Grace Makes It Great Page 11

  “Sophie! Sylvie! Lily! Our girls are finally here!” Grandma cried as she rushed from the kitchen wearing her red pâtisserie apron.

  Grandpa was right behind her. I smiled to see him wearing a bright red tie. “BonJOUR!” he called, his French heavy with an American accent. Ella and Maddy and I giggled.

  There was a flurry of hugs and hellos as everyone started talking at once. Lily woke up, but Grandpa scooped her into his arms and had her smiling and cooing in no time.

  Grandma had her arms wrapped around Sylvie. “Oh, dear Sylvie,” she said. “We’re so happy you’re here. We can finally bake together. And I know you like flowers, so we can go to the botanical gardens. They have a beautiful indoor exhibit of tropical plants, so we’ll stay nice and warm, and then—”

  “Mom!” Aunt Sophie interrupted, laughing. “Slow down. We just got here.”

  Grandma smiled. “Oh, I know. We just have a lot of catching up to do with Sylvie.” Grandma unwrapped Sylvie from her hug hold and reached for Aunt Sophie. “And that goes for you and Lily, too.”

  While Grandma gave Aunt Sophie another hug, Sylvie leaned into me. “It is nice,” she said with a soft sigh, “our grandparents.”

  I squeezed Sylvie’s hand. I knew she would always miss her French grand-mère, but I hoped it would help to know how much her American family loved her.

  “Sylvie,” Grandpa said, bouncing Lily on his knee. “I understand that we owe much of the new design of the bakery to you. Thank you for all your help!”

  Sylvie smiled uncertainly, and I was afraid she didn’t understand what he was saying.

  I decided she needed a translator—a bridge. I swept my arm out toward the walls of the bakery. “Grand-père says merci.”

  “You’re welcome,” Sylvie replied, smiling proudly.

  Snowflakes fell in perfect crystals outside the window as the Winter Magic Express rolled and swayed along the railroad tracks. As we rode past the Blackstone River and through the mill towns, I told Sylvie that some of the buildings were more than two hundred years old. “Grandpa will tell you all about them,” I said, rolling my eyes at Maddy and Ella.

  Sylvie loved the ride—especially the snow-covered bridges—and Ella and Maddy loved asking Sylvie about Paris, her parents’ bakery, and her cat, Napoléon. Sometimes I had to translate, and sometimes I couldn’t understand Sylvie’s French, either. But that didn’t slow us down.

  Maddy asked Sylvie what winter was like in Paris, which launched a flurry of questions about celebrating the holidays.

  “How do you say ‘Merry Christmas’ in French?” Ella asked.

  “Joyeux Noël,” Sylvie replied with a smile.

  “How do you say ‘Happy Hanukkah’ in French?” Maddy added.

  “Joyeux Hanoucca,” Sylvie said, pronouncing the words clearly.

  “And ‘good friends’?” I motioned to all of us. “How do you say, ‘We are friends’?”

  Sylvie nodded. “Nous sommes amies!”

  We repeated it together after her.

  When the train rolled toward the depot, we were surprised that the ride was over. We’d been so busy talking that we hadn’t noticed the time.

  Maddy and Ella jumped up and moved toward the doors. Sylvie and I followed. We were going to hurry back to La Grande Pâtisserie before the train crowd arrived. “We’re serving mini cream puffs,” I explained to Sylvie. “Along with madeleines, chocolate tartes, and red, pink, and green macarons.”

  “Can I help, too, Grace?” Sylvie asked.

  “Bien sûr,” I said.

  The train braked and squeaked to a stop. As the four of us tumbled out of the car and linked arms, I asked, “Sylvie, how do you say, ‘Good food! Let’s eat’?”

  Everyone knew the answer. We said it together, without missing a beat.

  “Bon appétit!”

  Mary Casanova is always full of ideas. The author of over 30 books—including Cécile: Gates of Gold, Jess, Chrissa, Chrissa Stands Strong, McKenna, and McKenna, Ready to Fly!—she often travels as far away as Norway, Belize, and France for research.

  For Grace, she returned to Paris—this time with her grown daughter, Kate—where they biked, explored, and took a French baking class together. Mary comes from a long line of bakers. Her grandmothers baked fragrant breads; her mother made the “world’s best” caramel rolls and cinnamon rolls; and Mary, too, loves baking breads, cakes, and cookies.

  When she’s not writing—or traveling for research or to speak at schools and conferences—she’s likely reading a good book, horseback riding in the northwoods of Minnesota, or hiking with her husband and three dogs.

  Special thanks to Héloïse Blain, French teacher and language expert, Nice, France; Dawn Bowlus, director, Jacobson Institute for Youth Entrepreneurship at The University of Iowa; Dominique Dury, head chef, Flying Cook, Paris, France; and Donna Houle, special projects manager, Blackstone Valley Tourism Council.

  Glossary of French Words

  allons-y (ah-lohn-zee)—let’s go

  au revoir (oh ruh-vwar)—good-bye

  baguette (bah-get)—a long, thin loaf of French bread

  bien sûr (byen sewr)—of course

  bleu clair (bluh klehr)—light blue

  bon appétit (bohn ah-pay-tee)—good appetite; enjoy your meal

  bonbon au chocolat (bohn-bohn oh sho-ko-lah)—candy with a soft center and a chocolate outer shell

  bonjour (bohn-zhoor)—hello

  C’est génial! (say zheh-nyahl)—That’s great!

  C’est ma petite chienne, Bonbon. (say ma puh-teet shyen bohn-bohn)—It’s my little dog, Bonbon.

  C’est magnifique! (say mah-nyee-feek)—It’s beautiful; it’s magnificent!

  chambre (shahm-bruh)—room

  Comment va ta famille? (koh-mahn vah tah fah-meey)—How is your family?

  Comment vas-tu? (koh-mahn vah-tew)—How are you?

  et (ay)—and

  gland (glahn)—a pastry filled with sweet custard and decorated with black-and-white frosting

  grande (grahnd)—big

  grand-mère (grahn-mehr)—grandmother

  grand-père (grahn-pehr)—grandfather

  je ne sais quoi (zhun say kwah)—a special quality that cannot be described easily

  Je serai ta consultante. (zhuh suh-ray tah kohn-syewl-tahnt)—I will be your consultant.

  Je t’aime. (zhuh tem)—I love you.

  Je vais bien. (zhuh vay byehn)—I am fine.

  Joyeux Hanoucca (zhwah-yuh ah-noo-kuh)—Happy Hanukkah

  Joyeux Noël (zhwah-yuh noh-el)—Merry Christmas

  La Grande Pâtisserie (lah grahnd pah-tee-suh-ree)—the big bakery

  macaron (mah-kah-rohn)—a double-layer round cookie that comes in all kinds of colors and flavors

  madeleine (mahd-lehn)—a small, rich cake baked in a shell-shaped mold

  magnifique (mah-nyee-feek)—magnificent

  mais oui (meh wee)—but yes

  maison (meh-zohn)—home

  merci (mehr-see)—thank you

  merci beaucoup (mehr-see boh-koo)—thank you very much

  moi (mwah)—me

  Montmartre (mohn-mahr-truh)—a hill in the north of Paris and the district that surrounds it

  Napoléon (nah-poh-lay-ohn)—the ruler of France after the French Revolution

  non (nohn)—no

  Nous sommes amies. (noo sumz ah-mee)—We’re friends.

  nouvelle (noo-vel)—new

  oui (wee)—yes

  Pardonne-moi. (par-dohn mwah)—Pardon me; excuse me.

  pâtisserie (pah-tee-suh-ree)—a French bakery that specializes in pastries and desserts

  petite pâtisserie (puh-teet pah-tee-suh-ree)—little bakery

  religieuse (ruh-lee-zhyuhz)—a fancy layered dessert with vanilla and chocolate icing

  rose (rohz)—pink

  rouge (roozh)—red

  tarte (tahrt)—an open-faced pastry shell filled with fruit or custard

  tartelette (tahrt-let)—a small tar
te

  Watch for the

  Grace movie on DVD!

  My left hand shifted down the neck of my guitar, fingers pressing into the frets to form chords, while my right hand sailed over the strings with my favorite pick. I knew every note of “April Springs.” I didn’t have to look at my sheet music or think about how to play the song. I just let go and played, feeling the music as if it was flowing out of my heart.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Dad waving me down from a few feet away.

  Startled, I clamped my hand over my guitar’s neck, muting its sound mid-chord. It took me a moment to realize I didn’t hear the buzzy twang of Dad’s bass guitar. I glanced around. The rest of our band wasn’t playing, either.

  “Sorry,” I said, feeling my cheeks turn hot pink.

  “No worries,” Dad said, winking. “I know you love that one. And you were singing with so much heart that it nearly broke mine to stop you.”

  I blushed. When I play a song I love, it’s easy for me to get swept up and forget about everything but the music. “April Springs” has a slow, sad melody that fills me with warmth every time we rehearse it. And when I sing its romantic lyrics, I can’t help daydreaming about what the songwriter must have been feeling when she composed them.

  “That transition out of the chorus still sounds a bit rocky,” Dad said to the band. “Let’s try it again.”

  Our lead singer, Jesse, wrinkled her nose at him. “Come on, Ray. This is the fifth time we’ve gone over the chorus. Let’s just move on to the next song.”

  My seventeen-year-old brother, Mason, rolled his eyes from behind his drum kit. Mason isn’t Jesse’s biggest fan. He thinks she’s stuck-up because she never helps unpack gear at our shows. Also, she only drinks bottled water from France, even though the tap water is perfectly fine here in Nashville, Tennessee. Despite all that, I couldn’t help but admire her. Jesse definitely had what it took to be a lead singer for a band. She had a great voice, she loved performing, and she was happiest when she was the center of attention. Every time I watched her perform I wondered: Could that be me someday?

  “Let’s try the chorus once more,” Dad replied calmly. “We haven’t practiced in ages. And with our next show around the corner, I want to make sure we have this down.”

  Jesse pouted, but she knew she couldn’t say no because the Tri-Stars were Dad’s band.

  The Tri-Stars used to be a family band. But when Mom quit to start her own food truck business, Dad invited Jesse to join us as the lead singer. I wish we got to perform at the big stages around Nashville, like the Ryman Auditorium or the Grand Ole Opry, but we mostly just play weekend gigs around our neighborhood. Even so, we have a few fans—that is, if you count my little sister and my best friend.

  Jesse sighed. “Let’s get on with it, then.” She counted off, and the four of us launched into “April Springs” again.

  “Last April the rains came down,” sang Jesse, “and washed away your love.”

  Dad and I joined in, harmonizing on the next lines. “Last April the rains came down, and washed away my pride. When I lost your heart in that rainstorm, I think I nearly died.”

  Jesse pushed her microphone away and looked over her shoulder at me.

  “Tennyson, your vocals need to blend more,” she hissed.

  Jesse always uses my full name when she bosses me around. Usually I like having a unique name, but the way Jesse says it always makes my temper rise into my throat.

  “I’m doing my best,” I said to her.

  I like singing harmony, but when I’m singing low notes, my voice loses some of its smoothness and gets a grainy edge. Mom says that’s what makes my voice unique. When you’re singing backup, though, you’re not supposed to sound unique; you’re supposed to sound invisible.

  “It’s boiling in here,” Jesse said curtly. “I need a break.” Without waiting for my dad’s reaction, she stepped off the edge of the stage and slipped out the front door.

  Dad frowned. “I’ll go turn up the AC,” he said, heading to the storeroom at the back of the shop where we rehearse.

  I sighed. We never seemed to be able to get through an entire rehearsal without Jesse getting upset—and this time it was my fault.

  Mason slung an arm around my shoulders. “Don’t let Jesse get to you,” he said. “She’s not happy unless she’s complaining about something. I thought you sounded great. Didn’t she, Waylon?”

  Waylon, our golden retriever, perked up. He’s named after one of Dad’s favorite singers, the “outlaw” Waylon Jennings, and he definitely lived up to the name when he was a puppy. He always used to break the rules, like escaping from the backyard and chewing up our shoes.

  “Maybe the Tri-Stars should try playing some of your songs,” Mason suggested, nudging me with his drumstick. “Remember that one you wrote about Waylon? Oh, Waylon. Wayyy-lon! He’s a real sweet pooch… ” he crooned.

  I sang the next line. “Long as you make sure he’s not on the loose… ”

  “Wayyy-lon,” we harmonized. Waylon howled along.

  I laughed. “I don’t think those lyrics are ready for an audience yet.”

  “C’mon, it’s a good song!” Mason said.

  “It’s just okay,” I said.

  I’m twelve now, but I’ve been writing songs since I was ten. “Waylon’s Song” was the first one I ever shared with my family. I was really proud of it back then. Now, though, the words seemed sort of cheesy.

  “I’ve gotten better since I wrote that one,” I said.

  “Yeah?” Mason said. “You should play me something.”

  I hesitated. I’d been working on a few songs lately, but none of them were quite ready for anyone’s ears but mine.

  “I need to finish some lyrics first,” I said.

  “Suit yourself. Want to help me catch up on inventory while we wait for Jesse?”

  We always hold Tri-Star rehearsals at my dad’s music shop, Grant’s Music and Collectibles. My parents have owned the store since I was little, so for me, it’s the next best thing to home. Mason and I don’t officially work there, but we all help out when we can.

  I followed Mason into the storeroom. It’s packed with shipping boxes and instruments that need repairing. Dad was at his desk, writing Trash on a piece of paper that he had taped to a sagging black amplifier.

  “Wow!” Mason said. “Is that a Skyrocket 3000?”

  Dad nodded. “A guy dropped it off for recycling yesterday. Apparently it’s broken.”

  “No way,” said Mason.

  “You want it?” Dad asked.

  Mason nodded eagerly, his eyes so wide that you’d think he’d just won a free car. My brother loves rewiring musical gear. Our garage is full of half-fixed amplifiers and soundboards that he’s determined to repair.

  “Great, we’ll bring it home to the workshop after rehearsal,” Dad said.

  Mason craned his neck to peek out the window. “I’m not sure we’re getting back to rehearsal any time soon,” he said. “Jesse’s still on the phone.”

  I groaned.

  Dad gave my shoulder a little squeeze. “Tenney, I know you’re excited to practice, but Jesse’s got a lot of solo shows coming up and she’s a little stressed out. So let’s just give her another few minutes here.”

  I knew Jesse was busy, but it was hard to be patient. I’d been looking forward to band rehearsal all week. If I could, I’d play music every waking minute.

  “Fine,” I said after a moment. “I’ll go work on some of my own songs.”

  “Good idea,” Dad said, ruffling my hair.

  I ducked out of the storeroom and returned to the small stage at the front of the store. Dad lets customers use the stage to test out microphones, amplifiers, and instruments, and it doubles as the Tri-Stars’ rehearsal space. I slung my guitar over my shoulder and adjusted Jesse’s microphone to my height, looking out at the empty store. Waylon was curled up by the vintage cash register, watching me. For a moment, I imagined myself on a real sta
ge, in front of thousands of people, about to perform a song I’d written.

  “This next one goes out to Waylon,” I said into the microphone.

  I picked out the chords of the tune I’d been working on. Melody comes easy to me, but it takes me a long time to find the right lyrics to match. I hadn’t figured out words to this song yet, so I just hummed the melody while I played. As the song’s energy rose and washed over me, I filled the empty room with music.

  The song ended and I opened my eyes. Waylon was asleep, which made me laugh. Jesse was still on the phone outside. Everything looked the same, but somehow I felt stronger inside. Playing music always made me feel like that. But performing my own songs for people, letting them feel what I felt through the music—that was my biggest dream.

  Jesse came through the door and tucked her cell phone into her pocket. “Okay,” she said. “Go get your dad and brother, and let’s get this rehearsal over with.”

  I snarled and let my fingers ripple down my guitar’s six strings, sending up a wave of notes. Jesse doesn’t know how good she has it singing lead, I thought. I hopped off the stage and headed toward the storeroom. Maybe I should ask Dad to let me perform one of my songs with the Tri-Stars, I thought. But I knew that he’d only agree if he thought the song was great. And that meant not playing it for him until I was sure it was ready.

  We wrapped up rehearsal and drove home. When we pulled up, my seven-year-old sister, Aubrey, welcomed us by doing cartwheels on the lawn in front of Mom’s food truck. I love Mom’s truck. It has shiny silver bumpers and it’s painted robin’s-egg blue. Georgia’s Genuine Tennessee Hot Chicken is painted in scrolling tomato-red letters along the side.

  Mom appeared from the open garage, her carrot-colored hair twisted up under a bandanna, and her freckly arms moving fast as she loaded food bins into the truck’s tiny kitchen. She reminded me of a hummingbird: always in motion and stronger than she looks.

  “Finally!” Mom said, as we hopped out of Dad’s pickup truck. “We were starting to get worried about y’all. How was rehearsal?”