Macarons at Midnight

by Suzanne Nelson

  He placed his hand over his heart and bowed slightly. “Forgive me … Your Sliminess. I mean, Your Highness.”

  I couldn’t help but laugh as Madame Leroux appeared. “Excusez-moi, mes petites,” she said, placing a plate with two heart-shaped, flaky pastries in between us. “These are palmiers. Please taste and then rate on your taste-testing tally sheet. I’ll bring out a new pastry every few minutes.” She smiled, her gaze batting back and forth between us with delight. “Bon appetit!”

  We each reached for one. “This looks delicious,” I said. “Flies can get pretty old, let me tell you.”

  The boy laughed, then held his palmier up. “Cheers!” he said amicably, tapping his pastry to mine.

  I took a bite and my mouth instantly filled with zesty orange and butter flavors.

  “Mmm. At least four out of five stars.” I checked off the box on my tasting sheet.

  “Pretty good.” The boy took another bite, then looked at me quizzically. “Wouldn’t it be easier to eat without the mask?”

  I nodded and reached to take it off, then hesitated, remembering I was sitting across from the cutest guy I’d ever seen outside of the movies. What if I botched this the way I’d botched the party? What if I took the mask off, and he saw what I saw every time I looked in the mirror? A nothing-special sort of face that was easy to forget, and even easier not to notice in the first place? Brains had always been my strong point, not beauty, so maybe they’d work in my favor now.

  I smiled as my hand dropped to the table. “Actually, I’m going incognito tonight,” I said. “I prefer to remain an international frog of mystery.”

  He studied me, his face suddenly more serious. “That must have been one traumatic party.”

  I popped the rest of the palmier into my mouth. “You have no idea.”

  “Try me,” he said.

  He said it teasingly, but his face looked completely sincere. Madame Leroux slid another plate onto our table, this one with mini layered strawberries and cream cakes she called fraisiers. Suddenly, inexplicably, I wanted more than anything to pour my heart out to this total stranger.

  “Well,” I said as I nibbled my scrumptious fraisier, “the curse started when my possibly evil stepsister forced me to commit a fashion felony …”

  The words blew out of me in a storm of venting. I was careful not to mention any names, though, especially Destry’s. I couldn’t stand the thought of this adorable guy labeling me “Destry’s Step” along with everyone else. This town was so small, the high school and middle school shared the same campus.

  By the time we were on a plate of religieuses, an éclair-style pastry topped with a ganache button, I’d told the boy all the gory details of my party fiasco.

  “You’re right,” he said when I finished. “Worst party of the century.” He pushed his religieuse toward me. “Here, have mine. Chocolate will ease the pain.”

  “Thanks.” I shook my head. “I just keep thinking that it would’ve been better if I’d stayed home tonight. Then I wouldn’t have had to pretend to be someone I’m not.”

  He tilted his head. “Who were you pretending to be?”

  I shrugged. “Someone … better at parties. Better at meeting new people. Someone who’s not wallpaper.”

  “I don’t know … You’re pretty chatty for wallpaper.” He grinned.

  I giggled. “It’s like when I’m in a roomful of people, I can never find anything to say. But when I’m comfortable and talking about stuff I believe in, I can’t shut up.” I blushed into my hands. “And I’m not making any sense, am I? So now, I really am going to shut up.”

  “I hope not,” he said. “And I understand. I can be pretty quiet, too, except if I’m talking about things I’m passionate about.”

  “So, is one of your passions art?” I asked, nodding to his sketchbook. “I saw you sketching when I first came in.” Then I added teasingly, “You were awfully serious.”

  “I was?” His eyebrows lifted in surprise, and an adorable apricot blush colored his cheeks. “Sometimes I get so involved in it, I forget where I am.” He smiled sheepishly, making my heart flutter.

  “Can I see?” I blurted, then silently scolded myself for being so pushy. “I mean,” I backtracked, “only if you want to.”

  He hesitated for an excruciating second, but then he nodded, handing me his sketchbook. “Most of them are really rough,” he said.

  I opened the sketchbook and caught my breath. The first page was a drawing of a woman on a bike. Pastel lines of teal and pink streamed out behind her, mimicking the wind, while yellow starbursts popped up from the bike’s spinning tires. The next was of a dog running with green grass shooting up in clumps from his trail of paw prints. They were so unique. They weren’t just good, they were …

  “Incredible,” I said, just as a loose paper fluttered out from the sketchbook. I caught it right before it hit the floor, then gasped. “It’s Boston Harbor,” I breathed.

  There were the boats with vanilla sails gracefully skimming the water; skyscrapers gleaming gold in the sun. It was part photograph, part painting, with brushstrokes of cobalt dabbing the water and sunflower yellow streaking up from the buildings.

  “This … this one’s my favorite,” I said quietly, feeling a sharp pang of homesickness. “It’s everything I love about Boston.”

  “Then you can keep it,” he said. “You’re the only person I’ve ever shown it to.”

  “Are you kidding?” I asked, staring at him. “What are you afraid of?” I cringed at his widening eyes, realizing I was shifting into reporter mode, asking personal questions. But his art was crazy good, and it didn’t make sense that he’d hide it. “I mean … why?” I asked, gentler this time.

  A line creased his forehead. “Because my art kind of … complicates my life. So I keep it to myself.”

  I wanted to know more, but the heaviness in his face made me drop it. Whatever the problem was, he didn’t want to spill it. “Well … thank you for sharing it with me,” I said, hugging the painting. “But … you didn’t sign it. You have to.” I held it out to him. “Please?”

  His fingers brushed mine as he took the picture, and I felt a current charge through me. His eyes locked on mine for a brief second before he pulled away, and I wondered if he’d felt it, too. He grabbed a Sharpie from his satchel and scribbled across the bottom of the picture, grinning. “There,” he said. “Signed, sealed, delivered …”

  I’m yours, my heart sang. I scolded it for getting way, way ahead of itself. This wasn’t some silly rom-com.

  “C’est bon, my tourtereaux. My lovebirds!” I snapped out of my thoughts as Madame Leroux bent over us, smiling.

  “Oh n-no,” I stammered. “We’re not—I mean—” My cheeks blazed with embarrassment. When I chanced a look across the table, the boy was smiling, making me blush even more.

  “You’re the last ones here, and it’s closing time!” Madame Leroux told us.

  “What?” I glanced around in disbelief at the empty chairs and snuffed candles. “Oh,” I said, crestfallen. I wasn’t ready to say good-night. Not even close.

  “One last treat before you go,” she said, setting down a plate of pastel pink, green, and yellow sandwich-shaped cookies. They were so cute and colorful, with a delicious-looking icing center. “These are macarons.” Madame Leroux placed one in my palm. “You share the first one … like this.” She showed me how to carefully twist it apart.

  “Cheers,” I said, my voice lilting nervously as the boy and I clinked our halves together before eating them. The pink macaron was spongy and crunchy all at once, with the creamy center melting on my tongue in hints of raspberry and vanilla. It was perfect.

  “There.” Madame Leroux clasped both our hands in satisfaction. “Two halves connect two people, eh?” She winked.

  Shakily, I stood up and walked with the boy to the door. “Sweet dreams for St. Valentine’s,” Madame Leroux called to us before she closed the door, leaving us standing outside under a bright
, star-sprinkled sky.

  My heart galloped as his eyes turned to mine. “That was fun,” I said, to break the silence. “I’m lucky I found this place.”

  “I am, too.” His voice was so soft, I wasn’t sure I’d heard him right. “You know,” he continued, “I didn’t want to come here tonight.”

  “Really?” I asked in surprise. “Why? Who doesn’t want to eat yummy pastries?”

  He laughed. “The food wasn’t the problem. I was standing in for a kid who backed out of an assignment at the last minute.” He frowned. “I wanted to ditch the whole thing to spend the night sketching, but I didn’t have the guts. I guess I’m sort of … too responsible for my own good.” He sighed. A sweet, bashful smile spread across his face, making him look even cuter. “Anyway, what I’m trying to say is … tonight was totally worth it.”

  I nodded. “Yeah, the food was amazing.”

  He shook his head. “The food’s not what made it worth it,” he said quietly. My heart trilled as he stepped closer to me. “I’d like to see you again,” he said.

  “I’m sure you will,” I blurted, sounding as nervous as I felt. “ ’Cause it’s such a small town and … and …” My voice died. I couldn’t breathe, let alone think straight. “I mean, I’d like that.”

  He stepped closer.

  “So how does the fairy tale go?” he whispered, leaning toward me. “The Frog Princess only becomes human again after …”

  A kiss, I thought deliriously as I closed my eyes. I held my breath, waiting for his soft lips to brush mine. My first kiss …

  “Espera aí! Hold it right there!” a stern voice bellowed in my ear, and I jumped as a hand clamped down on my shoulder. My dad glared down at me. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “Dad, I—”

  “It’s after midnight! I spent the last hour driving around town looking for you. I was about to call the police.” He latched on to my arm, firmly tugging me down the sidewalk toward where his car was parked at the curb. He threw open the door of the car and growled, “Get in … now!”

  “But, Dad …” I glanced back toward the awning of Swoonful of Sugar, where the potential boy of my dreams was standing in a state of confusion.

  “Wait!” the boy called out to me as I got into Dad’s car. “I don’t even know who you are! What’s your name?”

  I tried to pop my head out of the car. “It’s—”

  Clunk! The door slammed shut, and a second later, Dad peeled away like a NASCAR driver with a serious case of road rage. All I could do was helplessly stare through the rear window as my first-ever Valentine disappeared from sight.

  “Elise Anna Santos, what were you thinking?” Dad yelled as we sped through the streets. “How could you leave the party without telling anyone? Why didn’t you call us? What possessed you to go traipsing around Whitman in the middle of the night? And who was that boy you were talking to?”

  “Just a friend,” I lied. I grimaced. I’d just lost my chance at a first kiss with the sweetest guy I’d ever met. I had no idea what his name was or if I’d ever see him again. But I tried to focus on apologizing to Dad.

  “Dad, I said I was sorry a hundred times already,” I tried. “I didn’t mean to worry you. The party just … wasn’t for me.”

  We pulled into the driveway, and Dad turned off the ignition. “Inside,” he said gruffly, getting out of the car. “Now. You owe Destry an apology.”

  I stared after him. He couldn’t be serious. I skulked through the door and into the kitchen, where Destry was bent over her cell phone, her thumbs flying over the screen, probably texting the entire Whitman population that I was single-handedly destroying her life.

  “Now you show up,” she snapped when she saw me. “Becca’s mom freaked when we couldn’t find you. The party ended early, thanks to you. And I didn’t even get to dance with Jake!”

  I inhaled sharply. “I just took a walk to kill some time. I didn’t realize how long I was gone …”

  Destry gave my dad a helpless look. “I really wanted to include her tonight,” she said, acting as if I wasn’t even in the room anymore. “I thought it would give us a chance to get to know each other better. But I can’t help her if she doesn’t at least try to make friends.”

  Then she glanced in my direction, and I shuddered as her eyes landed on the dragging, ripped hem of my dress.

  “My Nutcracker costume!” she shrieked. “Look what you did to it. It’s ruined!”

  “It was an accident,” I said helplessly. “Viv stepped on it, and—”

  “That costume means a lot to me.” Destry sniffed. “I loaned it to you because I thought you’d be careful with it.”

  “I was careful!” I said, my voice rising to match hers. I threw up my hands. “But … but you’re not even listening!”

  Dad stepped between us, holding up a hand for silence. “All right, Lise, we’re listening. What is it you’d like to say?”

  Dad’s eyes bored into me, silently imploring me to keep the peace. I heaved a breath. “I’m sorry about your dress,” I said. “And I’m sorry about leaving the party. I messed up.” I stared at the floor. “It won’t happen again.”

  “Well … apology accepted,” Destry said reluctantly. I had the feeling that she was disappointed I’d given up without more of a fight.

  “And it definitely won’t happen again,” Dad said. “Because tomorrow you’re going to spend the day cleaning the house as punishment.”

  What?!? my brain screamed. But through gritted teeth, I said, “Okay. Can I go to bed now?”

  “Sim, sim. Yes. I’m tired, too.” Dad glanced at Destry. “Destry, you know your mom’s rule. Ten more minutes texting, and you’re in bed. Understood?”

  Destry’s shoulders tensed, but she gave a clipped, “Fine.”

  I tiptoed upstairs, glad to have a few minutes to myself in the bedroom before Destry blew in. Frustration prickled under my skin. Up until a week ago, the time I’d had with Dad was so limited and special, he’d never had to scold me for much. We’d never had an argument before, and it made me feel oddly off-balance, like the ground was seesawing.

  A knock on the door shook me out of my thoughts, and Dad called, “Can I come in?”

  “Sure.” Could I really say no when it wasn’t my room to begin with?

  “I wanted to say good night.” Dad sat down tentatively on the edge of my bed, his thick, graying hair disheveled from where he’d been worrying it with his fingers. “You know, that’s the first time I ever had to discipline you. I’m not sure I’m very good at it.”

  I gave a short laugh, and I felt a small crack in the tension between us. “No, no, if Mom were here, she’d applaud your punishment,” I teased. “I hate cleaning. Especially bathrooms. Ugh.”

  Dad chuckled. “I remember your mother always hated that, too.” He studied my face. “Do you miss her?”

  I dug my toe into the carpet, not wanting to admit how badly. “A little.”

  “I know.” Dad squeezed my hand. “This is a big change … for everyone.” He smiled. “Minha filha, Gail and I are so excited to have you here with us.” He kissed me lightly on the forehead and turned to the door. “Let’s forget what happened tonight. We’ll start fresh tomorrow.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  When he flipped off the light, I settled back against my pillow and closed my eyes, replaying my night at Swoonful in my head. There he was behind my eyelids … the boy with the blooming-desert eyes. I thought about how easily we’d fallen into talking, how I’d forgotten all the rules of flirting and getting-to-know-you conversations, and it hadn’t even mattered. Connections like the one I’d felt tonight didn’t happen every day. This was a gift from serendipity, and I wasn’t going to waste it. He was the best thing that had happened to me since I moved to Whitman, and I wasn’t going to let him get away.

  “Hey, Princess!”

  My heart catapulted as I jerked to a stop beside a row of lockers. It was him. I grinned and spun around, sear
ching the throngs of students for the face that had become a permanent fixture in my brain.

  But it was only some guy from Becca’s party, calling to Viv, who was chatting with some girls across the hall. Disappointment flooded through me. Oh … right. Viv had been Cinderella at the party, after all. I swiftly turned away before she saw me.

  The third period bell rang. I hurried through the hallways, relieved when I found my Biology classroom relatively quickly. It was my first day of school, and I’d gotten lost going to first and second period.

  I walked through the door to see a dozen kids huddled in the corner, staring at something on the floor. The something, I realized with a start, was a very large, very alive tarantula.

  “Can’t we just squash it already?” one girl squeaked.

  “No way!” scolded a voice, and a tall, gangly boy stepped out of the huddle, glaring at her from behind his glasses. “Herb is Mr. Vern’s pet. How would you like it if someone tried to exterminate your dog?” When the boy scooped the tarantula into his hand, everyone took a step back. “Spiders have feelings, too, you know,” he added as he deposited Herb safely back into his terrarium.

  There was a collective sigh of relief when the lid was secured, and within seconds, the other kids dispersed into smaller, chitchatting groups, already seeming to forget Herb and his rescuer.

  “That was brave,” I offered, since no one else had even bothered with a “thank you.”

  “Not really,” the boy said, “Herb’s completely harmless. But thanks, anyway.” His hazel eyes scrutinized me. “Hey … you’re Lise Santos, right?”

  I nodded. “How’d you know?”

  “Mr. Vern mentioned you’d be in our class. And Becca told me all about you. I’m Kyan Slade, Becca’s brother.” He paused. “So what happened with the party? My mom went all Amber Alert when you went missing.”

  “Yeah, I heard.” I sighed, feeling bad about my disappearing act. “Parties aren’t really my thing, so I ended up going to a taste test at Swoonful of Sugar. It was actually amazing. But I’m sorry I caused so much drama.”