• • •

That night, I dreamed I was back in Petersville on Main Street right under the traffic light. Dr. C was there too, hammering away at a huge block of something that looked like yellow soap. I was just standing there, watching bits of the stuff fly off as Dr. C carved away at it. Then he stepped back, turned to me, and said, “It stinks, doesn’t it?”

That’s when I saw: it was me. Not all of me, just my face, as big as a refrigerator, carved out of a giant hunk of butter.

“Tris?”

I could even smell the butter.

“Tris, wake up.”

I opened my eyes. Hanging above me was a white paper bag. Someone shook it, then pulled it away.

There was Dad, Muppet-smiling down at me. “Went all the way to Patisserie Claude. Got there just as these babies were coming out of the oven.” He put his face in the bag and inhaled. “Still hot.”

I looked around. Everyone else was still sleeping. “What time is it?”

“Early. Come on. Get dressed,” he whispered.

I rolled away from him. “I don’t have to be there until nine.” I was awake enough now to know I was still mad.

Dad shook the bag again. “When was the last time you had a real croissant?”

I didn’t say anything.

“Come on. I want to show you something.”

“Is this another command performance?” I said, face to the wall.

“Just come.”

Clearly, that was a yes. I was too awake to go back to sleep anyway. And it had been forever since I’d eaten a real-deal croissant.

Dad had driven us to The Food Connection building as we slept that morning, and he waited outside by the fountain while I got dressed.

Last day, I said to myself in the bathroom mirror as I pulled on my PETERSVILLE, THE PLACE TO EAT T-shirt.

By the time I got outside, the Breakfast with Brynn crowd was already lined up along the sidewalk. Since the heat wave had broken, there were even more Brynn-heads, and instead of trying to snake my way through them, I took the long way around to the fountain.

“Here.” Dad handed me a croissant wrapped in a paper napkin.

I sat down beside him on the bench that circled the fountain. Water shot high into the air behind us, spraying the back of my neck with a cool mist.

I pulled the croissant apart slowly, watching the greasy layers stretch, break, and rebound. You can’t do that with those tasteless, horn-shaped rolls people pass off as croissants. The trick is butter, sheet after sheet of butter, and Claude never skimps.

I dropped a piece onto my tongue. It melted like a snowflake.

Dad popped the last bite of croissant into his mouth, stood up, and brushed flakes off his pants. A good croissant will leave you covered in golden flakes.

“What’s that for?” I pointed to a cardboard tube tucked under his arm.