Grace Makes It Great Page 7

  Dad nodded. “This is a big change for both of you.”

  “I really, really don’t want to close LPP,” I said, fighting back tears. “I don’t want to stop filling orders. I don’t want to stop baking.” I took a deep breath. “Everything feels like it’s falling apart. I just want someone to fix it.”

  “Grace, honey,” Dad said. “This is a hard place to be right now. But sometimes we need to learn to accept what is.”

  “You should be proud of what you’ve done, Grace,” Mom said gently. “You and your friends gave it your best shot and had lots of fun doing it.”

  Mom was already talking about my business as if it were gone. I couldn’t listen to another word. I stood and raced upstairs to my bedroom, Bonbon following close behind. I closed my door and flopped down on my bed.

  I wished I could talk with Sylvie, Aunt Sophie, and Uncle Bernard. They’d understand how important my business was to me. But it was too late to go online with them now. It was after midnight in Paris. All I could do was wrap my arms around Bonbon and cry myself to sleep.

  ike one of the painted turtles I often spotted in the canal, I paddled slowly through Tuesday. I tried to focus on what Mr. Bauer was saying, but my head was tucked inside my shell and my mind was scrambling around the same questions I’d asked myself all night.

  Why did Grandma and Grandpa have to sell their bakery? Where could LPP find another kitchen to use? What if Mr. P. got the job? Who could fill in for him so that we could continue our business? Could we continue on at all, or was I being wistful, hanging on when clearly nothing was going my way?

  Maybe Dad was right. Maybe I had to learn to accept what is.

  Tap, tap, tap.

  It was Marcos, tapping the back of my head again.

  I spun around to see him holding up the eraser end of his pencil.

  “I wasn’t sleeping,” I said.

  “Well, you must have been somewhere else,” he said. “Didn’t you hear the bell?”

  I glanced around the room. All the other kids were packing up their backpacks and clearing off their desks. School was over? I wasn’t just paddling through my day like a turtle; I’d flopped all the way over onto my back and needed help righting myself.

  “No,” I admitted. “I was concentrating on something else.”

  “What kid doesn’t hear the bell at the end of the day?” he asked with a grin.

  “Me, apparently,” I answered, gathering my things. “I just have a lot on my mind.”

  Marcos stood and flung his black-and-yellow backpack over his shoulder. “I guess that happens when you run your own business.”

  Not for long, I wanted to say. Instead, I just shrugged.

  He tilted his head and said, “Not many kids our age could do what you’re doing. I think it’s cool.”

  Sometimes, just the tiniest speck of encouragement can go a long way. What Marcos said made me feel better—a little more hopeful, somehow.

  “Thanks.” I smiled at Marcos.

  After I waved good-bye to Mr. Bauer, I walked down the hall to Mom’s room. I was supposed to ride home with her, but she wasn’t quite ready to leave. While I waited for her to finish up at her desk, I wandered over to her room’s reading corner and sank down in a purple stuffed chair.

  Mom’s classroom was still decorated like a tropical garden. As my eyes traced the painted plants and flowers on the mural, my ears soaked up the sound of water trickling down the nearby fountain. I didn’t feel like I was sitting in school in Bentwick, Massachusetts. I’d been transported halfway across the world.

  For a moment, I wished I were a student in this classroom. It looked completely different from the way it had before Halloween, when it was just a regular fourth-grade classroom. Mom had transformed it.

  It’s too bad Mom can’t transform Grandma and Grandpa’s business, I thought. If only a mural and a fountain could turn it back into a busy bakery again.

  When Mom and I arrived home, Bonbon seemed to know I’d had a hard day. As I leaned down to say hello, she stood up on her little back legs and kissed my chin.

  “Oh, Bonbon,” I said. “I needed that.”

  Then I took her outside, breathing in the earthy autumn-scented air. Some leaves clung to the treetops, but more had fallen to the ground. After the next brisk wind, the branches would be bare.

  A strong sense of longing filled me. I thought of all the hours Maddy and Ella and I had spent together, working so hard to turn our ideas into reality. I even missed our disasters, like the time a bag of flour exploded across the floor and a wet dog tromped through it and all through the house. Were we really going to have to give it all up?

  Bonbon now had her nose buried deep in leaves, snorting and snuffling, as if she might come face-to-face with a squirrel. She made me laugh out loud.

  “Bonbon, you have the right idea,” I said to her. I dropped to my knees, and soon we were playing hide-and-go-seek in the leaves.

  As we played, my heaviness began to lift. “You’re good for me, you know that?” I said to her. In response, she dropped her head to her paws, her little rump up in the air, and wagged her tail.

  “Better run!” I teased. I took three steps toward her. “I’m gonna getcha!”

  With that, she darted off around the yard in circles, coming almost close enough for me to catch her before she dashed off again.

  When we finally went inside, Mom turned from chopping carrots and onions. “Your cheeks are rosy,” she said. “It looked like you two were having fun together.”

  I nodded. “We were.”

  “It’s good to see your smile again,” Mom said, adding the chopped veggies to a steaming pot of chicken broth. “It’s good to take a break and do something that makes you happy.”

  I sat down on the floor with Bonbon and brushed her coat. She especially loves being brushed under her chin. And eventually, she rolled onto her back so that I could brush her belly, too, where her skin spots show through. She has black-and-white fur on the outside, but her skin is black and white, too.

  I thought about Mom’s advice. Next to time with Bonbon, there was one thing that always made me happy: baking. Maybe I could bake a Bonbon-inspired treat, something black-and-white. But what?

  For ideas, I turned to a French cookbook with lots of photos. I looked at a pastry called gland filled with a sweet custard and decorated with black-and-white frosting. And then there was the religieuse, a fancy layered dessert with vanilla and chocolate icing.

  I decided to experiment. I’d make something of my own, drawing from these other recipes. My mind started “stirring” together possibilities: chocolate batter and vanilla batter blended with a little French je ne sais quoi—I don’t know what—to come up with something tasty, artsy, and amazing. Now I couldn’t wait to get started!

  “Mom? Mind if I bake something?” I asked.

  She smiled—as if my wanting to bake was another good sign that I was going to be okay. “You go right ahead.”

  Before I knew it, I was humming along, stirring up two different batters. It felt good to bake just for the fun of it. There were plenty of orders to fill for LPP, but those would have to wait. For now, I was going to enjoy some “Grace time” in the kitchen.

  Every time Mom checked on her chicken noodle soup and gave it a stir, she glanced over at me. “Are you having fun?” she finally asked.

  I met her eyes and nodded.

  “That’s my girl,” she said and smiled back.

  That night, after a dinner of soup, grilled cheese sandwiches, and salads, I served up my black-and-white cream-filled creations on dessert plates. But before I did, I took a photo.

  Click!

  “I want to show Sylvie,” I explained. Then I passed plates around the table.

  “Whoa!” Josh said after his first bite. “This is good!”

  “Agreed,” Dad said. “What do you call it?”

  “I don’t know yet,” I said with a grin. But I loved that they loved it.

  �
��You made this without a recipe?” Mom asked, lifting another forkful to her mouth. “You whipped this together—just today?”

  I nodded. “Yes, Mom. You saw me.”

  She laughed. “I can’t imagine not following a recipe. Grace, you definitely take after your grandparents and your aunt—not me. An original recipe? This belongs in a cookbook somewhere!”

  An original recipe? Suddenly, the baking contest I’d learned about online popped into my mind. Wasn’t the deadline tomorrow? I’d assumed I didn’t have time to create a new recipe, but here I’d done just that, without even thinking about the contest. Now, with my family’s high praise, I decided, why not enter? I probably wouldn’t win, but it would be fun to try!

  After dishes, while everything was fresh in my mind, I wrote down the ingredients for my new recipe and some step-by-step directions. But what was I going to call it? Something that reminded me of the first time I’d met Bonbon. Something that sounded French.

  Then it came to me. With Mom’s help, I went online, found the contest, and entered my recipe. I uploaded the photo that I’d taken. And then I entered the name for my inspiring new dessert:

  Dreams of Paris.

  After I pressed Send, I felt happier than I had in days. I knew that Grandma and Grandpa’s bakery would still be closing. And I knew that La Petite Pâtisserie might very well be closing, too. But I could still bake. That wasn’t going to change. I suddenly wanted to fill every last order our customers had placed with LPP—and do it with an extra-special touch. But I needed help.

  I sent off a quick text to Maddy and Ella: “Meet me at the bakery tomorrow after school. We still have work to do!”

  That night, I slept like a rock.

  On Saturday morning, I woke up eager to get back to Grandma and Grandpa’s kitchen. My friends and I had worked hard on Wednesday and then again last night after school to fill all our orders. Today we would finish up. Was it the last time we’d be baking for LPP?

  I also woke up wanting to talk with Sylvie—to finally let her know the news about Grandpa and Grandma’s bakery. I calculated the time difference in Paris. “Mom, could we go online for a video-chat with Sylvie? I don’t think I can wait until tomorrow.”

  “We can try,” she said. “Let’s hope she and Aunt Sophie are around.”

  Mom and I settled in front of our computer. To my surprise, we didn’t catch our French family in their apartment in Paris. Instead, Aunt Sophie answered on her phone. The screen was small.

  “Bonjour! Hello there!” Aunt Sophie said. “What a pleasant surprise to see you both! You caught us having a late lunch. Look where we are!”

  Then she moved her phone around to bring Sylvie and Lily into view. They were sitting outside at a café under a bright sun, wearing jackets and scarves, with sandwiches and bowls of soup on the table in front of them. Lily was bundled from head to toe in pink, and her eyes were bright as she stared at the phone.

  “Hello, Grace!” Sylvie’s face appeared in front of the screen for a moment.

  “Bonjour, Sylvie!” I replied.

  Mom said, “You must be at the café across the street from the pâtisserie, yes?”

  Aunt Sophie nodded. “Is everything all right, sis?” she asked. “You don’t usually call us out of the blue like this.”

  Mom didn’t let her worry for long. She quickly filled her in on the big news—that Grandma and Grandpa had put their bakery up for sale.

  “Oh no,” Aunt Sophie said, concern spreading across her face. “That breaks my heart! I thought they still loved running their business.”

  “They do,” Mom said, “but business just isn’t what it used to be. They’re not keeping up with expenses and can’t compete with the low prices of the new supermarket bakery in town.”

  Mom put her arm around me. “And it’s not just Mom and Dad’s business,” she said with a sad sigh. “Grace and her friends may not have a kitchen to use for LPP once First Street Family Bakery closes.”

  Aunt Sophie shook her head. “I wish there were something I could do,” she said after she’d translated the news to Sylvie.

  I looked away from the sadness in her eyes. In the background behind her, a woman walked by with a baguette under her arm. I could hear a street musician playing an accordion from somewhere nearby. I suddenly missed everything about Paris and wished I was there.

  “They say they’re not ready to retire,” Mom continued, “but maybe it’s for the best. Times change. Speaking of change, Sophie, how are you and Bernard managing the bakery now that baby Lily is taking up so much of your time?”

  “Oh, very well,” Aunt Sophie said, perking back up. “Life is busier, but it’s never been better. And business is good. Wait—I’ll show you.”

  Aunt Sophie turned the screen of her phone slowly so that it scanned the neighborhood and rested on her bakery—La Pâtisserie. The windows were filled with beautifully displayed treats. A steady stream of customers came and went through the front door, and several more sat outside at inviting little round tables and chairs, enjoying their baked goods.

  Everything about La Pâtisserie—from the bakery’s sign with its scrolled letters to the pink trim around the front windows—brought back a flood of memories from last summer. I had so loved the idea of saving up enough money to return to Paris with my friends. I wanted them to see for themselves what had inspired me to start our French baking business. But now that trip seemed like a distant dream that was out of reach.

  In that moment, as I stared at the French pâtisserie that I remembered so well, an idea came to me. An idea that I suddenly knew was magnifique!

  “Sylvie!” I blurted at the screen.

  “Oui?” She leaned in closer, alarm in her brown eyes.

  “Mom! Aunt Sophie!” I continued.

  Mom whirled around to face me, as if I needed emergency care.

  My words tumbled out. “What if we gave Grandma and Grandpa’s bakery a whole new look? The other day, when I looked at it—really looked at it—I realized that it looked old. Dull and faded. It looks nothing like your pâtisserie, Aunt Sophie. What if we could help make First Street Family Bakery look more fun, more inviting? Maybe it would help business and Grandma and Grandpa wouldn’t have to close.”

  “Interesting idea,” said Aunt Sophie slowly. “What did you have in mind?”

  I paused. My great idea didn’t have any details—yet. “I’m not sure, exactly,” I said. “But for starters, I’m thinking new paint in brighter colors and a new sign. Maybe a few little tables and chairs, inside and outside—like at your pâtisserie—so that people would want to sit and stay longer.”

  Mom pursed her lips. Her eyes told me she didn’t want me to get my hopes up. “Remember what your dad said, Grace, about accepting what is?”

  “Mom, I can’t,” I protested. “Not yet, anyway.” How could I help her see things my way? Then it came to me. “It’s like with your classroom at school, Mom. A new look can change everything!”

  At that, Mom’s eyes softened. The edges of her mouth turned upward, just slightly. “I suppose it doesn’t hurt to at least bring up your ideas with your grandparents. See what they have to say.”

  I beamed.

  “And if nothing else,” she continued, “a fresh look might help their business sell more quickly.”

  Sell. That was a word I didn’t want to hear!

  Aunt Sophie paused to translate the conversation for Sylvie. When she finished, Sylvie’s big eyes lit up. “Grace,” she said, beaming. “Je serai ta consultante.”

  Aunt Sophie translated, and my eyes lit up, too. “I would love for you to be the consultant!” I said. “Could you start by sending me photos of your pâtisserie?”

  And with that, Sylvie started to pipe up—in French, of course—with what I assumed were all sorts of great ideas.

  “Sylvie said she’ll take photos of our pâtisserie and of others in the neighborhood to give you some ideas,” Aunt Sophie explained. “She can send them to you by tom
orrow morning.”

  I met Sylvie’s smile.

  “Merci beaucoup, Sylvie!”

  By the end of our video-chat, I felt the familiar fizzy energy surge through me. I didn’t have the answers for everything, but it sure felt good to have a plan.

  y the following morning, my e-mail in-box was full of photos that Sylvie had taken of her family’s pâtisserie and other bakeries in her St. Germain neighborhood. I printed the photos out and sat down to look at them, but something—or a couple of someones—was missing. I needed my friends!

  Ella and Maddy came over as soon as they could, and that’s when my best idea struck. “Mom, do you think we could video-chat with Sylvie right now?”

  I was sure that Sylvie could help us figure out some new colors and decorations for my grandparents’ bakery. Plus, it would be cool for her to finally “meet” my friends.

  With Ella on my right and Maddy on my left, we squeezed (just barely) onto the computer chair and waited to connect with Sylvie’s computer in Paris.

  Bleep! With a small wave, and her thick sandy hair in a side-pony, Sylvie appeared on the screen. “Hello, Grace!”

  “Bonjour, Sylvie!” My heart warmed at seeing her. Though we were an ocean apart, it felt almost like we were sisters. “Sylvie, this is my friend Ella.”

  Ella waved at the screen. “Bonjour, Sylvie. I have heard lots about you!”

  “And this is Maddy,” I said next, wrapping my arm around my red-haired friend.

  Maddy giggled and blew Sylvie a kiss. “Hello!” she said.

  Sylvie smiled shyly. “Hello, Ella and Maddy. It is nice to meet you.”

  Aunt Sophie popped in for a moment, next to Sylvie. “I’m here, girls, if you need any translating, okay?”

  With a little French and a little English—and a little help from Aunt Sophie—the four of us managed to have a conversation about how to help save my grandparents’ bakery.

  With the photos printed out on the table around us, Maddy said, “Sylvie, I love the photos you sent of the pâtisseries. They’re so colorful! I wish I could step inside every one of them.”