The Secret Cookie Club

by Martha Freeman

  My parents started decorating my bedroom on the same day the ultrasound told them I was a girl. It is pale pink with a border of wallpaper printed in pink roses. My curtains match the wallpaper. On the walls, my parents hung framed posters of paintings of children by important artists: Mary Cassatt, Pierre-Auguste Renoir, and John Singer Sargent.

  I have a canopy bed with a white lace cover, a white desk for my computer, and a white rocking chair with a pink gingham pillow. My bookcase is full of hardcover books by Charles Dickens, Louisa May Alcott, L. M. Montgomery, and Laura Ingalls Wilder.

  Almost the only things in my room I chose myself are the bulletin board over my desk and what’s tacked to it: a picture of a boy band I used to like, a picture of my parents from their university days, a Dora the Explorer valentine from my second-grade boyfriend, Nino, and a fortune from a fortune cookie that reads: “You will excel at everything you do.”

  The most recent thing added to the bulletin board is the official Moonlight Ranch camp photograph. It was taken at the gymkhana corral. I’m standing in the first row middle because I’m short, with Lucy (tall), Emma (taller), and Olivia (tallest) like stair steps next to me. Vivek is sitting on the fence on the end, looking off to the left, distracted.

  I studied Vivek’s cute face for a moment and then I pulled open the bottom drawer of my desk. It was empty except for one thing—a paper sack from the Moonlight Ranch Trading Post. I didn’t bother to look inside. I knew what was there, and even on this bad day it made me smile.

  I still had homework to do that afternoon, but I decided to unclutter my bulletin board instead. I didn’t even like that boy band anymore, so I yanked off the picture and threw it away. Then I did the same with the valentine from Nino. He moved back to the Philippines in third grade. Why had I even left it up there that long?

  After that, I stuck my hands in my pockets and walked in squares around my room—seven paces, pivot, seven paces, pivot, seven paces . . . . Then I was afraid I might make my leg muscles lopsided, so I reversed and walked in the other direction—seven paces, pivot . . . .

  There is a limit to how much worrying you can do about a single thing. After a few laps, my mind wandered to Shoshi and to the amazing fact that she walks home from school.

  Our town is safe, and the school is only a mile from our neighborhood. Even so, my parents would never let me walk by myself. The idea that one of my classmates did it every day was part thrilling and part scary. It reminded me of finding out that Lucy in Los Angeles didn’t have a phone or a computer. All along, I thought I was the normal one, but maybe it was me who lived a life like nobody else’s, me who lived in a grass hut among palm trees.

  * * *

  When you are an only child, you know your parents very well. This was a new situation—me being in trouble—but still I could predict some things about what my parents would do. One was that my mom would want my dad to do the talking.

  “Is this true what Mrs. Barnes told your mother?” he asked. It was evening by this time, and we were in the living room, which normally is used only when there are guests. My parents were in the two armchairs by the coffee table, and I was on the love seat across from them, perched on the edge like a bird that might take off.

  I told him yes, and then I explained what happened, and then they looked at each other, and then my father looked at me again. “Do you want us to telephone the other girl’s parents?” he asked. “Perhaps if she explained to Mrs. Barnes that she was at fault after all—”

  I was horrified. “What—no!”

  “Then I don’t understand,” my father said. “You are at fault?”

  My parents grew up going to private schools—my father in Singapore, my mother all over the world. What did they know about a partner project at a public school in Massachusetts, USA? I could talk all day, but I’d never be able to explain it to them.

  “It isn’t like that,” I said miserably. “You don’t understand.”

  “We are attempting to,” said my father.

  I took a breath and tried again. “I shouldn’t have yelled in the library. I probably deserve to be in trouble, but so does Shoshi. And the worst part is we still have to work together on the Walden project . . . that is, unless Mrs. Keeran decides to give us a break and let us pick new partners.”

  “Do you want me to telephone Mrs.—”

  “No!” I interrupted again.

  My mother shook her head. “This isn’t like you.”

  I looked at the ceiling, at my toes, and then out the window before looking back at my parents. “Thank you for trying to help,” I said, “but I would be embarrassed if you called either Shoshi’s parents or Mrs. Keeran. I’m not a little kid anymore. Some things I have to do myself.”

  When my parents glanced at each other for the second time, I hoped maybe the conversation was done . . . but that would have been too easy. Of course, there had to be a lecture, too: “We are disappointed in you, Grace,” my father said. “Because you have many natural gifts, our expectations for you are high. At the same time, this world is competitive, and you can’t afford slipups if you are going to succeed. This was a slipup, but we still have confidence you will do what’s right and make us proud of you again.”

  I hated that I had disappointed them and blinked back a tear. “Okay,” I said in my tiniest voice.

  Then my mother said, “How about some soup for dinner? I can heat up that Campbell’s kind you like.”

  CHAPTER 13

  Grace

  Mrs. Keeran sometimes e-mails reminders about assignments. I never before forgot an assignment, but today had been a day of never-befores, so at bedtime I checked. There were no e-mails from Mrs. Keeran, but I did have a message from Shoshi.

  I didn’t want to open it. It might say something mean.

  Then I gave a lecture to myself: Grace Xi, stop this wimpiness right now.

  And then I opened the e-mail:

  hey, so fine. you do 5 facts and i will too and we get our own images or draw pictures or whatever. only you have to come over so we can work on it since we didn’t work today in library. when can you come over?

  Bossy as ever, I thought. Why did we have to work at her house? What was the matter with my house?

  I almost e-mailed back that exactly, but then decided to wait. Spitting out toothpaste and pulling on pajamas, I thought some more. She had compromised on how we were going to do the assignment. So maybe I could compromise too?

  The idea of doing anything Shoshi’s way was very irritating. And here is something else irritating: She didn’t use capital letters in her e-mail.

  The door to my parents’ room was open, and the light was still on, so I went in to say good night. As usual, they were in bed reading. I kissed first my mom and then my dad on the cheek, inhaling their familiar soap-and-toothpaste smells.

  “I love you,” I told them.

  “We love you, Grace,” my father said.

  “Yes,” said my mother, “but no more nonsense at school please.”

  * * *

  The next morning I went up to Shoshi’s desk before the first bell rang. I wanted to get it over with. I said it was okay if we worked at her house, and she told me (still bossy!) to come on Friday, and I said no because of chess club. After that no other day worked either—we had ballet on Tuesday and Thursday, detention on Wednesday.

  While we were talking, Shoshi’s minions were arriving. It is Snot-Nosed Grace who calls them Shoshi’s minions. Their real names are Deirdre and Nell, and they both sit with Shoshi at lunch every day and they even dress like her. Today’s approved outfit was leggings, skirts, and pullover sweaters with Keds.

  (I was wearing a navy polo and pink khakis with Keds.)

  Now they both sat down at their desks and got out their binders, and then they looked at me talking to Shoshi, and they whispered to each other and smirked.

  Whatever, minions.

  “Saturday afternoon, then,” Shoshi said. “Two o’clock.”

 
; I didn’t want it to look like I was obeying a command or something, so I shrugged very casually. “Okay, I guess.”

  * * *

  On Wednesday afternoon I found out what detention is like at Nashoba Elementary School. What happens is this. You go upstairs to room 213. Mr. Long, the fourth-grade teacher, asks you to sign a piece of paper on a clipboard so the school can keep track that you showed up. He smiles sympathetically even though he doesn’t really know you, which makes you feel about one-tenth of one percent less totally humiliated.

  Then you sit down at a desk and look around at the six other people who are in trouble, and you notice they’re all boys but for you and Shoshi.

  You know Thomas Pendleton was tardy three days in a row, and Chris Bigler (he’s always in trouble) used a bad word where a playground monitor could hear him. But you don’t know what the other boys are in for, and you wonder if it’s worse than what you and Shoshi did.

  Shoshi, by the way, is sitting in the front of the classroom and hasn’t looked at you once.

  The classroom is really quiet, and at first you feel kind of awful. You think about how you don’t want to be there but you’re not allowed to leave, which means you are trapped, and you imagine a jail breakout like on TV.

  But after a few moments you give up and do your homework for a while . . . and then it’s over.

  * * *

  Thursday and Friday that week rated okay. Thursday might even have been “good” (I got 100 on the map quiz plus two extra-credit points for identifying oranges as Florida’s most valuable agricultural product, no Oreos though), except that in the back of my head was the worry about having to go to Shoshi’s house.

  CHAPTER 14

  Grace

  On Saturday morning I have Chinese class and after that karate.

  Lily from ballet is also in karate, and my parents take her home.

  “What are you doing this afternoon?” Lily asked me in the car. “I’m going to Rose Ellen’s birthday party.”

  Rose Ellen is someone we both know from our class last year. If I hadn’t skipped a grade, I would have been going to her birthday party too.

  “I’m going to Shoshi Rubinstein’s to work on the Walden project,” I said. “She’s my partner.”

  Lily’s eyes got big. “Poor you! You hate Shoshi Rubinstein! Didn’t Mrs. Keeran know that?”

  “Who is it Grace hates?” my mother asked from the front seat. Lily and I were both sitting in the back.

  “You already know I don’t get along with Shoshi, Mom. We are working on it.”

  I saw my mother’s frown in the rearview mirror. “I hope so.”

  Lily scrunched her face and mouthed a silent, exaggerated, “Sorry.”

  * * *

  Lunch was macaroni and cheese from the black and purple box, which my parents believe is superior to the kind in the blue and orange box. I ate two helpings along with an apple and a glass of milk. I needed strength because I was planning to ask my parents for permission to do something shocking and unheard of. I wanted to ride my bike to Shoshi’s house by myself.

  While I ate, I organized my arguments: (1) It is only four blocks. (2) The last crime in my neighborhood was in the summer when Mr. Bigler (Chris Bigler’s father; misbehavior must run in that family) didn’t pick up after their dog, and the last crime before that no one wrote down because the Pilgrims hadn’t arrived yet. (3) Even though it is only four blocks, riding my bike is still good exercise. (4) Because I am never allowed to go anywhere, my bike gathers dust in the garage, which is wasteful. (5) Some kids (Shoshi) walk all the way to school without a grown-up, and that’s much farther, and she has never been kidnapped or run over by a car.

  I was putting my plate in the dishwasher when my mother came into the kitchen and asked, “What time do you want me to take you to Shoshi’s house?”

  “You don’t have to take me,” I said, and then I proceeded to list my arguments, one through five without stopping, so my mom could not interrupt me.

  When I was done, there was a pause, and then Mom said, “All right, Grace. You may ride your bike to the Rubinsteins’ house.”

  I couldn’t believe it and threw my arms around her. “Thank you!”

  My mom is more bony than cuddly, but when I hug her, she makes a low chuckling sound like doves cooing. “All right,” she said after squeezing my shoulder. “Ask your father to take a look at your bicycle so we know it’s safe. And I will get you water and snacks.”

  “I’m only going four blocks!”

  “You still don’t want to become dehydrated,” my mom said. “And don’t forget your helmet and sunglasses. How about a first aid kit?”

  “Mom, you’re crazy,” I said. “Next you’ll want me to pack a bow and arrow in case there are wild animals.”

  Mom nodded. “Good thinking.”

  It was half an hour before I was ready to leave, which was okay because the bike ride to Shoshi’s is so short. In the driveway, Dad mapped the trip with his phone.

  “It will take five minutes if you go via Maple Drive,” he said, studying the results, “and six via Farmers Street. But Farmers Street might be better because you avoid the tricky intersection at Elm.”

  “I’ll be fine, Dad.” I stepped onto the pedal, coasted down the driveway, and swung my leg over the seat. To any ten-year-old with normal parents, a five-minute bike ride is nothing, but to the daughter of Joe Xi and Anna Burrows, it was an adventure.

  “Obey all traffic laws!” my father called after me.

  “Have you got everything?” My mother had come out onto the front porch.

  My answer was to wave, and then I was riding away down the street on my own. It was a clear fall day and the fire-colored trees seemed to glow against the deep blue sky.

  Dr. Garcia was out in his front yard raking leaves, and a big kid I didn’t know was shooting baskets at the playground. Other than that, my neighborhood was quiet until, behind me, I heard a car. I didn’t turn my head but stayed safely to the right until it had passed—a white SUV just like ours . . . . Wait, it was ours! In the driver’s seat, my mother raised her hand to wave.

  At the next corner, I made the right turn onto Shoshi’s street. Hers was the fourth house down. I steered into the driveway, hopped off my bike, and pushed it toward the front porch. As I did, I heard a car on the street but didn’t look around. If it was my mother, I didn’t want to know.

  The novelty of the bike ride had distracted me from its purpose—going to Shoshi’s house. But now here I was, and a rush of worry filled my brain. Then, before I even had a chance to tell my brain to stop its wimpiness, I heard a dog barking as if enemy burglars were invading, and then the Rubinsteins’ front door opened.

  CHAPTER 15

  Grace

  “I don’t care if you think I’ll be cold. It’s my body, and I’m—” The teenage girl who had opened the Rubinsteins’ door was talking to someone inside and not looking where she was going until—bump—she ran into me and my bicycle on the porch. “Oh—sorry. Who the heck are you?”

  Without waiting for me to answer, she looked back and called, “Shoshi-i-i-i! Some kid’s here for you. Hey, King, get back now, get down!” Still barking, the dog lunged toward the door—lunged toward me—but he couldn’t get around the girl, who I guessed was Shoshi’s big sister.

  A woman’s voice called, “Fine. Freeze. See if I care!”

  And then the dog squeezed past the girl and jumped up with its paws on my shoulders, knocking me backward. I would have fallen, but the girl grabbed my elbow and kneed the dog out of the way. Before I knew it, the dog was back on all fours, my bike had clattered to the ground, and I had been pulled into the house.

  “Shoshi! Get your butt down here!” the girl shouted, then, “Hi, I’m Molly.”

  “I’m Grace.”

  “Oh, you’re Grace.” Molly grinned. “I’m leaving. I’ll stand your bike up. King won’t hurt you. He’s just loud. Bye.”

  Then she left, and I was alone in
the entry hall with an enormous, panting, furry dog that had just tried to knock me down. The only dogs I’ve ever been around are the cattle dogs at Moonlight Ranch, and they’re more interested in cows than people. Now my heart raced as I stepped away from King . . . with his pink tongue and slobbery teeth. But then he wagged his tail—that’s good, right?—and trotted toward me and tried to stick his nose in a very rude place.

  “Hey, no!” I pushed him away, and at the same time Shoshi appeared on the stairs.

  “Leave her alone!” she yelled at the dog. Then she told me to come upstairs. On the way, she shouted, “Mom! Grace is here!”

  So far, my main impression of Shoshi’s house was that it was loud. Also, to be truthful, it smelled like dog.

  In her room, Shoshi gestured for me to sit in her desk chair. Then she kicked a pair of gym shorts out of the way and sat on the rug.

  “We’ll have to share the laptop,” she said.

  I didn’t say anything. I was too busy being amazed by Shoshi’s bedroom. It was a mess! The bed was a mass of rumpled, mismatched sheets and blankets. The table beside it was piled with silver chocolate Kiss wrappers. The wastebasket overflowed. In the middle of the room was a card table heaped with crayons, markers, papers, and paint.

  I had visited school friends’ houses before, and they weren’t all as neat as mine, but I had never been in a room like this.

  Now Shoshi made her hands into a megaphone and leaned toward me. “We’ll have to share the laptop! Is that okay, Grace?”

  “Oh, uh . . . sure. Sorry. Do you want to see what I’ve got so far?” I pulled my Walden binder out of my backpack. Shoshi grabbed papers off her desk. Then we traded.

  Mrs. Keeran had told me Shoshi was a good student, and now I saw it was true. Her five facts were animals that live around Walden Pond—a fox, a field mouse, a cardinal, a red squirrel, and a black bear. Mine were stories about Henry David Thoreau and four of his friends. I had written more, but if I knew anything about the requirements at Nashoba Elementary School (and I did), hers would be good enough for an A.