"I will judge your desserts in three hours! You have plenty of time to make something presentable. Remember, hygiene is as important as your execution. Be methodical, you will be graded on the entire process," announced the professor, displaying a stern expression.
With these words, she returned to her desk, cleverly positioned in the corner of the lab, allowing her to have a clear view of all her students. In any case, Madame Valienne spent her classes walking around the stations, scrutinizing every move and gesture of the students.
Caitlyn now understood the professor's words in French — at least this sentence — that she repeated almost identically at the beginning of every class. The knot of stress in her stomach tighten; it was her third week at the pastry school, and the practical classes were her worst nightmare. A future pastry chef who couldn’t bake to save her life. Ironic.
She took a deep breath, checked that her dark green headband was securely holding her hair and that her bun was still in place. The worst situation would have been if Madame Valienne found a midnight blue strand in her choux. Hygiene mistakes were unforgivable, always causing the grade to drop below 8.
Caitlyn hesitantly walked to one of the sinks and washed her hands carefully, bringing the soap up to her elbows. You can make a crème pâtissière Caitlyn. You can do it. Breathe. Her inner mantra was no longer enough after so many consecutive failures. The knot grew, like a pressure preventing her from breathing. She hadn't even started yet, and her breath was already shaky, her limbs trembling.
Returning to her workstation, next to the door, she poured the milk into a pan and brought it to a boil with a vanilla pod cut in half, the scraped seeds scattering tiny dots throughout the liquid. As the milk heated, she whisked her egg yolks with sugar and flour. As soon as the milk came to a boil, she carefully poured it over the yolks. Caitlyn then returned the mixture to a low heat, allowing it to thicken.
As she stirred her cream, the conversation with her mother from the previous day came back to her mind.
"Caitlyn, we accept that you pursue your... studies as you like, but there is no way you're not coming home for the October break," her mother had stated coldly.
"Mom, while I appreciate the magnanimity you're showing toward my studies, I won't be coming home before Christmas."
"Very well, I'll talk to your father."
Cold, dry words that had ended the call. Her father would do nothing, too loving of his children to bring any conflict between them. He had been quick to support her when she first came out, then when she decided to leave the prestigious university to pursue pastry.
If the first news had left her parents unmoved, the second one had hit them like a wave crashing against a rock. In her family, only prestigious higher education was acceptable. Engineer, scientist, or politician, yes. Pastry chef? And why not mason while we're at it?
"Kiramman! Ta crème, " the professor growled in a loud voice, throwing an incisive glance.
Caitlyn was abruptly pulled out of her thoughts. The pale yellow cream was bubbling furiously, forming lumps on the surface. She bit her lip and mentally slapped herself.
"Kiramman, qu'est-ce que c'est que ça ?" Madame Valienne shot, her tone sharp.
Caitlyn stammered a few words in broken French, which the professor quickly cut off.
"You won’t be able to save it. Dump that... cream into a tray, cover it with plastic wrap, and start your Pâte à choux."
"Oui, Madame."
Sweat was running down her spine. She felt like she was suffocating. Caitlyn glanced around; everyone seemed to have perfected their cream and was continuing their preparation, their faces impassive. She clenched her fists so tightly that her nails, despite being cut short, dug into her palms, and she went to weigh her ingredients.
One hour and twenty minutes later, her choux came out of the oven, flat. Terribly flat. The choux – or rather, the lumps of dough – sat on the tray in the middle of her table, clearly visible. Her classmates passed by, offering her sympathetic smiles. Just as she thought the day couldn’t get any worse, the door opened, and she entered the lab.
Shoving the door open with a swift hip movement, the baker with short pink hair made her entrance, filling the room with her natural confidence. Her white uniform, chosen to minimize flour stains, contrasted with the black attire of the pastry chefs. The fabric hugged her slim, firm waist, accentuating an athletic chest and a V-shaped back. The short sleeves revealed powerful, defined biceps covered in black ink. Her collar exposed a gear tattoo on her neck. A wave of heat spread through Caitlyn's lower stomach as she wondered what else might be hidden under the uniform.
Since the beginning of the year, she had noticed this person and developed a monstrous crush that made her feel like a teenager again. Without a doubt, she was the most attractive woman Caitlyn had ever seen. Her gray eyes searched for the professor, briefly landing on Caitlyn and then on her choux. Caitlyn shivered and put on a mask of coldness, trying to keep her composure even though she probably looked like a failure.
The baker neither made a face nor a mocking smirk. She simply turned her eyes away and walked confidently toward the professor.
"Good morning, Madame. Professor Sevika sent me. I couldn’t find the last bags of flour. Do you know where they are?" -in french -
"Ah, Vi. Yes, we moved them this morning. There was humidity in the storage room. I thought it best to store them elsewhere." She cast a disapproving glance at Caitlyn's choux. "Kiramman, go with Vi to find the flour. Your practical session ends here; you won’t be able to fill your choux." -in french-
Humiliated, Caitlyn left the room with Vi. A short, simple name that suited her well. Caitlyn wasn't fully familiar with French names, but it must have been a nickname. She was dying to know what it was short for.
"Dure journée, mmh ?" Vi broke the silence, her hands in the pockets of her uniform.
"Yeah, c'est un désastre," Caitlyn replied, her accent giving her away.
"Oh, English? Do you prefer that I speak in English?"
"I’d appreciate it. I’m trying to learn, but your language is... complicated."
Vi laughed openly and responded in English without hesitation. "You can say horrible. Fuck, I’m just happy to be French so I don’t have to learn this language."
Caitlyn blushed slightly. Her accent was... adorable. Very sexy, even. They continued discussing the abomination that was conjugation until they reached the kitchen storage.
"Ah, should’ve guessed." Vi bent down, squatting effortlessly, inspecting the bags quickly before grabbing one. With a fluid, confident motion, she hoisted the 20 kilo sack onto her shoulders and stood up without any trouble. Caitlyn swallowed at the sight of the defined muscles straining, lifting the load as if it were nothing.
Vi passed through the door first. "I’ll go right now. They’re waiting for me, and I don't want to get killed by Sevika." She gave Caitlyn an irresistible wink. "See you later, Kiramman."
Caitlyn took a few seconds to recover from the effect Vi had on her before managing to say simply, "See you."
She watched the baker walk away, her uniform stretching across her back, the seams accentuating her silhouette. That vision alone made this day feel worth living.
