Like Pickle Juice on a Cookie

by Julie Sternberg

“Sorry!”

  We all sat down on the couch.

  “Aren’t you both eight?”

  my dad asked.

  “No!” I said.

  Agnes still didn’t say anything.

  “She’s nine,” I said.

  “So you’ve already been through third grade!”

  my dad said.

  “How perfect!

  Eleanor is starting third grade soon.

  You can tell us all about it.”

  He waited.

  We both waited.

  Finally Agnes said,

  “It’s okay.”

  “Do you write any stories in third grade?

  I used to love to write stories,” my dad said.

  “Yes,”

  Agnes said.

  “We wrote stories.

  And letters.

  Other things, too, I guess.

  I can’t remember.”

  I can write stories and letters,

  I thought.

  We did that in second grade.

  And then I thought,

  Letters!

  I can write letters!

  And then I stood up.

  “I’m going to write a letter,” I said.

  “Right now?”

  my dad asked.

  “Right now,”

  I said.

  “Would you like to write a letter, too?”

  my dad asked Agnes.

  “No thanks,” she said.

  Then she said,

  “Could I listen to some music?”

  My dad looked surprised.

  “Sure,” he said.

  So my dad took Agnes to look through our music.

  I got my best stationery

  and I sharpened a pencil.

  Then I sat down at the kitchen table.

  And I wrote a letter to Bibi.

  I wrote:

  Yesterday Mom bought me new pants.

  So I will have them for school.

  They’re too big.

  Nobody here can sew except for you.

  And you left.

  So I have to wear a belt.

  Here is a picture of me in my too-big pants.

  And here is a picture of calm Agnes on our sofa.

  I miss you every single day. I really do.

  And I love you a million trillion.

  Love,

  Eleanor

  I didn’t want Agnes to see my letter.

  Because it was private.

  And she might feel funny.

  Since I wrote about her.

  So I folded it up right away

  and pushed it in an envelope

  and wrote my return address in the corner.

  Just like we did in second grade.

  Then I went to find my dad,

  to get Bibi’s address.

  He was standing with Agnes by the stereo.

  They were singing a Beatles song.

  My dad does not sing very well.

  But Agnes from upstairs sounded beautiful.

  My dad smiled at me.

  “Want to sing with us?” he asked.

  “No thanks,” I said.

  “I need Bibi’s address.”

  So my dad got Bibi’s address

  while Agnes sang.

  I liked listening to Agnes sing.

  But I was ready for her to go home.

  Finally,

  as she went upstairs with her mom,

  I went downstairs with my dad.

  And I mailed my letter to Bibi.

  As soon as my mom came home I told her,

  “I wrote a letter to Bibi.”

  “That’s nice,” she said.

  But I could tell she wasn’t really listening.

  She sat down on the couch

  and patted the space next to her.

  So I sat down beside her.

  “I have to go back to work soon,” she said.

  “We need to find someone to help us.

  Someone to be with you during the daytime

  until the end of summer

  and then pick you up from school

  when third grade starts.”

  “I don’t want a new babysitter,” I said.

  “I understand that,” my mom said.

  “I really do.

  But we don’t have a choice.

  Your dad and I both work.”

  “I could stay by myself,” I said.

  “No,” my mom said.

  “You really couldn’t.”

  I knew that.

  But still.

  “I won’t like anyone else,” I said.

  “I understand,” my mom said.

  “No one in the world

  is as good as Bibi,” I said.

  “I know,” my mom said.

  “But maybe we can find someone

  who is not too terrible.

  I heard about someone named Natalie.

  Maybe we could try her out.”

  “Do we have to?” I asked.

  “We have to,” my mom said.

  “Fine,” I said.

  But I didn’t like it.

  Natalie came over that very afternoon.

  “You keep inviting people without asking me,”

  I told my dad.

  But he wasn’t listening.

  He was opening the door for Natalie.

  Natalie didn’t look anything like Bibi.

  She looked much younger.

  She had a ponytail.

  Bibi did not have a ponytail.

  Natalie wore jeans.

  Bibi never wore jeans.

  Natalie smiled at me.

  I smiled back a little.

  But not a lot.

  “You must be Eleanor,” Natalie said.

  “Yes,” I said.

  Then I said,

  “Don’t ever call me Ellie. Please.”

  Because Bibi likes to call me Ellie.

  “I won’t,” Natalie said.

  “If you don’t want me to.

  I promise.”

  Then my dad said,

  “Why don’t you show Natalie your board games?”

  So I showed Natalie our board games.

  “I need to warn you about something,” she said.

  She looked very serious.

  “I’m very good at board games,” she said.

  “You might be able to beat me.

  But it will be hard.”

  “Don’t worry,” I said.

  “I’m good, too.”

  I am good at board games.

  Bibi says she used to let me win,

  but now I win all by myself.

  I even win the games that are just about luck

  and don’t take any skill at all.

  “You were born under a lucky star,” Bibi says.

  “Let’s play mancala,” I said to Natalie.

  In mancala you move rocks around in a certain way

  and if you have the most rocks at the end

  you win.

  No one has ever beaten me at mancala.

  Natalie didn’t beat me, either.

  “Look at that,” she said.

  “I may have met my match.”

  After that we played lots of different board games.

  She won some and I won some.

  Then it was time for her to go.

  “Next time can we play mancala again?” she asked.

  “Okay,” I said.

  “You can take it home with you now if you want.

  To practice.”

  “Good idea,” she said.

  Then she went home with our mancala.

  I decided to sit outside

  the very next day

  and wait for my letter from Bibi.

  “Today?” my mom asked.

  “Today,” I answered.

  “But you just sent your letter to Bibi,” my mom said.

  “The mail takes time.

  It’s much too soon to get Bibi’s letter ba
ck.”

  “I know,” I said.

  But I thought,

  Maybe it will come.

  Maybe.

  So I said, “I want to wait anyway.”

  “Natalie will be here soon,” my mom said.

  “Maybe she will wait with you.”

  As soon as Natalie walked in I said,

  “I want to sit outside and wait for a letter from Bibi.”

  My parents must have told Natalie about Bibi.

  Because she didn’t ask any questions.

  She just said, “That sounds nice.”

  Together we went outside

  and sat on a bench across the street from my building

  and waited for Bibi’s letter.

  “You look to the left,” I said,

  “and I’ll look to the right.”

  So Natalie looked to the left.

  And I looked to the right.

  And we watched carefully for the mail.

  We saw lots of things.

  I saw a baby in a stroller

  crying and crying and crying

  all the way down the block

  while its mother said,

  “Shh shh shh shh shh.”

  I figured that baby was tired.

  Natalie saw a plastic grocery bag,

  hanging from the branch of a tree, swaying.

  “Like a magnolia,” she said.

  “A plastic grocery bag magnolia.”

  I saw Agnes and her brother walking toward the park.

  I waved at Agnes

  and she waved back at me.

  “That’s Agnes from upstairs,” I told Natalie.

  “You should hear her sing.”

  Together we counted three,

  then four,

  then five

  joggers rushing by,

  their faces drip drip dripping from the heat.

  And then we saw the ice-cream truck

  turning the corner

  playing its tune.

  We hopped up

  and ran after it

  and bought soft ice-cream cones

  dipped in chocolate.

  We ate those cones up fast,

  before they melted.

  And when we got back to our bench,

  there she was.

  The mail carrier lady.

  Wheeling her big bag of mail

  up the path to our building.

  “Wait!” we yelled. “Wait!”

  The mail carrier lady waited

  while we looked both ways

  and crossed the street

  and ran to her.

  “Do you have Bibi’s letter?” I asked.

  “A letter from Bibi Bholasing?”

  “I might,” she said.

  She looked serious.

  “To whom is this letter addressed?” she asked.

  “To me,” I said.

  “Eleanor Abigail Kane.”

  “It’s nice to meet you, Eleanor Abigail Kane,”

  the mail carrier lady said.

  “I’m Val.”

  I smiled at Val.

  “Do you know your apartment number?” she asked.

  “I need it to find the letter.”

  “It’s 2C,” I said.

  “One moment, please,” Val said.

  Then she dug through her bag

  until she found a stack of mail

  labeled 2C.

  She took off the rubber bands

  and the three of us looked at every letter in that stack.

  But there was no letter from Bibi.

  “I’m sorry about that,” Val said.

  “I’ll keep a special lookout for it from now on.

  I promise.”

  I knew it was too early for Bibi’s letter.

  But still.

  I wanted my letter from Bibi.

  Then Natalie said,

  “Maybe it’s time to play mancala.”

  So we went upstairs and played mancala.

  I think Natalie might have practiced at home.

  Because she did a little better.

  But I still won.

  The next morning

  I tried calling my best friend, Pearl.

  But she was still away.

  Everyone in the world was still away.

  Except for me.

  So I got grumpy.

  When Natalie came,

  I said,

  “I already hate this day.”

  “Oh dear,” she said.

  “But look what I brought.”

  She held up a bag

  and opened it

  and showed me

  lemons and sugar and a big plastic pitcher.

  “If we’re going to hate this day,” she said,

  “then at least let’s not get thirsty.”

  So we squeezed lemons

  and scooped sugar

  and added water

  and stirred

  and made a big plastic pitcher

  of lemonade.

  We made a big sign, too.

  We took our pitcher and our sign,

  and we set up a lemonade stand,

  right next to the bench where we waited for Val.

  We poured cups of lemonade for ourselves.

  So at least we wouldn’t get thirsty.

  Then we sold the rest for a nickel.

  We decided on a nickel

  because nickel

  rhymes with pickle.

  The joggers jogged right by us.

  But Agnes and her brother each bought a cup.

  And one thirsty lady bought two.

  That lady drank both of those cups of lemonade

  right then and there

  all by herself.

  While we were waiting for more customers

  I asked Natalie,

  “Do you remember third grade?”

  “A little,” she said.

  “What’s it like?” I asked.

  She thought for a second.

  “My teacher was named Mrs. Mosley,” she said.

  “She didn’t like my handwriting.

  She thought it was too messy.”

  “Oh,” I said.

  I thought about my handwriting.

  It was pretty messy, too.

  “And I think we wrote reports in third grade,”

  Natalie said.

  “About famous people.

  I remember writing one on Neil Armstrong.”

  “Who’s that?” I asked.

  “The first person to walk on the moon,” Natalie said.

  I tried to think of someone famous to write about.

  But before I could,

  we saw Val.

  She was wheeling her bag

  up the path to our building.

  “Val!” we called, waving. “Val!”

  Val waved back

  and then turned

  and wheeled her big bag right across the street

  and over to our stand.

  “What a nice way to spend the day,” she said.

  “Can we check for Bibi’s letter?” I asked.

  “Just in case?”

  “Sure,” Val said.

  “But I didn’t see it earlier.”

  Then she dug through her bag

  and we looked at every 2C letter

  but again

  no letter from Bibi.

  I started to get grumpy.

  Then Natalie said,

  “Let’s get Val some lemonade.”

  And I poured a cup for Val.

  She tried to give us a nickel.

  But Natalie said,

  “This lemonade is free for Val.”

  “Let’s add that to our sign,” I said.

  So on our sign

  under LEMONADE, ONE NICKEL

  I wrote in big letters

  FREE FOR VAL.

  Val laughed

  and thanked us

  and wheeled her big bag back across the street

  to deliver
the rest of her mail.

  My mom had to work late the next day.

  My dad did, too.

  So Natalie stayed late.

  And that was bad.

  It was bad because

  Natalie ran my bath

  and checked the water

  and checked it again

  to make sure it wasn’t too hot.

  Just like Bibi.

  When Bibi stayed late.

  And,

  before I got in the tub,

  Natalie turned back my covers

  so my bed was all ready for nighttime.

  Just like Bibi.

  When Bibi stayed late.

  And

  I could tell

  I could just tell

  that after my bath

  Natalie planned to read to me

  and tuck me in

  and kiss me good night

  and wish me sweet dreams

  and turn down the lights

  and tiptoe down the hall.

  Just like Bibi.

  When Bibi stayed late.

  But

  Natalie

  was not

  Bibi.

  And

  I

  wanted

  Bibi.

  So when Natalie said,

  “Your bath is ready,”

  I said,

  “I don’t need a bath.

  I’m very clean already.”

  Natalie looked surprised.

  She thought for a minute

  and said,

  “At least wash your face and hands.”

  “Fine,” I said.

  I washed my face and hands

  and went in my room.

  Then Natalie pulled open my pajama drawer

  and said,

  “Would you like to pick out some pajamas?”

  “No,”

  I said.

  “I’m not sleeping in pajamas tonight.”

  Then I slammed that drawer shut.

  I had to sleep in something,

  so I opened my shirt drawer

  and pulled out the very top shirt

  and put it on

  and turned to Natalie

  and said,

  “Good night.”

  “Goodness,” Natalie said.

  She pointed to the pajama drawer.

  “We don’t slam drawers,” she said.

  “Please try again, more gently.”

  “Fine,” I said.

  I tried again.

  “Are you sure you’ll be comfortable in that shirt?”

  she asked.

  “I’m sure,” I said.