P.S. Send More Cookies

by Martha Freeman

  Dad said “Fine” without looking up.

  I said, “Do you want help, Mom?” Partly I was being my usual kind and generous self. Partly I wanted to avoid another round of Dad versus Troy.

  “No, no,” Mom said. “I’ll let you know if I need you,” and then she returned to the kitchen.

  The silence that followed was awkward, but it didn’t last. Soon Mom was back. “Olivia, can you believe we forgot these?” She was carrying a plate of macaroons.

  “Where did these come from?” Mama wanted to know, and I explained.

  “Can’t turn that down, then,” Mama said, reaching for one, and it turned out nobody else could either, full as we were.

  Pop-Pop had just swallowed the last morsel of his when he started to chuckle. “You know, Troy,” he said, “the way you spoke just now—it reminded of a certain young man who used to live in this very house.”

  “Oh, now”—Dad shook his head, but he looked less stern than he had before—“don’t you go telling tales on me, Pop.”

  “B’lieve I might. It’s the prerogative of age. Don’t you agree, Olivia?”

  “Sure,” I said. “I like your stories about my dad. Is it the one about the broken window? That’s my favorite, but I like the one about all the strawberries, too.”

  “This one will be new to you, I think,” said Pop-Pop.

  “Oh my,” said my father.

  Pop-Pop looked at Mama for permission. She shrugged one shoulder—just the way Troy does.

  “This is the story,” Pop-Pop began, “of the time your father quit something, himself.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Olivia

  Pop-Pop’s story: “You kids may not know this, but your dad’s first job title was not so exalted as the one he has today. It was paper boy. This was back in the day, you understand, when everybody subscribed to the morning paper, and they expected it on their doorstep even before they perked their coffee.

  “Your dad was only ten years old when he got his first route, and he was up before the sun rose to walk that route and deliver those papers in every kind of bad Kansas City weather.

  “It was hard work for low pay, especially at first, when he was younger and smaller than most of the other boys. The newspapers didn’t pay you by the hour—oh no—they paid by papers delivered. So how it went was the more you delivered, the more you earned, and the faster you delivered, the faster you earned.

  “Well, as all boys do, your father grew, and as some boys do, your father worked hard. By the time he was fourteen years old, I’d wager to say he was the fastest and best-paid paper boy in all of Kansas City. He knew the newspaper delivery business cold.

  “But then came the summer he turned sixteen, an especially hot summer if I remember correctly. Your dad was going into his junior year in high school, and he announced that he was quitting his paper route.

  “ ‘I want to do something new,’ he told your mama and me.

  “Well, now, being the wise, practical, and conservative father that I am, I discouraged him in no uncertain terms. ‘You got a sure thing going, son,’ I told him, ‘something you’re good at. You got your pocket money and some savings besides. Why would you want to mess with that? Not to mention, what is it you’re going to do with yourself?’

  “ ‘I’m not sure,’ your dad answered. ‘I just know I want to do something different.’

  “This, I came to believe later on, was a crock o’ malarkey. He knew exactly what he wanted to do. He just did not want to let on at that time.

  “Now, being as how you know what happened later, it might be you think you know where this is going. No one can deny that George Baron has done real well with his barbecue sauce. Maybe you’re anticipating he wanted to spend some time in the kitchen.

  “But that wasn’t it. That came later. What had captured his fancy was baseball. Our own Kansas City Royals had won the World Series that year, and the whole town was crazy for them. Your dad had never played more than pickup games in the park and stickball in the street, but he had a certain amount of natural athletic ability, and as I’ve already said, he was fast. He wanted to see if maybe he was good enough to play on a real team.

  “If this was a movie, your dad would not only make the team, he’d be the best player on it and hit the winning home run in the championship game. In real life, he made the team, but only just, and he never played much. Most of the other boys were just plain better. In the end, they had too much of a head start on him when it came to skills and knowledge both.

  “As for your mama and me, we came around after a while and even went to some of his games. It was fun for us and for him, too. If he regretted his choice—or the depletion of his savings—he never told us.

  “The worst part was the new paper boy wasn’t nearly as good as your daddy, and I missed my morning paper more times than I like to think about.”

  Done with his story, Pop-Pop reached for another cookie and chewed it thoughtfully.

  Dad said, “I forgot we argued when I quit the paper route.”

  Pop-Pop said, “We did, and I didn’t forget.”

  Then Troy turned to Dad. “You never told me you played ball.”

  Dad shrugged. “There wasn’t much to say about warming the bench.”

  “So is that why you wanted me to play?” Troy asked. “Was I supposed to live your dream?”

  “Now, Troy . . . ,” Mom said. “It’s a holiday. We are not going to fuss.”

  “I’m not fussing. I’m wondering.” Troy was still looking at Dad.

  Dad sighed. “I introduced you to baseball because I liked it as a kid, and I still do. Then you turned out to be good at it. Now you’ve quit. That’s the end of that particular story, I guess. Maybe someday, far in the future, we will tell it around the table on Easter Sunday.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Wednesday, May 10

  Hannah retrieved the letter from her mailbox at the P.O., glanced at the return address, and smiled. It was a much-belated thank-you from Olivia—had to be.

  When was it Hannah had sent those cookies to Olivia? January?

  She hadn’t heard a word, and now it was May, finals week, and here at last was a note back.

  Hannah had a ton of studying to do. Why did those Renaissance artists have to paint so much anyway? Couldn’t they have contented themselves with a canvas or two each? No mere human could memorize it all, but she was headed to the library to try.

  On the way, though, she bought an iced coffee at the student center, sat down at a patio table, and opened Olivia’s note.

  Monday, May 8

  Dear kindest, most intelligent, brave, and princesslike secret-cookie friend Lucy,

  Here is the news from chez moi.

  You know (because I’ve told you) how my parents love my brother so much more than they love me????

  Well, my brother quit baseball this year (!!!!), and since then he and I have actually been getting along. This is my theory: Without so much adulation and applause directed his way all the time, he has had the opportunity (at last!) to mature.

  Praise the Lord!!!!

  Ironically, however, just as he and I started to get along, he and my dad hit what Jenny calls a “rough patch,” my mother calls “obstacles,” and I call “glaring and arguing and making dinnertime SUPER unpleasant for everyone forced to sit through it.”

  But then (ta-da!) something happened.

  Can you guess what?

  FLOUR POWER!!!!

  Emma sent macaroons for Easter, and while we ate them my pop-pop told a story about when my dad was a kid. At first it looked like this was only going to make Dad and Troy start up all over again, but then the flour power kicked in and Pop-Pop said, “Excuse me? If I may? You are both missing the point of my story. It wasn’t about baseball at all. It was about quitting.”

  And my dad and Troy both said, “It was?” at practically the same instant.

  And Pop-Pop said, “It was about how kids have to do what t
hey have to do and how parents—even good ones such as myself and your dad—sometimes have to get outta the way and let them.”

  And my brother said, “Score!” and my dad said, “Hmph,” and my mom and my grandmother both started to laugh, and then I did too—I think because we all realized how alike my dad and Troy really are. And last week when we went on family vacation, Dad and Troy skied together every day.

  One more big news item before my typing fingers fall off and I have to call 911 using my toes. Did you get lemon cookies from Hannah yet? I’m sure you must have because she sent them to me and Grace and Emma. (I hope I remembered to send a thank-you note.) Anyway, did she tell you she’s seeing Travis again?

  I couldn’t believe it either!!!!

  After all the hard travail we went through to piece that breakup letter together and sneak cookies to Lance in Boys Camp and fix her up with Jack, who is kind and nice besides funny—how could she get back together with that terrible, dreadful, no good, very bad Travis? (LOL—I crack myself up.)

  So now, Lucy my sweet cookie friend, write and tell me ABSOLUTELY EVERYTHING going on in your life! How are the triplets? How is soccer? Have you strangled any wolves with your bare hands lately? Are your mom and your grandma okay? What about Vivek? Have you heard from him? I promise I won’t tell Grace—my LIPS ARE SEALED!!!!

  And most important of all, what do you need FLOUR POWER to do for you?

  Love always from your most favorite, most funny, and most wise secret-cookie friend—O

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Wednesday, May 10, Lucy

  Hello, O: It’s Lucy, not spam! Please read this!

  Something strange has happened. I got a letter from you addressed to me, but it’s really a thank-you note to Hannah for cookies. It’s dated February. (???) I am forwarding to Hannah, no problem, but does this mean you sent a letter for me to her?

  No offense, but that sounds like something I would do.

  I hope things are good.

  And if you’re wondering, I am borrowing Kendall’s computer (she’s Arlo, Mia, Levi, and Piper’s mom), so that’s how I’m e-mailing to you, but the one we had at home is still broken, and I still don’t have a phone. If you can answer quick that’s great because I’ll be sitting at Kendall’s desk for a few more minutes.

  Love ya

  —Lucy

  I hit send and looked over my shoulder at Kendall, who was on the love seat nursing the baby, Piper. We were in her den. The triplets were in the family room watching SpongeBob—their absolute favorite—on TV.

  “Thanks again,” I said. “Maybe it wasn’t a real emergency, but I thought she ought to know what happened.”

  “You’re welcome,” Kendall said. “I’m glad you have such good friends from your camp, but we sure miss you in the summer. I guess you’re going back for sure?”

  “Aunt Freda says she can pay this year,” I said. “It’s good, ’cause I can save the money you’ve paid me for babysitting.”

  Kendall raised her eyebrows. “Wait a sec, Lucy. Do you mean last year you paid for camp with your babysitting money?”

  “Mom helped some. It’s no big deal,” I said.

  “Okay, but I’m impressed,” Kendall said. “I never heard of a kid paying her own way to summer camp before.”

  I shrugged, wishing I hadn’t said anything. My life is totally different from everybody else’s in Beverly Hills—from everybody else’s anywhere, maybe. My mom and I live with my nana, and my mom doesn’t always work, and there’s never money for anything extra. Usually, I don’t bring it up.

  “Oh, look.” Kendall pointed her chin at the screen. “I think she answered.”

  OMG, hi, Lucy—Tx for letting me know. I hope I didn’t say anything bad about Hannah in it. (Hahaha!) I wrote the letter by hand so no copy. In case she doesn’t send it on—here is the important question. What do you need flour power to do for you? Xoxooxo!!!! O

  “Do you mind if I write back one more time?” I asked Kendall.

  “Of course I don’t mind. The triplets are fine for a few more minutes. Then you can all go outside and chase each other till they drop from exhaustion. Are you sure you can’t stay for dinner?” Kendall asked. “We would love to have you.”

  “I wish I could,” I said sincerely, “but my mom’s working, and Nana wants me home.”

  “Someday I’d like to meet your nana,” Kendall said. “It’s strange that I haven’t when you only live down the block.”

  I said, “Oh, unh-hunh. Great idea.” Then I turned back to the keyboard, thinking no way that meeting would ever happen. Nana—my grandmother—reads old books all day in a chair in her room and rarely goes outside. The reason she wanted me home was so I could make her dinner.

  Hey, O—Glad you got that. I don’t know what flour power can do about this, but there is news in my life too. My dad is back in town, and who knows what will happen? xoxox Gotta go wrangle triplets. See ya this summer!

  So my life is different from other people’s, and so is my family history.

  My dad is almost twenty years older than my mom. Back when he had an important job and a lot of money, she quit college to marry him. She says she expected happily ever after, but that isn’t how it went. When I was a baby, he did something wrong, something called fraud, and he had to go to prison. After that the money was gone, so Mom and I moved in with her mother, my nana.

  It was awkward, my mom says. Nana never liked my father in the first place. Her own husband—my grandfather—had left her a long time before that, and she has been pretty much anti-men ever since.

  By the time my father got out of prison, I was in kindergarten, and my mother didn’t want to be married. I’m eleven now, and I haven’t seen him since I was five, but sometimes he sends me cards, and sometimes the cards have cash in them. Once it was a ten-dollar bill. Written on the card is usually a cheerful “You go, girl!” kind of note that could have been for anyone.

  My grandmother likes to remind me that it could be worse. I have a roof over my head (even if the bathroom ceiling leaks). I have enough to eat (provided I cook it myself). I have okay clothes (my mom is a good thrift-store shopper). I go to school like any other kid, and I even get to play soccer (because my coach makes sure I’ve got cleats and shin guards). For the last two years I’ve gotten to go to a fancy summer camp, too.

  I have nothing to complain about, Nana says, and sometimes when I can’t fall asleep and I’m sad, I repeat that over and over.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Lucy

  I am good at two things, art and soccer. Coach Kamae says even though I entirely lack killer instinct, I have a knack for reading the field and kicking the ball where it needs to go. Playing soccer, I don’t think; I just do—same with art. For me, things that require thinking are harder.

  The afternoon after I e-mailed Olivia—Thursday—we had a game against the Eagles, the best team in our league, the team that goes to the playoffs every year. Our team, the Bears, were “middling good,” according to Coach Kamae, who always says what matters is to be “a nice group of young women working together in the fresh air and sunshine.”

  The serious parents are driven crazy by this attitude. They pull their girls to play for other teams, which doesn’t help our roster any either. But whatever.

  We lost 4–1 that day, and I scored our team’s only goal—aiming my kick low on the ball so it would arc high and drop fast into the net behind the goalie, who spun around, confused, trying to figure out what had happened.

  I had slipped around an Eagle fullback to take the shot. When it went in, the fullback looked disgusted. “Lucky!” she said, but it wasn’t. I had kicked the ball just the way I meant to.

  Usually Coach gives me a ride home, but that day I had actual fans in attendance. My mom was there, and so were Kendall and her kids. Somehow or another my mom had managed to stand on the wrong side, the visitor side. Kendall was with the rest of the Bears fans on the home side, so—after the “good game
, good game, good game” ritual—I ran off the field toward her.

  Piper the baby was in a sling across her chest. Arlo, Mia, and Levi came running toward me in a mass, grabbed my knees, and stayed put.

  “Hi, hi, hi—thanks for coming!” I said.

  “You were wonderful!” Kendall said.

  “Oh. I guess. Was I? Thanks. But it looks like we lost anyway.”

  “You had a great game, though,” Kendall said.

  “Good game!” said Arlo.

  “Dood dame!” said Levi.

  “Good Lucy!” said Mia.

  “Thanks, you guys.” I dropped down to their level for a group hug. They smelled like jelly beans, grass, and salt.

  “Mommy said next comes ice c’eam. C’mon, we go!” Arlo grabbed my right arm and almost pulled me over.

  “Ice c’eam! Ice c’eam! Ice c’eam!” Levi and Mia chanted.

  Kendall took a breath and squinched her eyes. “Sometimes I can’t hear myself think.”

  “Think louder,” I suggested just as my mom walked up.

  “Did you see him?” Mom asked.

  “Hi, Mom,” I said. “I would like some ice cream, would you?”

  “Your father, I mean,” Mom said.

  “Oh!” Kendall widened her eyes and looked at me.

  “What? See who? I kicked a goal,” I said.

  “I’m sorry,” my mom said. “I’m a little flustered. It’s been so many years.”

  “No, it hasn’t.” I shook my head. “I kicked a goal at the game against the Fruit Bats, too. That was Monday—so only two days.”

  “I don’t think that’s what she means, Lucy,” Kendall said. “I think she means your father.”

  “Have we met?” My mom turned to Kendall as if she had just noticed her, which was hard to believe. Kendall travels with four kids and all their stuff. She is hard to miss.