P.S. Send More Cookies

by Martha Freeman

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Grace

  Our development is pretty big so I cannot know everybody, and I did not know the people who live at 123 Farmers Lane. That day they were getting a grocery delivery, and the green van was in their driveway with the back doors open. The driver wasn’t there. He must’ve gone around back with a big load of groceries. All this I only halfway noticed as King and I walked toward the driveway, me with the bag of dog poop, looking forward to washing my hands.

  I have thought so hard about what happened next, I have basically done crime scene reconstruction. At the time, though, it was a blur.

  King was trotting a few steps ahead of me. A good dog walker, a conscientious one, would have seen that his ears were up. Something had interested him. I should have watched extra carefully. But I did not watch until all at once I felt the leash jerk powerfully, and its plastic grip yanked painfully at my knuckles.

  Then my arm dropped abruptly, but it was a few moments before my poor brain processed what had happened. King had pulled the leash loose. He was gone and sprinting toward the van in the driveway. A second later, he was out of my sight behind it.

  I yelled at him and ran. I am pretty fast, but he was a dog on a mission. By the time I caught up, King was surrounded by havoc and destruction. Chewed plastic on the ground, white frosting on his nose, and the scent of sugar and spices everywhere.

  My heart sank, and my plan changed. Get King. Get away. Keep Grace Xi out of trouble!

  First I stomped on King’s leash so he couldn’t go anywhere, then I picked up the plastic grip, and then I tugged him away from the rest of the groceries. I was mad, but King was puzzled. Was it his fault someone had left a massive dog treat unprotected? What did I expect a dog to do, anyway?

  There was a fence along the driveway of 123 Farmers Lane, and this turned out to be lucky. Once we were back on the sidewalk, we made a fast left turn and were out of sight behind it. Only a moment passed till I heard footsteps and talking—the delivery driver returning from the backyard: “Two twenty Locust, Dunstable—okay. One fifteen p.m., I’ll be—oh sheesh! What happened here?”

  My heart jumped into my throat. He had seen the mess! What if he came looking for its cause? For a second I felt weak all over. Then I forced myself to run. King thought this was a game and galloped gleefully ahead of me. Soon we were far from the scene of the crime.

  King was in an especially good mood after that and wanted to stop and leave messages on every blade of grass. I imagined him bragging to his friends about escaping his captor and eating the carrot cake. For a dog, it had to be one big triumph.

  As for me, I felt sick and wanted to be done with dogs forever.

  Back at the Rubinsteins’, I realized I still had the blue plastic bag. I dropped it in the trash can outdoors, gave King his food and water, and put the leash back on the hook. In other words, I became the perfect and conscientious dog walker that Shoshi’s family expected me to be.

  But all the time I was thinking of one thing, one gross thing I never expected to think about in my life, and that was dog digestion. Could King’s insides process all that sugar and fat?

  I should call the vet. I should call Shoshi’s mom. But if I did, it would be admitting to everyone that I, Grace Xi, had messed up. I might even have to go back to 123 Farmers Lane and tell this to total strangers.

  I knew I could never do that.

  And besides, King himself seemed happy—which so entirely was not fair. What had happened was his fault, not mine. Why did he look so guiltless?

  Needless to say, there was no puppy treat for King that day. Instead, I knelt and looked straight into his face. “You are a bad dog,” I said solemnly.

  King did not believe this for one minute. He wagged his tail. He lolled his tongue. His breath still smelled like frosting.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Grace

  I had wanted to write Lucy back immediately, but she was right, I am busy. Between walking King twice more and finishing my project on ancient Rome, I didn’t have time to sit down at my desk until late Sunday afternoon.

  Sunday, Sept. 24

  Dear Lucy,

  Thank you for your letter. It was very nice to hear from you. Please congratulate Kendall for me about the new baby. I hope your mom and the officer are still happy. While I am hoping, I will go ahead and hope your grandmother is also happy even though you did not mention her very much.

  You are right that I am busy, but I am also fine except for one thing. My stomach has been hurting since yesterday.

  Perhaps you did not know that I have a bad stomach. It hurts most when I am worried. What I am worried about now is that I messed up when I was walking my friend Shoshi’s dog while her family was out of town, and he ran away from me. I know you and Olivia and Emma think I am good at everything, but I am not good at dog walking.

  Shoshi’s family got back from their trip today, and they brought me a Lake Winnipesaukee T-shirt to say thank you for walking King. This made my stomach hurt even more.

  A little while ago, things got worse.

  Shoshi called and said King was sick. I am sorry to have to put this word in a letter, but just to explain, he has diarrhea. Everywhere. Shoshi asked if anything unusual happened while they were gone.

  Of course I said no. I couldn’t tell the truth then when I hadn’t told them in the first place. That would have been like two mess-ups!

  Now my parents are asking why I am “mopey” and don’t want dinner and why I am not being nice to them either. I never realized before how much easier it is to be good at everything.

  I am sorry to be writing so much. I would not blame you if you already got bored and stopped reading.

  So anyway, if flour power is supposed to solve problems, I need it to fix my stomach and keep me from messing up any more.

  Love you always—your failure of a friend,

  Grace Xi

  P.S. If it matters, the new baby at Vivek’s house is a girl. Even though we broke up, we are still friends on Facebook. You should be his friend too. I don’t mind. I think he always liked you better than me anyway, like most boys do. Who wouldn’t?

  King recovered. No one from 123 Farmers Lane or the grocery delivery company came to the door to ask me questions.

  Even so, I was in a bad mood all week, and my stomach barely got better. At school, my friends wanted to know why I was so quiet, and I just shrugged. At home, Snot-Nosed Grace took over every conversation with my parents. Wednesday at dinner we were eating takeout pizza, and I complained that the crust was soggy because—hello-o-o-o?—the crust was soggy.

  Is a person allowed to speak the truth once in a while?

  My parents put down their forks. I thought I would soon hear a lecture about the importance of being grateful for everything I have, but instead my parents looked at each other, and then they looked at me. Their faces were sympathetic, which was much worse than if their faces had been annoyed.

  “What?” I said.

  My father cleared his throat. “Grace,” he said, “your mother and I believe that you are growing up.”

  “I hope so,” I said. “I wouldn’t want to be this short forever.”

  My father breathed in and out. “What I mean,” he said, “is that your body is changing. And these changes are caused by chemicals called hormones—”

  OMG. Was this about to become the Talk—the one where your parents try to tell you about boys and s-e-x and babies?

  “—that travel through your body, everyone’s bodies, in fact, and these chemicals—”

  “Dad!” I interrupted. “I know all this! What do you think gym teachers are for?”

  My father paused. My parents looked at each other again.

  “I thought they taught you the rules of volleyball and golf and lacrosse,” my mother said.

  I rolled my eyes. Neither of my parents had gone to school in the United States. As smart as they are, there is a lot they don’t understand. I try to be patient.
r />   “They teach body stuff, too,” I said, “so parents don’t have to. Seriously. You don’t have to.”

  “And you don’t have to be rude,” said my father.

  “We are only trying to help,” said my mother.

  “Lately you have been rude about many things,” said my father. “This is not like you, Grace. We assumed it was the hormones.”

  I took a breath. Then I closed my eyes and scrunched up my face and blew out my bangs. They are trying to help, I reminded myself. It’s not their fault that they are parents. “I will try to be less rude,” I said.

  “Is something the matter?” my mother asked. “Are your grades okay?”

  “Of course nothing’s the matter,” I said. “Of course my grades are fine.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Grace

  The next Saturday when I came home from karate and ballet, both my parents were waiting in the kitchen and so—on the counter—was a square package addressed to me.

  “We think it is from your friend Lucy,” said my mother. “The return address is Beverly Hills.”

  “We think it must be cookies,” said my father.

  “Aren’t you going to open it now?” My mother handed me a knife.

  My parents claim they don’t care about food, but obviously they do care about cookies. This is something we have in common. I keep a private stash of Oreos in my room for emergencies. And Lucy’s homemade cookies, like Hannah’s, are even better than Oreos.

  When I took the knife and cut the tape on the box, I was surprised that I did not smell a wonderful smell. I was even more surprised when I looked at the cookie tin inside and saw a note on top: WARNING! DO NOT EAT!

  My father read this and tilted his head to one side. “That is very strange,” he said.

  Confused, I removed the lid of the tin and took a look at the actual cookies. They were small, dry-looking, and dotted with oats—nothing like the delicious, sparkling lemon cookies from Hannah or the chocolate chip cookies Lucy sent last year.

  My disappointed parents shook their heads and sighed. “Something must be wrong with Lucy’s oven,” said my father.

  “Or perhaps she doesn’t like you anymore, Grace,” said my mother. “Did you do something to offend her?”

  “No, of course not,” I said, but I was as baffled as my parents and almost as disappointed. Then I thought of something. I picked up a cookie and sniffed. All of a sudden it felt like I was back at the Rubinsteins’ with King.

  “It’s a dog cookie!” I said. “A dog biscuit, I mean. In my letter, I told Lucy I was taking care of King.”

  “Ah.” My father nodded. “So she made cookies for the Rubinsteins’ dog. That is peculiar but better, I guess, than her not liking you, or her having a broken oven.”

  “I think we should remember to buy cookies next time we go to the store,” my mother said.

  “They won’t be the same as homemade,” my father said. “Grace, wouldn’t you like to make some cookies for your family? Don’t you have to make a practice batch for your secret club? It’s about time for you to send some to Emma, is it not?”

  “How do you even know that?” I asked. “You’re not supposed to know about the club at all.”

  “We know because you told us,” my mother said.

  “Are we supposed to forget?” my father asked.

  “Yes,” I said. “No. Oh, I don’t know. Anyway, there’s a letter with the dog biscuits, and I am going up to my room to read it.”

  “Don’t you want some lunch?” my mother said.

  “Later,” I said, already on the stairs.

  In my room, I kicked off my sneakers, sat on my bed, and leaned back against the reading pillow. As usual, Lucy had written on lined paper ripped out of a spiral notebook, not stationery or cards like I have for notes. This paper made me wonder again what her life at home was like. Did she keep her room messy (like Shoshi) or neat (like me)? Did her mom and grandma let her hang up whatever she wanted on her bedroom walls? Did she make her own bed in the morning, or did her mom do it?

  I was glad to have Lucy’s letter, but I reminded myself I was also a little bit mad at her. It was partly for sending dog cookies. It was partly for asking about Vivek and reminding me that I am jealous of her. I shouldn’t be jealous of my friend, right? But deep in my heart, I couldn’t help it.

  I am not a perfect person. But I guess you already know that, right? I can’t even walk a dog.

  Carefully, I slit the envelope open with my fingernail, pulled out the letter, and read.

  Hi, Grace—

  I was going to make more cookies, some for King and some for humans, but Kendall had the baby early, and her mom was in Europe, and her husband was traveling on business, and I had to go over and help wrangle triplets, and there was no time.

  So far (Day 4) Piper is a terrible baby. I have to remind myself that it is not her fault she is a baby and that all babies cry, but do all babies cry all the time?

  My mom says I never cried. My nana says my mom doesn’t remember whether I did or not because my mom was too busy with her own shenanigans to pay her only daughter much mind, whatever that means.

  Anyway, perversely (that is a word I learned from my nana), the triplets are being extra unusually helpful—even Levi. Sometimes he looks down at his tiny, red, screaming sister and shakes his head and says, “Poor sad little baby.”

  So anyway, these cookies are for King because your stomach will feel better if you give them to him. It will be like an apology for messing up. I think Shoshie will forgive you.

  Which reminds me (change of topic): The case of the dead computer has been solved! After some tough questions from Officer Leonard, Nana admitted she had spilled a cup of tea on the keyboard, causing it to—zzzzzzzt!!!—fry in its own electricity. Nana denies that she did this on purpose. I don’t think I believe her. Anyway, it looks like it will be a while before I have e-mail or the Internet or any of those other modern conveniences . . . except when I’m at school.

  I would explain more if I had more time, but Kendall just called and Arlo and Mia are singing lullabies extra loud to drown out crying, and Kendall is tearing her hair, so she wants me to PLEASE come over, and I am going.

  Love ya

  —Lucy

  P.S. Are you a little bit mad at me for mentioning Vivek? Sorry.

  When I finished reading Lucy’s letter, I was so mad that I started to tear it up.

  But after one corner I stopped.

  It was kind of freaky how Lucy knew from almost three thousand miles away that I was a little bit mad at her. Did it mean she knew about other stuff, too? Did it mean she was right that Shoshi would forgive me?

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Grace

  That afternoon, instead of doing math homework for my tutor, I made raspberry thumbprint cookies for my parents and me. If I had been doing anything else, my parents would have nagged me to work on homework. As it was, they didn’t say a thing, just hung around the kitchen more than usual.

  The cookies on the first sheet came out too brown. My mother looked at them, shook her head, and declared that she would wait for the next ones.

  My father said, “If they are dry, who cares? I can always drink more milk.”

  The first cookies did taste a little toasty, but the second batch was good enough even for my mother. She poured us milk, and all three of us ate warm cookies while sitting at the kitchen counter. Here is something you should know about raspberry thumbprint cookies. If you don’t have enough self-control to wait a few minutes for them to cool, the hot jam burns your mouth.

  “Are you going to send the rest of these to Emma?” my father asked. There was a spot of jam at the corner of his mouth, which my mother dabbed off with a paper napkin. My parents are gross like that sometimes. I try to ignore it.

  “I have to write to Emma first and see what she needs cookies for,” I said. “After that, I send them. Hannah’s cookies were sort of different. She’s not really part of the club
. It’s for campers, and she’s a counselor. She’s old.”

  My father nodded and said, “I see. Now am I supposed to forget you told me that as well?”

  “Yes,” I said, “and add another thing to the list of what I’m not good at: keeping secrets.”

  “What do you mean ‘another thing’?” my mother asked.

  “You are good at most things, Grace,” my father said. “You should tell us what it is that’s been bothering you, and then you will feel better. That’s what families are for.”

  “That and to encourage you to work hard and behave properly,” said my mother.

  My father frowned.

  My mother raised her eyebrows. “What?”

  “We will talk later,” said my father.

  “I want to talk now,” said my mother.

  I hopped down from the stool. “You guys go ahead and sort this out. I am going over to Shoshi’s.”

  * * *

  Perversely, as Lucy’s nana would say, it was talking to my parents that convinced me I ought to tell Shoshi the truth. This is not as crazy as it sounds. Talking to them made me realize that I did want to tell someone. It also made me realize I did not want my parents to be the someone.

  I put the cookies and dog biscuits in a shopping bag. I put on a jacket. Outside, the sky had clouded up, and wind gusts made the falling leaves fly. I heard a crow complain about something, but when I looked up I couldn’t find him. I rehearsed what I was going to say: Shoshi, I am sorry, but I messed up when I was walking King. I was thinking about washing my hands, and he got away. He ate a whole cake. It was a carrot cake, so I hope it had healthy vitamins. I am really sorry.

  I said this over and over till I had it memorized. But on Shoshi’s porch, it went clean out of my head. Something was wrong, but only after I rang the doorbell did I figure out what: There was no dog barking.