P.S. Send More Cookies

by Martha Freeman

  The cast list went up on Thursday afternoon. By Friday I had kind of expected one of my parents would phone Mrs. W to explain to her the magnitude of her mistake. That, I happen to know, is what Esmee Snyder’s mother did the time Esmee was cast as the beanstalk.

  But my mother said that playing a chipmunk, especially second chipmunk, would be a nice lesson in humility for someone who sometimes seemed to need one. (Could she possibly have meant me?) And my father laughed and said, “This I gotta see.”

  * * *

  The next day, Saturday, I woke up mad with very little to do.

  Smoothie ’stache was a weekday thing. We didn’t go to baseball games anymore. Red Riding Hood rehearsal wasn’t till two—the one for those of us cast as minor characters, that is. The kids playing leads had to be there at noon.

  I yanked my sheets and stomped around my room and checked the metrics again and chatted with Courtney, who also goes to Acting Studio. She had been cast as Little Red’s mother, which was less minor than a chipmunk for heaven’s sake but still pretty minor. And Courtney wasn’t even mad about it, either.

  What is wrong with people anyway?

  Around eleven, I arranged an old sweatshirt over my pajamas like a cape, grabbed my phone, and waltzed and pirouetted down the stairs, across the hall, through the dining room, and into the kitchen.

  I was a little dizzy by the time I got there.

  “Good morning, sleepyhead,” said Jenny.

  “Good morning, Jenny,” I said. “Not that it is a good morning. Tell me, please, do you know the whereabouts of my dear, dear parents?”

  “Your dad had to go in to the office for a few hours,” Jenny said, “and your mom has a meeting. What would you like for breakfast?”

  “A few sunflower seeds, I guess. Maybe a worm or two. I believe that’s appropriate food for chipmunks, is it not?” I asked.

  Jenny laughed. “I hate to think what you’d ask for if you were playing the wolf. How about oatmeal? It’s chilly for April, and oatmeal will warm you up.”

  “Don’t go to any trouble, Jenny,” I said. “I am only a minor character, after all.”

  Troy must’ve slept late, too, because now he came in behind me and laughed. “Give it a rest, Olivia,” he said. “I would love some oatmeal, Jenny. Hold the worms.”

  Jenny makes oatmeal on the stove, not in the microwave, and she puts real cream on top, too. This is another of those things my friends can’t believe when they stay over.

  After breakfast I felt better. I would read for a while. I would scheme improvements for smoothie ’stache. I would watch TV. I would watch a dozen new cat videos—but not North Dakota Kitten, anything but North Dakota Kitten.

  With these gritty, positive, can-do thoughts in my head, I told Jenny thank you for the lovely, lovely oatmeal, rearranged my sweatshirt cape, and prepared to pirouette back upstairs.

  Then Troy said, “Livvy? I need to talk to you.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Olivia

  The motto on the salt box says, when it rains, it pours.

  OMG—don’t I know it.

  In the course of two short days, I not only became a minor character, but I became a minor character without a significant social media platform.

  “Dad’s right,” I told Troy when he announced he didn’t want to do smoothie ’stache anymore. “You are a quitter!”

  “I’m not,” he said, so calm and reasonable he about made me want to jump out of my chair. “It’s just that it’s run its course is all,” he went on. “Even a good-looking face like mine can’t draw traffic forever. Besides, I’m bored posing for pictures every morning, and I don’t like pushing sugar either.”

  We were in my brother’s room, a place I am rarely permitted to enter even though it’s only three doors down from my own with the furniture arranged the same way, too—sitting area, bookcases, and a desk on one side, queen-size bed on the other. On my brother’s walls are baseball plaques and photos. On his shelves are trophies. The posters are mostly sports teams—the Royals, the Chiefs, the Jayhawks, and the Tigers.

  “Well, just imagine how I feel,” I said. “My whole point was to make you look ridiculous and instead I made you into a star.”

  “That was your whole point?” my brother said.

  “That and getting likes,” I said.

  “I don’t get that either,” my brother said. “Why do you care about likes?”

  I took a breath and blew it out. Troy had to be the most exasperating brother since Cain. Also, clueless. “How do I even answer a question like that? Why not ask me why I breathe, or why I shop, or why I like that cute boy Richard in math class who officially does not care about me at all?”

  “You breathe to stay alive, Olivia,” Troy said.

  “Same reason I collect likes,” I said, “to stay alive socially. If someone gets more likes than me, I’m socially in the toilet.”

  Troy made a face. “Ew,” he said. “I guess it’s a girl thing. But as for making me look ridiculous—why bother? Most of the time I have no trouble doing that for myself.”

  “Are you kidding?” I said. “Around here you have always been Mr. Perfect, and then you went and quit baseball and you weren’t Mr. Perfect anymore, but you were still one hundred percent the center of attention. All anyone wanted to talk about was how you quit baseball. It’s all you and Dad still talk about. I’m sick of it. Who cares about—”

  “Livvy?” my brother interrupted. “Give it a rest, okay? I know it’s not fair. Baseball was way too big a deal around here. And there’s something else, too, but you have to promise you’ll never tell Dad and Mom.”

  I was revved up and ready to argue, but now Troy was acting so serious that I took a breath and slowed down. “I give my solemn oath,” I said, and drew an X across my chest.

  “Okay.” Troy took a breath too. “Here’s the thing. Coach wasn’t all that broken up when I told him I was quitting.”

  I let that sink in for a moment but still didn’t understand. Everybody knew my brother was a baseball star. Of course his quitting would hurt the team. “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “I used to be a pretty good player, it’s true. I knew the game inside and out because I’d been playing my whole life, but my real advantage was size. I grew up earlier than the other guys, so I was stronger than them and faster, too.

  “Well, guess what, Livvy? The other guys caught me, and now I’m more like average. There’s a sophomore this year who played JV last year—Malik. Coach just loves him. With me out of the way, Malik is starting, and doing better than I would’ve.”

  “Why not tell Dad this?” I asked. “What’s the big secret?”

  Troy shrugged. “Maybe it’s just my stupid ego. I want Dad to think I’m still a star—going out on a high note. Anyway, Dad would just tell me I’m lazy. I should try harder.”

  “He’s right,” I said.

  Troy shook his head. “He wasn’t out there. I was, and I know. Anyway, where was baseball going to take me? The last superstar from my high school was a pitcher. He played a year in the minors for peanuts, then messed up his shoulder real bad. Now all that’s left is a dusty plaque on the wall of the high school locker room—big deal.

  “I miss the guys and I miss the excitement, Livvy, but I had to be realistic,” Troy concluded. “Don’t laugh, but I’m better off spending time on my homework. I wish Dad would get that.”

  “Smoothie ’stache doesn’t interfere with your homework,” I said. “And I have a lot of great ideas to regain eyeballs, like making it more interactive. So from now on, every day you walk in mud or glue or something. And then we post your footprints, and people have to guess what you stepped in. What do you think?”

  Troy frowned. “I think I’m stuck to the floor going nowhere,” he said. “Nope, I’m done. You know in the Bible where Paul tells the Corinthians to put away childish things? That is what I am doing.”

  If Troy had been all angry and loud, I would have fought back. B
ut he wasn’t, and his cool made me think he would never change his mind.

  So I gave up and stood up. “Try the Bible out on Dad,” I suggested.

  “Maybe I will,” he said.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Olivia

  And now let us turn from childish things to cheerful ones—like how my dear, dear, wonderful friend Emma was so totally punctual with the Easter cookies, which arrived on Good Friday. Later, when I looked at the calendar, I saw why. It was one of those years when Passover and Easter overlapped.

  Since I go to Catholic school, we had Good Friday off. I think Jenny was almost as excited as me when the UPS guy rang the bell after lunch and we saw the return address on the box: Gladwyne, PA.

  “They were chocolate last year, weren’t they?” Jenny said as she carried the package into the kitchen. I was right behind her.

  “With icing,” I said. “If I close my eyes, I can still taste them.”

  Jenny set the package down and handed me a knife. “Be careful, Olivia,” she said.

  I gave her the knife back. “You will do a much better job.”

  Three swift cuts later, the box was open and the cookies had been set free—macaroons! And not just any macaroons either, but chocolate-dipped macaroons with chocolate squiggles on top.

  “You don’t happen to be one of those coconut haters, do you, Jenny?” I asked.

  “You know I love coconut,” she said. “Why?”

  “Too bad.” I sighed a grand dramatic sigh. “I was hoping more for me.”

  “Very funny,” Jenny said. “But we should save them for later—shouldn’t we?”

  “We should save most of them,” I said.

  Mustering superhuman willpower and self-control, Jenny and I restricted our cookie consumption to two each. After that, the plan was for Ralph to drive me to Courtney’s to hang out till dinner, but first I wanted to change my clothes. I was on my way upstairs when Jenny called, “Hang on, sweetheart. I didn’t notice till now, but there’s a letter.”

  11 April, Tuesday

  Dear dear dearest, most brilliant, brainy, and talented O!

  I am sending macaroons for your Easter party because they are traditional cookies for Passover. (Maybe you knew that?) Same as matzo and other Passover foods, they don’t have flour and leavening, which aren’t allowed this time of year. Why aren’t they allowed?

  I will tell you.

  The idea is we remember the Jews who didn’t have time to hang out waiting for their bread (or cookies!) to rise when they were escaping from Pharaoh three thousand years ago.

  How are you? Are you surviving baseball? Is smoothie ’stache on break? My friends and I all miss it. You have to bring it back!

  I am fine and school is good, but things have not been that great around my house this year because my great-grandmother died in January , and after that my mom got depressed and wouldn’t get out of bed, which was just so weird. She is a little better now—back at work and she goes to a counselor. She says she wants to get well for her family because she loves us, but sometimes she still feels sad.

  I thought I understood grown-ups, but it turns out I don’t.

  Another strange thing has happened around my house, but this one isn’t necessarily terrible. Are you ready? We all believe in ghosts!

  It started when Grace sent cookies to help my mom, and I made some more, and I think indirectly the cookies did help my mom (she got out of bed), but then the strange thing happened: A ghost came and ate most of them.

  Go ahead and think I’m crazy if you want.

  It’s possible it was our dog or that someone took the cookies as a joke, but I prefer the idea that my brother Nathan’s ghost was with us for a few minutes, gobbling cookies the way a kid might. My mom says she likes the idea too.

  So score one for flour power? I haven’t written Hannah yet to tell her this weird story.

  Speaking of Hannah—did she send you cookies? Did she tell you about how Jack broke up with her?

  I am not sure I agree with you that romance is so great, O. It seems to cause one crisis after another. If we have to sneak into Boys Camp again this summer, you guys are on your own. My parents will make me come home for sure if I break my ankle again!

  Sorry if this letter is too weird or too serious or too long. I am just telling you the truth about what’s going on—it has been a very strange year so far.

  Love always from one of your Moonlight Ranch besties, Emma

  P.S. Here is something ironic! These cookies are supposed to deliver flour power for your Easter celebration, but the truth is they have no flour!

  P.P.S. Your turn to write to Lucy. And remember: She has no phone, so she has never even heard of smoothie ’stache!

  I read Emma’s letter once and thought she was crazy, then a second time and thought I was mean for thinking she was crazy. Her poor mom! And poor Emma, too! In my life lately, the very worst things were one pouty-pants dad and one social-media calamity. In Emma’s life, someone she loved had died, her mom was sad, and her brother’s ghost had come back to haunt them.

  Except that couldn’t be right, could it? Nobody believes in ghosts.

  My phone buzzed. My tablet flashed. I ignored them and thought of Emma—of how she must be feeling . . . but a person can only ignore their phone for so long, right? Courtney was texting. She probably thought I’d forgotten all about her.

  OMW, I typed back.

  “O-LIV-ee-yah?” Jenny called up the stairs.

  “Be right there!” I called. Then I dropped Emma’s letter and opened a dresser drawer. What had I done with my new jeans anyway?

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Olivia

  Mama and Pop-Pop are my father’s parents. They live near the river, only a few miles from our house, but the neighborhood—same one where my dad grew up—is totally different and not as nice. The houses are small. There aren’t many trees. Some of the yards are overgrown with weeds.

  My parents have offered to buy my grandparents a place closer to our house, a big condo in a nice building—elevator, doorman, the works!—but my grandparents won’t budge.

  After church on Sunday morning—Easter—Mom, Dad, Troy, and I drove over to have brunch. I was wearing my church clothes, a pink lace dress with a full skirt and pink wedge sandals. I looked good, if I do say so myself. My mom and I had certainly shopped long enough. Anyway, the only trouble was that the sash had a bow and on the car ride that dug into my back. When I got home I would probably find a bruise as big as Alaska.

  I wanted to ask why, oh why, we had to drive all the long, long way over to my grandparents’ house instead of inviting them to ours—except I knew the answer would be a steely look from my dad and a hush now from my mother.

  So I tried a different approach.

  “Why is it they don’t want to move again?” I asked.

  “Pop-Pop says we should save our money instead of wasting it on something fancy for a couple of old people,” said Troy, who was fiddling with the remote for the sound system in the SUV. “He says you never know when a rainy day will come and you might need it.”

  “Good advice,” said my father, glancing back at us in the rearview mirror.

  My mother looked over her shoulder. “That’s what he and Mama say, but I think the truth is that they’re stubborn and don’t like change—just like their son.”

  “Me? Stubborn?” Dad said.

  “They don’t even hardly visit us,” I said. “If they lived closer, we could see them more.”

  “They feel funny in our neighborhood,” Troy said. “When it was first built, black people weren’t even allowed to live there.”

  “That can’t be true,” I said. “Where did you hear that?”

  “It is true,” Dad said. “When your grandparents were young, there were restrictions that said only white people could buy property there. Those restrictions had been illegal for years by the time your mom and I bought, but attitudes don’t always change with the laws.”<
br />
  I know about slavery and the Civil Rights movement and discrimination and Black Lives Matter. I know racism is a real thing, in other words—and if I needed a reminder, I got it from the comments on smoothie ’stache. But all of that, even the comments, seemed far away compared with discrimination against my very own grandparents. I got a queasy feeling in my stomach, and all I could do was swallow and hope it went away.

  “Here we are now,” Dad said. “Don’t forget your manners, you two, or I’ll never hear the end of it.”

  Dad turned into the driveway and, as if they’d been watching at the window, my grandparents appeared on the front porch, smiling and waving. I rolled down my window, waved back, and hollered, “Hello!”

  Whether it’s Christmas or your birthday or Fourth of July, Mama makes macaroni and cheese, biscuits, coleslaw, green beans, fruit salad, deviled eggs, and a sheet cake. So that’s what she made for Easter brunch, too, and Jenny had sent along ribs. We ate till we had to stop, and then Pop-Pop brought Troy and me Easter baskets full of chocolate eggs and jelly beans.

  “No more!” Troy laughed. “I’ll burst and you’ll have to clean up the mess.”

  “Troy?” my mother said.

  “Sorry, Mom,” Troy said, “and you’re right. Livia should clean up. Mama and Pop-Pop have done more than their share.”

  “You’re not funny,” I said.

  “He is kind of funny,” Pop-Pop said. “But I was sorry to hear you quit the baseball team, Troy.”

  My mother rose from her chair abruptly and grabbed the nearest plates. “I’ll clear up,” she said. “You all just sit and visit.”

  My father frowned at my brother. “We were all sorry,” he said. Would he ever get over it?

  Troy kept his voice even. “I know a lot of people were disappointed, but it had to be done. It was time.”

  Mom came back for more plates. It was strange to see her doing Jenny’s job. “Awfully quiet in here,” she said. “Is everything okay?”