Right. So she wanted in ’cause she was bored? Um, yeah. Let me think. “No thanks. I’ve got it covered.”
Which I totally didn’t, but no sense giving Lila a front row seat to watch my plans implode. Lucky for me the coach gathered us in for our pre-game pep talk just then.
Coach thumped his clipboard like he always did to fire us up. “Okay guys. I want you to go out there and play your best!”
I snuck a peek at Lila, who frowned when she noticed me. Her eyes narrowed, and I suddenly had a feeling something bad was about to happen. But I wasn’t worried, because what could possibly be worse than “the haircut”?
After forty minutes of nine-to-zero humiliation, my dad and I rushed home to finish getting ready for the bake sale. Dad baked the cookies, while I made the price list. Luckily I was good at math, so I easily calculated the price per cookie to make this whole thing worthwhile.
Looking back, I should have brought the paper and markers into the kitchen, but I didn’t think about it until the burnt smell hit my nose.
“Please let Matt be making toast!” I prayed. Poster in hand, I rushed to the kitchen where my worst fears stared back at me like beady little bug eyes. Dad held two pans of black hockey pucks instead of the cookies I expected.
“What did you do?!”
Dad slid the pans onto the stove and closed the oven. “Okay. Just stay calm. This isn’t as bad as it looks.”
“Not as bad as it looks?” How could he even say that?
“Well, I mean … we could maybe dip them in chocolate or peanut butter, and … and …”
“And call them chocolate-covered ashes? Dad! How could you do this? Mom gave you exact instructions!”
Dad wiped the sweat off his forehead. “I know she did, but I calculated it out, and we didn’t have time to do ten batches at twelve minutes each. So I increased the temperature, decreased the time, and thought I’d outsmart the system by doing four pans at once.”
That’s when I noticed the other two pans on the counter. Those cookies weren’t completely black like the others, but definitely not edible.
“Oh, and I might have gotten a little sidetracked making you a cool stand to sell the cookies from. It’s in the garage. You should see it!”
“What good is a stand with no cookies?” My nose prickled, and that spot behind my eyes burned.
“I’m sorry! I thought I could handle both. But on the bright side, we still have more cookie dough.” He pushed his glasses up his nose and looked at me all hopeful-like.
Mouth clamped shut, I nodded. I didn’t trust myself to speak. But what had I expected? That my dad would suddenly be able to cook?
Dad cleared his throat and pointed to my poster. “So uh, you might want to lower that price a bit. I just don’t see anyone paying twenty dollars for one of these.”
But they would’ve for Mom’s. This whole mess was her fault! How could she abandon me like this?
I looked at the clock. We only had twenty minutes left. Not quite two batches. The whole thing seemed pointless now. But then I thought of Mrs. Schuster and Black Marge. The pirate captain always found good in a bad situation. Was that possible?
Dad slid the hockey pucks from the pan to the cooling rack, and suddenly an idea struck.
First I marched to the oven and adjusted the temperature. “This time, we follow Mom’s instructions. One batch at a time.”
“Agreed.”
“And don’t throw those cookies away. I have an idea.”
I hated to do it, but I needed Matt’s help. After searching the house with no luck, I called Jimmy’s.
“What do you want, pipsqueak?” Matt sounded annoyed.
As fast as I could, I explained the street hockey idea to him. “Please? I’ll share the profits.”
The line was silent for a moment. “Not just profits,” he finally said. “Make it a base price of ten dollars even if no one plays, plus fifty percent. Then I’m in.”
I bit my lip. That sounded like a lot. But half a cookie would cover the ten dollars. And it’s not like I had many options. “Fine. But only fifty percent of the game profits. Not on the cookies.”
“Deal. See you in five.”
I hoped I hadn’t just made a big mistake, but I didn’t have time to worry about it. First I fixed the poster:
Mrs. Jenkins’s Famous Cookies + Cookie Street Hockey
$20/cookie OR $2/game
Dad used a furniture dolly to move the cookie stand to the corner of our cul-de-sac and staple-gunned the sign to it. With no time to spare, we Saran-wrapped the fresh-baked cookies. To give Dad credit they weren’t burned this time. They just looked more like miniature cow pies than chocolate chip cookies. As long as they didn’t taste like cow pies, I no longer cared.
By the time we got outside, Matt had set up his practice goal and was shooting pretend pucks into it.
I even smiled when Dad set the plate of blackened cookies on the table. Talk about making lemonade out of lemons. If Jason and I weren’t grounded from each other, we’d be laughing like crazy about the whole thing.
That was when the Pierces’ garage door opened. Suddenly I didn’t like my little lemon analogy anymore. Lila wheeled out a professional-looking, white-painted lemonade stand and waved all friendly-like at my dad.
“Hi, Mr. Jenkins!”
I was about to tell her off when my dad answered her, the traitor. “Well hello, Lila! What a nice addition to Annie’s bake sale. Do you need any help?”
My mouth dropped open. Didn’t he see this for the hostile takeover it was?
“Thank you, but I can do it on my own.”
Dad nodded, then turned to me. “I’ll keep baking more of those cookies, sweet pea. Good luck!”
Lila made a few more trips inside, and her stand was complete. A glass pitcher of lemonade with lemon wedges floating alongside the ice. A bowl of lemons and a cute little sugar bowl, with a cute little spoon. A pile of crystal-clear plastic cups, and under it all a frilly tablecloth that matched the lacy pink dress Lila wore.
As if clothes mattered. I was still in my sweaty soccer uniform. Because I was selling cookies. Not clothes. Sheesh.
But I felt better when she taped up her price: $1.00 per glass. Pssht. No way she’d make any money with a price like that.
When Lila finally sat down, I stuck my tongue out at her. She threw one of her snobby looks at me and pretended to act all sweet. What a fake!
When the first customer arrived at my stand (not hers), I smiled wide. It was Mrs. Schuster.
“Like the reformed crabby woman I am, I came to show my support.” She was all dressed up and even wore a hat with a huge blue feather on it that matched her purse. The funniest part was that she carried a cane. She just didn’t use the thing.
I beamed at my friend. “Thanks, Mrs. Schuster! What can I get you?”
She looked down at my offerings and started coughing. “And you say these are your mother’s cookies?”
I cleared my throat. “Well, it’s her recipe anyway. She kind of had to work at the last minute.”
“Hmm. Well a word to the wise. Maybe you should wrap them in some tinfoil, too.” She opened her purse and pulled out her wallet. “So how much will one of these cookies set me back?”
I pointed to the sign, and Mrs. Schuster started coughing again. “My, my, my. Inflation’s a killer, isn’t it? Any chance you’d give an old lady a senior’s discount? I only have a five dollar bill.” She pulled it from her purse and held it out.
Losing fifteen dollars on the first sale didn’t bode well, but no way was I going to let Lila think no one wanted my goods. I took the money and handed Mrs. Schuster a cookie.
“There you go. Thank you SO MUCH for your business.” I might have spoken a little louder than I needed to.
Mrs. Schuster unwrapped the cookie and to
ok a bite.
“Oh.” She stopped chewing and held a hand to her mouth. “Oh my.” She looked around and caught sight of Lila’s stand. “Excuse me.” She stuffed the cookie in her purse and started pulling quarters from her wallet as she rushed across the street.
I watched her gulp the whole thing down in seconds. And as if that wasn’t bad enough, she bought a second one!
When she finally headed home, she waved. “Good luck with the bake sale.”
I glared at Lila, who waved with that sticky-sweet smile on her face. She was such a phony! How did people not see it?
But they didn’t. Even though I stayed at my stand for over two hours, not one more person bought a cookie. I even tried the tinfoil trick Mrs. Schuster had suggested. No luck. Because they were all too busy buying lemonade across the street. A few boys wandered over to play Cookie Street Hockey, but that was it.
When it was all over, Matt helped me carry everything back inside. I thought he was just being nice until he demanded his money.
“Time to pay up, pipsqueak. Five hockey customers at two dollars a pop makes ten, so at fifty percent you owe me five dollars of that, plus a ten-dollar base fee for a grand total of fifteen dollars. I should charge you a set-up and take-down fee, but I’m feeling generous today.” He held out his hand.
“Fifteen dollars? But that’s all I even made!” I pulled the crumpled bills from my pocket and lay them on the kitchen counter.
His face got all serious as he straightened them out and counted. “Yup, that’s fifteen all right.” He stuffed the money in his back pocket and headed to his room laughing. “Nice doing business with you, sucker!”
I climbed onto a stool and lay my head on the counter. What a rotten day. All that work, and nothing to show for it. Except a bunch of burnt cookies and a sloppily-made sign. And one more item to cross off the list. What a waste of a Saturday.
My dad cleared his throat from behind.
“What?” I moaned.
“We were in such a hurry this morning, we never did get our traditional game-day Slurpees. Maybe we could hit some homemade hockey pucks and then rectify that situation. What do you think?”
I couldn’t help laughing. Dad may be a rotten cook, but he was pretty good at cheering me up.
15
“You’re doing it wrong!” I hovered next to Dad while he slathered peanut butter on a slice of bread. “You have to spread it evenly. See? That bite right there won’t have any flavor, and this one will glue my mouth shut.”
After a week of eating his sorry excuse for a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, I decided to offer pointers. Hadn’t Mom told me I needed to pitch in more?
Dad slapped the jelly side onto the peanut butter side. Crooked. “It all goes to the same place, Annie. If you’re so particular, perhaps you should make your own from now on.” He stuck the sandwich in a bag with the already-made PB&J disaster and handed me my lunch.
“Mom always made it right.” I spun around and stomped out of the kitchen.
“You’re welcome!” Dad called.
I stuffed my lunch in my backpack, then marched to the door.
Dad had been doing everything wrong from the beginning. And trying to correct him didn’t help, either. He just kept saying, “Well I’m not your mother.” Duh, as if that wasn’t painfully obvious.
“I’m going to Mrs. Schuster’s,” I announced.
Maybe Mrs. Schuster could do damage control on the sandwiches. After all, her secret rations had saved me more than once from being poisoned by Dad’s awful cooking.
“Have a good day!” Dad yelled from the kitchen.
I waited a moment longer, but he didn’t rush to the door like Mom did to insist on a hug and kiss. Again. Not that I liked that stuff. But routine was routine.
Another minute and I slipped out, swallowing back the lump in my throat that formed all too often these days.
Sloppy peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, burned dinners, and none of the little extras like a note in my lunch. And every day at lunch, Jessica and Jenny still asked me if I had a cookie or a hockey puck for dessert. Big mouth Lila.
I just wanted things back to the way they were.
At Mrs. Schuster’s, I let myself in. The last time I knocked, I got a lecture. “Friends don’t stand on formalities at my house. You know how to open a door, don’t you?”
I pulled out the offending sandwiches and left my backpack in the entry. In the kitchen, Mrs. Schuster was frying eggs. I held up the baggies.
“We need some emergency medical attention here.”
“Oh?”
“My dad just glops the peanut butter on and leaves the jelly in clumps.” I’d never discussed the art of making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches with Mrs. Schuster, but it all seemed so obviously wrong, someone like Mrs. Schuster would surely understand.
Mrs. Schuster shook her head. “Amateur. Didn’t spread it all the way to the edges, did he?”
I crossed my arms. “Not even close.”
A quick spatula flick, and the eggs were on plates. Mrs. Schuster pulled a clean knife from the drawer. “It might not be too late if we hurry.”
I put the sandwiches on the counter and held my breath as Mrs. Schuster performed sandwich surgery.
She pried the bread apart on the first and spread the peanut butter into an even layer that covered the whole slice. Using the knife, she massaged the jelly clumps till the purple side was smooth, the way it’s supposed to be. Like a PB&J pro, she skimmed off the excess and flicked it into the sink.
“Better?” Mrs. Schuster let me inspect.
The peanut butter had purple flecks throughout, and the jelly had brown spots, but given the circumstances I could overlook it. I nodded my approval.
She did the same to the other sandwich, and I put them safely in my lunch bag. My shoulders felt lighter as I helped Mrs. Schuster carry our breakfasts to the table.
“So was Jason at soccer practice last night?” Mrs. Schuster asked.
I sat down with a thud. “No. That’s two in a row now, not to mention the game. And since the note, he hasn’t even acknowledged me at school. Kickball has been so boring I even agreed to play hopscotch with Lila and her drones yesterday.”
They had all promised to cut the lunch jokes if I did. But it hadn’t ended well, and I didn’t want to talk about it. Lila had kept going on and on about some stupid shopping trip and some stupid expensive spa her mom was taking her to. When she started bragging about the expensive designer clothes she planned to get, I lost it.
“You are the most selfish person I know! Jason has to move because of money, and all you can do is brag about ways to waste it!”
I’d stomped off, but not before seeing the hurt look on Lila’s face. Worse, I’d blabbed Jason’s secret. I felt like total scum.
“But today’s the last day of the punishment, right?” Mrs. Schuster swirled a finger in her pill cup. “Next week will be better.”
I shook away the memory of what I’d done. “It can’t be worse.” I took a big bite of egg. “So what are you going to tell me about Black Marge today? I don’t suppose she ever ate peanut butter and jelly sandwiches?”
Despite all the time I’d spent with Mrs. Schuster, I still hadn’t gotten any more clues about the mystery. Jason would be disappointed. But after all the Black Marge stories, I was convinced she was real. Along with the treasure. I could tell by the look in Mrs. Schuster’s eyes when she talked about it.
Definitely real.
Mrs. Schuster laughed. “That’s where you’d be wrong. How do you think I learned to make them the right way?”
I squinted at her. “You’re just making that up. They probably didn’t even have peanut butter back then.”
“So quick to doubt, are you?” She took a bite of yolk-dipped toast, chewing carefully before swallowing. “Accordin
g to family history … and an entry in Black Marge’s journal, my family may well be the originators of peanut butter.”
“Now I know you’re making it up.”
Mrs. Schuster ignored me. “In her first journal entry after running away, Marge documented her getaway. Said she slipped out as soon as her old man’s snoring reached its peak. She swiped a loaf of bread, the strawberry preserves their neighbor had brought over that morning, and her mammy’s jar of protein paste.”
“Protein paste?” I wrinkled my nose. “That sounds disgusting.”
Mrs. Schuster laughed. “That’s what they used to call peanut butter. Though it wasn’t sweetened and processed. Just ground-up peanuts.”
I still didn’t believe her.
“After dumping out her papa’s whiskey jar, she high-tailed it out of town.”
I took a swig of milk. “How old was she?”
“Fifteen. The first few days of her escape, she spread the preserves and the paste on the stale bread to soften it. First recorded peanut butter and jelly sandwich, right there. Not that I’ve done the research, but still, first I’ve ever heard of.”
I couldn’t help smiling. Maybe it wasn’t so unbelievable. And it made sense that peanut butter and jelly sandwiches ran in Mrs. Schuster’s family. That would explain why I liked her so much after only a couple of weeks. Good blood.
Mrs. Schuster cleared her throat. “I don’t have proof, but family legend says Marge met up with a certain Dr. Kellogg on her way to California. Though Dr. Kellogg is often credited with inventing peanut butter, we know better.”
“Cap’n Black Marge, the inventor of peanut butter.” I grinned. I definitely didn’t believe her, but it would be cool if peanut butter did have a secret history, so I played along. “Didn’t she get any credit?”
“None. That same year, she met up with Lenny, later known as ‘Leonard the Lout,’ and with Marge posing as a boy, they joined the crew of a merchant ship. They didn’t make it back to North America for years. Lenny really wasn’t a lout in the beginning, you know… . I mean, according to Black Marge. She probably wouldn’t have survived without him. He shared the little food he had, and then helped her find that job on the ship. It wasn’t until they were captured by pirates that she saw his nasty side.”
The Last Great Adventure of the PB & J Society Page 10
