The man tucked the lunch box below the table and crouched down. “Watch your back at Brindille and keep your knife sharp. You may need it in more ways than you think.”
“But I don’t have a knife … at least not yet.” Sylvie looked up, expecting a response. But like an ember floating into the night, the man had vanished.
Sylvie’s palms turned sweaty. Her chest tightened. Disappearing strangers. Symbols of battle. This was the sort of thing Sylvie expected to find in a nightmare, the kind she usually had after eating too much pizza. But this wasn’t a bad dream. It wasreal.
Sylvie stared across the table. A name was now scribbled onto the napkin where the man had been sitting. She pulled it close.
Escoffier!
Escoffier?Sylvie knew the name. Once upon a time, he’d been a famous French chef.But didn’t he die, like, a hundred years ago?
Her mom slipped back into the booth. “Sorry. That took longer than expected.” She lowered her voice. “A bunch of CCS agents just showed up and took priority. I’m not sure what’s going on, but they’ve been searching the kitchen. It must be something important.”
Sylvie stuffed the napkin into her pocket. Part of her wanted to tell her mom the truth. The other part was afraid it would only make things worse.If Mom thinks I’m in danger, she might cancel everything.Sylvie wasn’t going to give up on her dreams that easily.Better to say nothing.
The kitchen doors swung open. A waitress hustled out, hairclips stuck to her beehive hairdo like ornaments on a Christmas tree. An enormous stack of plates teetered precariously on her tray.
“Banana cream.” The waitress set down a plate.
“But I didn’t—”
“Your mom ordered it. Sorry about the wait.” The woman adjusted the lopsided tortilla chip pin on her uniform, twisting it so that the wordsJEANHOLIDAY, NACHOAVERAGEEMPLOYEEstood upright.
Sylvie scooped up a bite.
Jean turned to Sylvie’s mom. “I’ve got the rest of your order to-go. If you’ll follow me into the back, we can help you take it to the car.”
Abby gave an understanding nod and grabbed her purse. “Come on, Sylvie.”
Sylvie shoveled the pie into her mouth and glanced one last time around the room. Four men in canvas aprons were now seated at a table, speaking intently as they scanned the perimeter.
They’re looking for him.Sylvie grabbed her backpack, not knowing who the stranger was, or if he could even be trusted. She tried her best to push the man and his warning from her thoughts. She was on her way to Brindille, moving one step closer to her dreams.Prove you deserve to be there. Finish top of the class. Forget the rest.
Jean ushered them into a small and cluttered office behind the kitchen.
Sylvie looked around, trying to spot a sign sayingthis way to the magical cooking schoolor something else reassuring. A large mahogany desk cluttered with papers stretched across the room like a giant tuna muscled into a sardine can. The paperweight resting on top caught her eye: a brass bundle of black currant sticks.Brindille’s school symbol!
A single twig could break, but a bundle was strong. The symbol was meant to remind every student:Greatness can’t be achieved without teamwork.
Jean gestured toward two foldable chairs. “Sorry again about the delay.”
Abby smiled. “It’s fine.”
“Agents have been crawling around here for the past hour, searching for something … or someone. I’m not sure,” said Jean. “They’ve all been rather tight-lipped about it.”
“Did they find anything? I mean, not that there is anything to find.” Sylvie sat down and tried her best to sound casual. “I was just wondering.”
Jean shook her head, making the clips in her hair rattle like little bells. “I told them it’s been business as usual. Of course, they wouldn’t take my word for it. I just hope they don’t ransack my dry storage. We just got in a shipment of torpedo onions for the chicken pot pie. That reminds me.” Jean pulled a plate out of one of the desk drawers. A golden wedge with a dollop of cream materialized on it. “Lemon buttermilk pie … I assume it’s still your favorite?”
Abby smiled. “Yes … I can’t believe you remembered that.”
“You two know each other?” Sylvie asked.
Abby nodded. “I used to come here a lot when I was a student at Brindille.”
Jean slid the plate across the desk. “You were always so talented. I never believed the … rumors.”
Sylvie couldn’t help but notice the pause, as if Jean was avoiding the uncomfortable word:cheating.
