stuck together in a tight black ball in the bottom of the bowl.
“This isn’t right!” Rose said. She glanced at the big timer on the wall—there were only thirty minutes left, just enough time to bake the cookies.
Rose looked up at her family in the balcony. Purdy smiled and gave Rose a thumbs-up, but Rose could tell that Purdy looked worried.
Rose gouged spoonfuls of the thick black mess onto a baking sheet, then tossed them into the oven. “Maybe they’ll come out all right,” she whispered. “Please let them come out all right.”
When the timer reached zero, a deafening clang reverberated through the expo center.
“Spoons down!” boomed Jean-Pierre Jeanpierre. “Marco will now bring your SWEET desserts to me at the judge’s table, and I will sample each one.”
A dashing, tawny man wearing a white-gloved uniform placed Rose’s finished plate of blackened cookies on a rolling silver cart as long as a helicopter blade, along with the nineteen other contestants’ plates. He practically flew up the black-and-white-tiled aisle toward the stage at the front, then laid the desserts in front of Jean-Pierre.
All of the twenty contestants filed up from their kitchens and formed a line facing the bottom of the stage.
“There are twenty of you right now,” Jean-Pierre intoned, “but in five minutes’ time, there will be only ten. Bonne chance .”
Rose’s cookies were first in line on the silver tray, although they looked more like shriveled monkey heads than sugar cookies—nothing like what Sir Falstaffe Bliss must have presented to the sour Countess Fifi Canard.
Jean-Pierre took one of the gummy cookies and sank into it with his molars. Rose swore she could hear a tooth cracking.
Jean-Pierre snapped his fingers, and Marco held a delicate silver bowl up to his lips. Jean-Pierre spit the bite he’d taken into the silver bowl, looked at Rose with dead eyes, and cleared his throat. Then he moved on to the next plate, saying nothing at all.
Down the line, Lily put a hand on either cheek and mouthed Oh, no! to Rose in a show of sympathy as false as her long black locks.
That’s it. I ruined everything, Rose thought. Now we’ll never get the Cookery Booke back.
J ean-Pierre stood on the stage with Marco, the handsome waiter, and Flaurabelle, his red-lipped assistant, whispering back and forth.
Rose couldn’t understand what she’d done wrong. Too much flour? Not enough vanilla? Had the lovers’ whispers been tainted?
“I’m going to find Mom,” she said, sulking off in the direction of the opera box at the side of the room.
“Wait up, mi hermana !” said Ty.
When they found the box, Rose fell into Purdy’s arms. “Jean-Pierre spit my cookie into a bowl!” she sobbed.
“He sure did,” Balthazar grumbled. “Are you sure you captured lovers’ whispers?”
“Totally sure,” said Sage. “The woman had a ring the size of a kiwi.”
“But what did they say ?”
Sage shrugged. “It was, like, ‘ Fi fi fah fah fah. Hoh huh hee huh huh .’ Pretty much exactly like that.”
“No, no, dude,” said Ty. “It was, like, ‘ Zha-tah keet. Na-mah keet-pah. Zha-tah keet. Na-mah keet-pah .’ Which I assumed meant, like, ‘You are so hot’ and ‘I know I am so hot.’ Right, Abuelo ?”
Balthazar shook his head. “No! Wrong. ‘ Je te quitte ’ means ‘I’m leaving you,’ and ‘ Ne me quitte pas ’ means ‘Don’t leave me.’ You trapped break-up whispers instead of lovers’ whispers. That’s what made the cookies taste bitter and look like—well, like they looked. Also, don’t call me Abuelo. I was born in New Jersey.”
Just then Jean-Pierre took up his microphone and cleared his throat. “I have now made my decision. Half of you will be moving on in the competition, and half of you will be swept away on a wave of shameful tears. The bakers who will be joining us tomorrow are, in no particular order . . .”
As Jean-Pierre rattled off name after name, shouts
“This isn’t right!” Rose said. She glanced at the big timer on the wall—there were only thirty minutes left, just enough time to bake the cookies.
Rose looked up at her family in the balcony. Purdy smiled and gave Rose a thumbs-up, but Rose could tell that Purdy looked worried.
Rose gouged spoonfuls of the thick black mess onto a baking sheet, then tossed them into the oven. “Maybe they’ll come out all right,” she whispered. “Please let them come out all right.”
When the timer reached zero, a deafening clang reverberated through the expo center.
“Spoons down!” boomed Jean-Pierre Jeanpierre. “Marco will now bring your SWEET desserts to me at the judge’s table, and I will sample each one.”
A dashing, tawny man wearing a white-gloved uniform placed Rose’s finished plate of blackened cookies on a rolling silver cart as long as a helicopter blade, along with the nineteen other contestants’ plates. He practically flew up the black-and-white-tiled aisle toward the stage at the front, then laid the desserts in front of Jean-Pierre.
All of the twenty contestants filed up from their kitchens and formed a line facing the bottom of the stage.
“There are twenty of you right now,” Jean-Pierre intoned, “but in five minutes’ time, there will be only ten. Bonne chance .”
Rose’s cookies were first in line on the silver tray, although they looked more like shriveled monkey heads than sugar cookies—nothing like what Sir Falstaffe Bliss must have presented to the sour Countess Fifi Canard.
Jean-Pierre took one of the gummy cookies and sank into it with his molars. Rose swore she could hear a tooth cracking.
Jean-Pierre snapped his fingers, and Marco held a delicate silver bowl up to his lips. Jean-Pierre spit the bite he’d taken into the silver bowl, looked at Rose with dead eyes, and cleared his throat. Then he moved on to the next plate, saying nothing at all.
Down the line, Lily put a hand on either cheek and mouthed Oh, no! to Rose in a show of sympathy as false as her long black locks.
That’s it. I ruined everything, Rose thought. Now we’ll never get the Cookery Booke back.
J ean-Pierre stood on the stage with Marco, the handsome waiter, and Flaurabelle, his red-lipped assistant, whispering back and forth.
Rose couldn’t understand what she’d done wrong. Too much flour? Not enough vanilla? Had the lovers’ whispers been tainted?
“I’m going to find Mom,” she said, sulking off in the direction of the opera box at the side of the room.
“Wait up, mi hermana !” said Ty.
When they found the box, Rose fell into Purdy’s arms. “Jean-Pierre spit my cookie into a bowl!” she sobbed.
“He sure did,” Balthazar grumbled. “Are you sure you captured lovers’ whispers?”
“Totally sure,” said Sage. “The woman had a ring the size of a kiwi.”
“But what did they say ?”
Sage shrugged. “It was, like, ‘ Fi fi fah fah fah. Hoh huh hee huh huh .’ Pretty much exactly like that.”
“No, no, dude,” said Ty. “It was, like, ‘ Zha-tah keet. Na-mah keet-pah. Zha-tah keet. Na-mah keet-pah .’ Which I assumed meant, like, ‘You are so hot’ and ‘I know I am so hot.’ Right, Abuelo ?”
Balthazar shook his head. “No! Wrong. ‘ Je te quitte ’ means ‘I’m leaving you,’ and ‘ Ne me quitte pas ’ means ‘Don’t leave me.’ You trapped break-up whispers instead of lovers’ whispers. That’s what made the cookies taste bitter and look like—well, like they looked. Also, don’t call me Abuelo. I was born in New Jersey.”
Just then Jean-Pierre took up his microphone and cleared his throat. “I have now made my decision. Half of you will be moving on in the competition, and half of you will be swept away on a wave of shameful tears. The bakers who will be joining us tomorrow are, in no particular order . . .”
As Jean-Pierre rattled off name after name, shouts
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