RoseBlood(24)

As we follow the illuminated path, staying close to the wall, I tense my shoulders . . . waiting for the whispers to begin. After a few steps, I gaze sidelong at the diners and find everyone preoccupied by eating, deep in their own conversations, or writing notes in spirals or journals, apparently about the opera taking place on the two big-screen TVs suspended at the ends of the room to offer a clear view from all directions.

Now I get why the cafeteria is so dimly lit. The songs streaming from the speakers are synchronized with the picture in movie theater style. The student handbook stressed that we would be immersed in the world of opera, especially pertaining to the end-of-the-year program. Not only were we to learn the music, we were to master the theatrics behind each performance: embrace both the visual and aural aspects. And what better way than to play each act over and over on TV as opposed to popular or classic movies, reality shows, or other teenage programming?

It’s obvious by the number of students concentrating and jotting notes that some sort of assignment was given over the operatic performance taking place. On the giant screens, a blue-lit stage lined with a crowd of young nuns in different poses comes into view. A Catholic cardinal seduces one of the sisters who’s half-dressed. Her expression can only be described as impassioned terror, as if the unlawful desire they share will combust and end the world in a holocaust of pain and rapture. An audience of strange men leer at the duo and cheer them on, their faces painted like grotesque clowns. The spectacle is equal parts sensual and disturbing.

Mom and I step around the corner into the well-lit alcove where the slick floor surrenders to black-and-gold-checked carpet surrounding a buffet counter. A digital menu board juts down from overhead, filled with both American and Parisian cuisine, along with a list of prices. Mom hands me my student meal ticket—prepaid by Aunt Charlotte—and readies her credit card, waiting for the two girls in front of us to decide on their choices.

Five students—decked out in uniforms under khaki aprons—keep busy behind the long, black marble surface, taking orders and replenishing the fare: cinnamon rolls, assorted baguettes, croissants, and muffins inside glass cases, then eggs, pancakes, and bacon in steaming stainless steel tubs on the other end.

One student polishes silverware, straightens the mugs, and keeps the coffee pots running. There’s also a fruit-and-cheese station. There, a guy with twinkling blue eyes and pale blond hair—almost glimmering white in the fluorescent lighting—dishes some watermelon from a stainless-steel bowl half buried in ice. A pretty Hispanic girl reaches up for the serving. She can’t be more than five foot one.

Towering over her at six foot two or so, he draws back the bowl so she can’t quite reach it, then finally hands it off with a teasing grin. She shakes her long, dark ponytail, gives him a playful scowl, and says something in Spanish. He smirks as she walks away. Apparently, he knows the language and thinks he scored some points. He catches me looking and flashes a flirty grin. I put up the necessary barricades and avert my eyes to a chalkboard on an easel that blocks part of the wall beside the cash register.

The school has four live-in chefs, but students are in charge of helping in the kitchen and at the counter, along with cleaning up. It’s partly to save money, but more to teach them responsibility. That’s why they’re also charged with mopping the floors, cleaning the bathrooms and showers, keeping the dorm rooms straightened, and dusting the many banisters, along with any other manual upkeep for the opera house.

Students are charged with these things, meaning me, too. As part of our grade, we’re each required to take a weekly assignment. The chalkboard serves as the duty roster, where everyone writes in their work schedule for the week. The teachers lead the volunteers and take turns helping out. Which is why, when I first met Aunt Charlotte, she was wielding a dust cloth and wearing an apron.

I scan the chalkboard, trying to find Sunny’s name. She suggested I piggyback on her assignment—insisting that most incoming students follow that protocol with their peer advisors, to help with the adjustment period. But I’ve decided I’m going to find a task of my own—and look for the mystery gardener in the process. I discussed my idea with Aunt Charlotte last night . . . that I’d like to volunteer for a job that no one else has done in years. She gave me the okay, although it took some persuasion.

Lifting the chalk from the easel’s tray, I scribble the number 51 to start a final row in the second column of names. Then I write: Gardening duty—Rune Germain, while trying not to think about the forest or the cemetery on the other side of the garden.

I’ve barely had time to rub the chalk dust from my fingers when Mom and I are called up to the cash register. I request a bowl of fruit, a pumpernickel muffin, and an almond cappuccino. The woman taking orders introduces herself as Headmistress Fabre, the very teacher I’ve been hoping to meet.

My heart dances a beat—nervous and excited.

She’s in her upper forties and is thin and leggy like a model, with flawless skin one shade lighter than the rich, brown bread she retrieves from the glass case and wraps in a paper liner. She relays my fruit order to the boy with the white-blond hair, her perfectly arched eyebrows framing fawn-soft brown eyes. Her hair—spirals of ebony glossed with streaks of bluish gray—fringes her shoulders as she reaches out to take my meal ticket over the counter. From what I can tell of her clothes under the apron, they’re every bit as stylish and chic as the lady wearing them.