In French, Charles’s voice is even deeper and rich and sexy. Just like the Beast’s. After all, Beauty and the Beast was originally written in French. Is that what’s missing from their competition song?
I picture the guys dressed like French royalty, singing in fluent French, of course. They’re accompanied by accordion music and... my fantasy comes to a halt when I realize they can’t really do that. Not in an a cappella. But could I get them to sing like accordions? Is that even possible?
My fantasy resumes. Charles, Tate, JJ, and Silas stroll onto the stage. Their voices meld, capturing the romance, magic, and seduction of a Parisian summer night. I hum the tune, trying to capture the song as it takes shape, when the conversation around me suddenly dies down.
Oh no!
I open my eyes to find Charles and Nigel staring at me.
“Music program.” The cafe owner chuckles. His voice is laden with a French accent and his eyes glint in amusement.
Charles nods.
I’m sure he means well—or he’s just referring to himself, since he is in the music program—but my heart sinks. I didn’t get into LUV Academy or any of the other schools I applied to. I couldn’t even get a minimum-wage job. And today, I got fired. No, worse than fired. I lost more money in an hour on the job than I could have earned in months.
“Shall we sit?” Charles places a gentle hand on my back and leads me to a table by the window. He pulls out a chair for me, just like Beauty’s Beast would do, but the gallant gesture does nothing to cheer me up. “What’s the matter?”
My gut tells me to shrug it off, but Charles looks genuinely concerned. Plus, he just came to my rescue. He paid for the box I broke, and he brought down the price. The least I can do is tell him the truth.
“I’m not a student here, Charles,” I say softly.
“I know that,” he replies, but the obvious disappointment in his voice hurts.
My face falls. “I know I’m not good enough to—”
“Of course you’re good enough,” Charles interrupts. “You’re the best songwriter I know.”
“You must not know many songwriters,” I fire back, which really isn’t like me. But the constant reminders that I’m a failure hurt, and the words just spill out. “If I was any good, I would be in college right now. Maybe not here at LUV Academy, but somewhere.”
“Then why don’t you apply?” Charles asks, completely missing the point. “I’m sure you’d get in.”
“Don’t you think I applied?” I ask, my lower lip trembling. “Here and to a dozen other colleges. And guess what? I got rejected. By every single one.”
“No.” Charles shakes his head, like the thought of someone not getting into college is an impossible one.
“I’m not good enough, Charles. I’m a mess. A failure. I can’t do anything right.” They’re not my words, they’re Father's, but they’re all true.
“Don’t say that about yourself, Roonie,” Charles takes my hands in his. “You’re—”
“All those things and more,” I insist. Because if I’m going to tell him the truth, I might as well go all in. “I can’t even get a job. I’ve been applying since I graduated from high school, but I’m terrible at interviews.”
“You are not.” Charles frowns. “You did a really good job when we practiced last night.”
“I know you think so, Charles, but I’m not.” If I was, I would have gotten a job.
“I just don’t get it.” Charles shakes his head. “You’re better than half the people in my program, and we’ve had all semester to train.”
“That’s a really sweet thing to say, Charles, but—”
“No buts.” He shakes his head. “I’m going to look into it.”
“Look into what?” I frown.
“Why you didn’t get in. And then, I’m going to make sure you do.”
For a split second, I feel hope. Like Cinderella when the slipper fit. Beauty when the Beast transformed. Snow White when she was woken from her long slumber by true love’s kiss.
Going to LUV Academy has always been my dream, and to get in... to be good enough to go here... but I wouldn’t be good enough, would I?
Even if Charles could somehow get me into the music program, I don’t belong here. Not with my whiny, high-pitched voice. Not when I can’t even write a single decent song. Not when I sent in my best work and still got rejected.
“Maybe we should order?” I quickly change the subject, before he can give me hope I don’t deserve.
Charles looks like he’s going to protest, but then seems to reconsider. “All right, let’s. What would you like, Roonie?”
“What would you recommend?” I ask, belatedly realizing I might end up with one of the pastel pastries.
“The chocolate croissants here are delicious,” Charles says to my complete relief. I follow his gesture toward the shelf in the pastry display case. My gaze lands upon a delicate golden bundle of flaky layers rolled expertly around a core of milky chocolate.
“I’d love to try one,” I tell him, trying to sound enthusiastic. And not like the failure who didn’t get into college and lasted less than an hour at the only job she’s ever had.
Charles waves Nigel over and places the order entirely in French. French French French French French French. I catch the word croissant, and of course, macaroons.
“Which color macaroons are your favorite?” I ask. “Or do they all taste the same?”
“Macarons,” Charles gently corrects me. “Not macaroons.”
“Aren’t they the same thing?” I frown.
“Certainly not.” Charles stiffens as if vaguely insulted. “A macaron is a French delicacy; a confection made from whipped egg whites and almond flour. A macaroon is an entirely different dessert. They are clusters of coconut and egg and sweetened condensed milk. They look, taste, and feel absolutely nothing like macarons.”
Charles takes out his phone and shows me images of colorful macarons and beige macaroons. “So does each color taste different?” I repeat my question.
“It does.” Charles nods. “Raspberry’s my favorite, but I also like lemon and pistachio. I ordered extras, in case you’d like to try them.”
As if on cue, Nigel pops up with a silver tray that’s teeming with goodies.
He sets a steaming cup of tea in front of me—exactly the same as the one Charles had brought to the park on Friday—and I inhale as curling wisps of steam rise, carrying its scent to my nose.
The pure white cup sits on a matching saucer. Nigel grabs a plate from his tray again and serves me a chocolate croissant, warm from the oven. The tantalizing smell mingles with the scent of freshly brewed tea in the air, sending me to a sensual heaven.
I place my hand near the croissant. It’s too hot to eat just now. It will be perfect in a few minutes. Gently, I press into the croissant’s golden exterior with the tip of my finger. The outermost layer of pastry dough flakes away, leaving a darkened golden indent that shines with butter.
Nigel then places a tiny bowl in the middle of the table. It is filled with chilled foil-covered mini cups of milk and cream. Next to it goes a dish of single-sized packets of sugar. I have never seen tea served in such a fancy way before. Judging by the calm look on Charles’s face, this is a regular occurrence for him.