Marie Antoinette, Serial Killer by Katie Alender

friends, on the same level. Furthermore, she was actually interested in what Jules did. And he was clearly proud of her cooking.
    What were my brother and I doing wrong?
    A few minutes later, their parents came home, and then we all sat around and talked until it was time to eat. Monsieur Martin’s English was terrible, but he loved testing it out on me. And I tried to answer in French. By the time he and I limped through an entire conversation, Mathilde and Jules were crying with laughter.
    The food was served on mismatched plates, all different brands and patterns that somehow looked like they were created to be mixed together. Along with the stew, there were green beans and steaming red beets.
    I was aware that everyone was waiting for my reaction, so I was determined to fake it if necessary.
    It wasn’t necessary.
    “ Mon dieu ,” I said, after taking my first bite.
    “She says, ‘Oh my God!’” Monsieur Martin crowed, delighted.
    “It’s good?” Mathilde asked.
    “It’s unbelievable,” I said, finishing the bite. The meat, salty and tender, broke apart in my mouth, and the broth was sweet and fragrant. I could have eaten a bucketful. Mathilde rewarded me with a smile, and then everyone stopped staring at me and turned to their own dinners. Monsieur Martin had brought home a crusty baguette wrapped in wax paper, and we each got a hunk of bread to dip into the broth.
    Madame Martin took a bite of hers and then closed her eyes with a happy sigh. “She has only twenty years, but she cooks like my grandmother.”
    Jules smiled at his sister, who smiled back at him, beaming with pride. It was such a warm, personal moment that I almost felt embarrassed having seen it.
    The whole meal took about an hour and a half, with everyone talking and laughing and taking their time, lingering over a platter of cheese and then cups of coffee. Even back in the days when my family ate dinner together (at Mom’s insistence), we’d never been like this. It was always Dad hurrying to finish so he could go check his work email, and Charlie trying to catch glimpses of the TV in the next room, and me with my earbuds in, making a point of ignoring everything. We’d say grace, scarf down our food, and be out of there in twenty minutes.
    None of the Martins seemed to want to be anywhere else, or doing anything else, besides just sitting around with one another and hanging out.
    “So what else do you have planned for the week?” Mathilde asked, pouring cream into her second cup of coffee.
    “Whatever Jules has planned,” I said, and then I blushed. “I mean, because he’s the tour guide.”
    Jules was smiling at his plate. “Museums, historical sites, the usual.”
    “Oh, there is one cool thing,” I said, remembering. “My friend Hannah got some of us invited to a party at Versailles next Saturday.”
    Jules turned to me. “I didn’t know that.”
    “Yeah — we have to go rent costumes and everything.” Although where I’d get the money to rent one, I had no idea.
    Mathilde brightened. “I know where you can find a dress. My school did an exhibition last year, and the costumes are in storage.”
    “Oh, thanks,” I said. “I’m not sure…. Can I let you know?”
    “Of course,” Mathilde said. “How fun. A costume ball … do you need a date?”
    Jules shot out of his chair. “I’m getting more coffee. Does anyone want anything?”
    Mathilde grinned. “All right, we can talk about something else.”
    By the time the meal was done, I was strangely, achingly homesick for my mother and brother.
    “We’d better get going,” Jules said to me, after we’d carried our dishes into the kitchen and handed them to Monsieur Martin, who stood at the sink wearing Mathilde’s floral apron over his work clothes.
    I thanked them all for their hospitality, noting the glint in Mathilde’s eye as she told me to come back anytime .
    When the apartment door clicked closed behind us, it felt like we were leaving some special,