Susanna Reich is an award-winning author of fiction and nonfiction for children and young adults, including Minette’s Feast: The Delicious Story of Julia Child and Her Cat; José! Born to Dance; Penelope Bailey Takes the Stage; and the forthcoming Fab Four Friends: The Boys Who Became the Beatles. Among her honors are the Tomás Rivera Award, International Latino Book Award, Orbis Pictus Honor, ALA Notable, and ALA Best Books for Young Adults. A self-described “foodie,” Susanna loves to cook, bake, and experiment with new recipes. She lives in New York’s Hudson Valley with her husband, children’s book author Gary Golio. Visit her at www.susannareich.com.
Special thanks to Héloïse Blain, French teacher and language expert, Nice, France; Dominique Dury, head chef, Flying Cook, Paris, France.
Glossary of French Words
arrondissement (ah-rohn-deess-mahn)—neighborhood or district
Au revoir, petite chienne! (oh ruh-vwar puh-teet shyen)—Good-bye, little dog!
Avez-vous vu une petite fille de neuf ans? (ah-veh voo vyew ewn puh-teet feey duh noof ahn)—Have you seen a nine-year-old girl?
baguette (bah-get)—a long, thin loaf of French bread
Bienvenue à Paris! (byehn-veh-nyew ah pah-ree)—Welcome to Paris!
bonbon au chocolat (bohn-bohn oh sho-ko-lah)—candy with a soft center and a chocolate outer shell
bonjour (bohn-zhoor)—hello
brioche (bree-ohsh)—a light, slightly sweet bun
Ça va bien? (sah vah byehn)—Is everything going well?
C’est dommage (say doh-mahzh)—It’s a pity
C’est la même chanson! (say lah mem shahn-sohn)—It’s the same song!
cherchez (shayr-shay)—to look for
chèvre (shev-ruh)—cheese made from goat’s milk
chocolat au coeur coulant (sho-ko-lah oh kur koo-lahn)—a rich chocolate cake with a liquid chocolate center
clafoutis (klah-foo-tee)—a dessert made with cherries
crème brûlée (krem broo-lay)—a custard dessert with a crisp caramelized top
crème caramel (krem kah-rah-mel)—a custard dessert topped with a layer of soft caramel
crème chantilly (krem shahn-tee-yee)—sweetened whipped cream
croissant (kwa-sahn)—a flaky crescent-shaped roll
d’accord (dah-kohr)—Okay; all right
de l’histoire (duh lee-stwar)—of history, historical
éclair (ay-klehr)—a long pastry filled with custard cream, often topped with chocolate
Elle est sortie (el ay sor-tee)—She went outside
euro (ooh-roh)—European money
Excusez-moi, madame. (ek-skew-zay-mwah mah-dahm)—Excuse me, ma’am.
formidable (for-mee-dah-bluh)—wonderful
gâteau à la rhubarbe (gah-toh ah lah rew-barb)—rhubarb cake
gâteau aux amandes (gah-toh ohz ah-mahnd)—almond sponge cake
grand-mère (grahn-mehr)—grandmother
J’aime ma soeur (zhem mah suhr)—I love my sister
J’aime mon frère (zhem mohn frehr)—I love my brother
Je l’ai senti (zhuh lay sahn-tee)—I felt it
Je t’en prie (zhuh tehn pree)—You’re welcome
Je vais t’aider (zhuh vay teh-day)—I will help you
je voudrais (zhuh voo-dray)—I would like
La Croix Rouge (lah kwah roozh)—The Red Cross, a charitable organization
le bébé (luh bay-bay)—baby
les jardins du Luxembourg (lay zhahr-dehn dyew lewks-emboorg)—Luxembourg Gardens, one of the largest public parks in Paris
Liberté, Egalité, Cousinage! (lee-bayr-tay ay-gah-lee-tay koo-zee-nahzh)—Freedom, Equality, Cousinhood!
Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité! (lee-bayr-tay ay-gah-lee-tay frahtehr-nee-tay)—Freedom, Equality, Brotherhood!
macaron (mah-kah-rohn)—a double-layer round cookie that comes in all kinds of colors and flavors
ma chérie (mah shay-ree)—my dear
madame (mah-dahm)—ma’am, Mrs.
madeleine (mahd-lehn)—a small, rich cake baked in a shell-shaped mold
Mais oui (meh wee)—Yes, of course
maman (mah-mahn)—mother, mama
merci (mehr-see)—thank you
merci beaucoup (mehr-see boh-koo)—thank you very much
meringue (muh-rehng)—a light mixture of egg whites and sugar that is baked and used to top pies and cakes
millefeuille (meel-foy)—a layered pastry with a glazed top of swirled chocolate and vanilla icing
moi aussi (mwah oh-see)—me too
mon école (mohn ay-kohl)—my school
mon petit chou (mohn puh-tee shoo)—my little cabbage (used as a term of endearment that means “my dear or “my darling”)
mon petit rayon de soleil (mohn puh-tee reh-yohn duh solay)—my little ray of sunshine
Mont Blanc (mohn blahn)—a dessert of puréed, sweetened chestnuts topped with whipped cream
non (nohn)—no
Non, merci (nohn mehr-see)—No, thank you
notre cousine et amie (no-truh koo-zeen ay ah-mee)—our cousin and friend
opéra (ooh-pay-rah)—almond sponge cake with coffee and chocolate filling and icing
oui (wee)—yes
pain au chocolat (pen oh shoh-koh-lah)—a chocolate croissant
parfum supplementaire (par-fahm soo-pleh-mahn-tayr)—extra fragrance
Parlez-vous anglais? (pahr-lay vooz ahn-gleh)—Do you speak English?
pâtisserie (pah-tee-suh-ree)—a French bakery that specializes in pastries and desserts
petite chienne (puh-teet shyen)—little dog (female)
pourpre (poor-pruh)—purple
Puis-je vous aider? (pwee-zhuh vooz ay-day)—May I help you?
Qu’est-ce que je peux faire? (kes kuh juh puh fayr)—What can I do?
s’il te plaît (seel tuh pleh)—please (used when speaking to somone you know)
St. Honoré (sant oh-no-ray)—a classic French cake made with rich pastry, custard cream, caramel-glazed cream puffs, and sweetened whipped cream.
tarte (tahrt)—a pastry shell filled with fruit or custard
tarte au citron vert (tahrt oh see-trohn vayr)—a pastry shell filled with lime custard
tarte Tatin (tahrt tah-tahn)—apple upside-down cake
toi aussi (twah oh-see)—you too
tout de suite (toot sweet)—right away
truffes au chocolat (troof oh sho-ko-lah)—a soft chocolate candy covered with cocoa or chopped nuts
une crème (ewn krem)—a sweet
une crise de fou rire (ewn kreez duh foo reer)—a fit of giggles
une soeur (ewn suhr)—a sister
Une minute. (ewn mee-nyewt)—Just a minute.
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 stage, 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 wra
pped 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?”
“Okay,” I said. “But we only rehearsed three songs.”
Mom raised an eyebrow. As the former lead singer of the Tri-Stars, she knew that being in a band is always full of drama. “What happened?” she asked.
“Jesse happened,” said Mason.
“We sounded good, though,” Dad chimed in. Aubrey cartwheeled over to us, her sparkly tutu bouncing as she landed with a thud on the grass. “When do I get to play with the Tri-Stars?” she asked.
“Soon, baby,” Dad said.
Aubrey pouted. Everyone in my family plays an instrument, but Dad is the one who decides when we’re ready to perform with the band. Dad plays anything with strings. Mom sings and plays Autoharp, Mason plays mandolin and drums, and Aubrey’s learning accordion. I’ve played guitar since I was four, and I started banjo last year. Dad always says that as members of the Grant family, we have music in our bones.
Mom rubbed Aubrey’s shoulder. “Just keep practicing. Nobody ever won a Country Music Award by doing cartwheels onstage.” She checked her watch and nodded at my guitar case. “Better get that inside, Tenney. We’re wheels up in ten minutes,” she said. “We need to be set up by six o’clock.”
We were about to take the truck downtown to sell Mom’s food at Centennial Park. Aubrey’s favorite singer, Belle Starr, would be performing an outdoor concert there. I wasn’t a huge fan, but I’d never turn down a chance to hear live music.
Grace and Sylvie Page 4
