to process.

  Rosie had read the application six times right then, with her mom next to her, squeezing her hand excitedly. She’d read it again when she woke up in the morning. When she came home from school. Every night before she went to sleep. She read it so many times that she had all the questions memorized. Had all her theoretical answers memorized. She could have taken a quiz on it, could have recited that application as a dramatic monologue. But she hadn’t applied. For weeks, she hadn’t applied.

  Rosie was more of a pastry chef than a chef, she argued with herself. They probably wouldn’t want someone who was primarily interested in baking, since the program was mostly cooking. But Rosie did cook, all the time, and just because she wanted to be a pastry chef one day didn’t mean she didn’t want to learn how to cook from Chef Laurent, in Paris.

  The idea of being so far away both terrified and thrilled her. But at least it made her feel something.

  You miss one hundred percent of the shots you don’t take.

  Wayne Gretzky had said it first. But Cole said it all the time. And Dad had said it, too. Rosie heard it, then, in Dad’s voice, as she sat in front of her computer in her darkened bedroom, staring at the application the night before it was due. And Rosie knew that she had taken very few shots in the sixteen years she’d been on this planet. And then she thought of Mom, finding the application, printing it out, probably hoping that Rosie would do something besides sit in her room, reading cookbooks and watching old cooking shows on YouTube. And Rosie wanted to do more than that, too. Almost as if Rosie’s fingers were moving of their own accord, she filled out the application with the answers she’d had memorized for months, and she clicked SUBMIT.

  The baby stirred in his sleep, bringing Rosie back to the plane. He fluttered his hand like a small pink starfish, opened his eyes briefly, looked at her, then closed them again, heavy.

  Rosie was having a hard time imagining life without her brothers. What would it be like? Not to be one of the Radeke kids or the Radeke girl, but just to be Rosie? Her teachers at the École wouldn’t call her Cole’s sister or Ricky’s sister. They’d just call her Rosie. This was uncharted territory, and Rosie was surprised to find herself feeling less excited and more unmoored by the prospect than she thought she’d be.

  Hoping to ground herself, Rosie closed her eyes and thought of butter, the way other people probably pictured relaxing tropical idylls. Her favorite thing in the world was creaming butter and sugar, watching the way two disparate ingredients come together to form something new. She could picture it in her mind, back in the kitchen at home: the soft pale yellow of the butter, the old wooden spoon, and the cracked brown mixing bowl. Butter was magic. The starting point for cookies and cake and pie and muffins and everything good.

  “I’m finished.”

  Rosie had been so lost in her thoughts she’d stopped staring at the boy and was almost surprised to see him there, holding the magazine across the aisle.

  “I’m Rosie,” she blurted out.

  “Henry.” He grinned. “Not, you know, finished.”

  “Ha.” She’d spoken the word—ha—instead of actually laughing.

  “Please, spare me the pity laugh.”

  “It wasn’t a pity laugh. It was just . . . strange.” Just strange?! What a weird thing to say. She was just strange.

  “Do you, um, do you still want it?” The magazine sagged a bit in his hand.

  “Yes. Please.”

  She took it from him and placed it carefully on her tray table, and then the lights went out, plunging the cabin into a soft darkness that Rosie guessed meant it was time to sleep.

  “Crap,” Henry muttered. “I guess you can, uh, turn the light on.”

  Rosie pressed the button above her head with the little light bulb icon. A beam of light that could have been used as a highway flare illuminated her seat. Embarrassed, she turned it off again.

  “That’s okay,” Rosie said quickly. It seemed rude to have her light on, even if the family next to her had been sleeping since the flight attendants had announced they’d reached cruising altitude.

  “They have the lights there for a reason. It’s your light. You can turn it on.”

  “I should probably sleep anyway,” Rosie said, hoping Henry didn’t hear any reluctance in her voice. “Here.” She slid the magazine off her tray table. “You can have it back.”

  “Nah. Don’t worry about it.” Henry pressed a butto
n, and his seat reclined. He stretched, his arms almost grazing the call button for the flight attendant. “Keep it. I read it already.”

  “I can’t keep it.” Rosie shook her head firmly.

  “It’s a gift. From one member of row twenty-two to another.”

  “I can’t take a gift from you. I don’t know you.”

  “Sure you do. I’m Henry.”

  He smiled, and Rosie felt an unfamiliar, swoony feeling, almost like when she flipped through the glossy pages of a brand-new cookbook, but better. He was even cuter when he smiled, and at that moment, Rosie would have done anything to keep him smiling—at her.

  “I’m going to return this,” Rosie said, but she tucked it into her seatback pocket all the same. “Once I’ve read it. Tomorrow morning. Or whenever they turn the lights on. I’m reading it, and then I’m giving it back to you.”

  “Boy, Christmas must be really rough in your house. Did you give Santa a hard time like this, too?”

  “Santa’s not real.”

  “NO.” Henry catapulted his chair up to its full upright position, jaw open and eyes full of betrayal. “SANTA’S NOT REAL?!”

  “Shhh!” Rosie admonished him, but she found, again, that she was smiling. She couldn’t even remember the last time she’d smiled quite so much in such a short time. “You’ll wake up the baby.”

  “Yeah, that baby’s really about to lose it.”

  Rosie looked over. Baby and Dad were passed out with matching expressions, jaws hanging open as their heads lolled.

  “And who’s gonna traumatize that baby more?” Henry asked. “Me, waking him up? Or you, telling him Santa’s not real?”

  “I don’t think he’s verbal.”

  “When his first words are Santa’s not real, you’re really going to feel like a terrible human being.”

  “I’m going to sleep now,” Rosie announced. Reaching down, she grabbed the small pillow—what an odd texture the pillowcase had—and pulled a fleece blanket and a sleep mask out of a plastic bag. “And then in the morning I’m reading your magazine, and then I’m giving it back to you.”

  “Oh you are, are you?” Henry wadded up his own pillow by his neck. “How will you even find me? What if I disappear into the streets of Paris and you never see me again? Kind of thwarts your magazine plans, huh?”

  “Well, Henry,” Rosie said, “I think I’ll be able to find you. I’m going the same place you are.”

  What?” Henry said.

  “To the École.”

  Henry had no words.

  “Chef Laurent’s program,” Rosie prompted.

  Henry should definitely say something now. Respond. It was time to respond.

  “I mean—I mean I think that’s where you’re going?” she added, more tentatively.

  Of course she was going. Of course she was. He should have known from the way she was looking at the cake, from the fact that she knew what an Ateco blade was, from the shiny new burn on the inside of her right thumb, from the fact that maybe it wasn’t surprising that two students traveling to the program—admittedly, a small program—would be on the same flight that departed from America’s third-largest travel hub.

  “Well, Rosie,” Henry said, the same way she had said Well, Henry, and was rewarded with a small smile, “I’m glad to hear that.”

  “Me too,” Rosie said. Henry watched as she blinked once, then again, slowly, the prelude to falling asleep.

  Henry had a million questions. Like where in Chicago she was from. Why she decided to apply to the program. When she fell in love with food. But the great thing, the beautiful thing, was now Henry had time. So he didn’t need to ask her any questions now. He could just let her fall asleep. He should just let her fall asleep. And he definitely shouldn’t say, Hey, there’s a chance I maybe might love you. Because of cakes. No, that was not the thing to do. That was a thing a crazy person would do. And Henry was determined not to be a crazy person. Both in general and in this specific situation.

  Henry didn’t remember falling asleep—which was a stupid thing to think, because nobody remembers falling asleep—but it was the first thought he had when the cabin lights flickered on, flooding the plane with light and awaking him with a jolt. His cheek was damp, and Henry was dismayed to see he’d drooled a vastly impressive puddle onto his pillow and the back of his seat. Sneaking a quick glance at Rosie, who was, thankfully, curled away from him, he rubbed his hand on his cheek, trying to dry it, then quickly stuffed the damp pillow under the seat in front of him.

  First, Henry heard a whole mess of French he didn’t understand. Then an announcement that they’d be landing in Paris in thirty minutes. He craned his neck into the aisle to see the flight attendants wheeling a cart his way, hopefully containing breakfast and something to drink. His mouth was dry and sour-tasting. Probably because he’d drooled all the liquid from his body.

  Henry grabbed the box the flight attendant proffered and opened it to reveal a plastic bottle of water, a yogurt, and a flattened croissant. Real exciting stuff for his first meal in France. He tore off one end of the croissant and stuffed it in his mouth. Not great, but definitely not bad. But when that much butter was crammed into just a couple square inches of pastry, it was hard to go wrong.

  Henry wished Mr. and Mrs. 22A and 22B would open the window shade so he could see something of the descent into Paris, but it was firmly closed, and Mr. 22A snored contentedly against the shade. If the two of them hadn’t been so annoying, they’d almost be cute, sleeping curled up together.

  Henry turned to find Rosie blinking at him, sleep mask pushed up, a small halo of static hair sticking out from beneath it.

  “I think you missed breakfast. You want some?” Henry held the croissant toward Rosie. With the end that looked like he’d bitten off facing her. Way to go, man. Gross.

  “No thanks.” Rosie shook her head, then peered at the croissant. “Look at the lamination. It’s nonexistent.”

  “Lamination?” For someone who had been asleep not thirty seconds ago, that was an impressively multisyllabic word.

  “Look.” Rosie leaned out into the aisle, hoisting herself up by balancing an elbow on the armrest. “Do you see how it sort of looks like there’s layers? But they’re all doughy and squashed together?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That’s the lamination. It’s what makes croissants flaky. The layers should be distinct, separate, and never doughy. You should be able to see way more layers than this. That’s how you can tell this is not a very good croissant.”

  “Huh.” Henry took another bite, chewed, and swallowed. Very good or not, he was still hungry. “Lamination. Learning already. And classes haven’t even started yet.”

  “Not much of a pastry guy, then?”

  “I have no problem eating pastries—”

  “You’d just rather not bake them,” Rosie finished for him.

  “Exactly. Unlike you, I’m guessing.”

  “You guessed right. I like cooking, but for me, baking is, well . . . it’s everything.”

  Rosie looked down the aisle. The flight attendant was long gone.

  “Want my yogurt?” Henry asked.

  “Sure,” Rosie said, only the slightest pause of hesitation before she spoke. Henry handed her the box with the yogurt and the spoon in it.

  “You know a lot about croissants,” he said.

  “I made my own, once,” Rosie said as she pushed the plastic wrapper off the spoon. Henry realized he was staring at her mouth as she took a bite of yogurt and quickly refocused on her eyes. “Wasn’t worth it. Took all day and everyone in my family said they’d rather have a Pillsbury Crescent.”

  “Ouch.” Henry winced. “Sounds like something my little sister would say. She thinks all the food I make is too ‘weird.’ Won’t even try it.”

  Rosie laughed, setting her spoon down in her yogurt cup. “At least with pastry everyone’s pretty much guaranteed to try it. Half the time they’ll say I shouldn’t have bothered, that whatever
I made tastes just as good coming out of a boxed mix, but at least they’ll try it. It’s hard to say no to butter, sugar, and flour.”

  “I think that’s the national motto of France.”

  “I guess I’m going to the right place, then.”

  The flight attendant announced that they were approaching their final descent. Henry polished off his croissant, noticing that Rosie followed the instructions like she was worried she might be tested on them later. Seat upright. Tray locked. Gaze straight ahead. And a grip on the armrest that suggested maybe she wasn’t the most comfortable flier. Henry wanted to reach across the aisle, to take her hand in his, but that seemed like a bold move for someone who was running on a lot less sleep than normal. And he wasn’t sure he’d be able to pry Rosie’s arm away anyway. That looked like a pretty viselike grip.

  The plane bumped to the ground with a minimum of disturbance, and there was a smattering of polite applause for the pilot. Henry pulled out his phone and switched it off airplane mode—the only notification that popped up was a text from Verizon reminding him how astronomically expensive it would be to send and receive texts. He felt around in his seatback pocket in case he’d forgotten something, but there was nothing in there except for empty snack wrappers. This was it. Henry zipped up his hoodie like that might make him more ready, somehow.

  Henry looked over, and Rosie was bent over her phone, smiling to herself. “Ridiculous,” she muttered. “I don’t usually talk to myself, promise,” she said, when she noticed Henry looking at her. “It’s just— I mean, look at this.”

  She held her phone across the aisle, and Henry leaned across to read it. It was a series of texts on the Skype app:

  Ricky

  Hey, Rosie, have you seen my sweatshirt?

  Ricky

  The gray one

  Ricky

  The dark gray one

  Ricky

  With the hood?

  Ricky

  The one I wore at your going-away thing

  Ricky

  Nevermind, it’s in Brady’s car

  Ricky