The Secret Cookie Club

by Martha Freeman

  “You said one more song!” Kayden reminded me.

  “I’m sure your mom doesn’t want to wait,” I said.

  “I don’t mind,” said Kayden’s mom, Mrs. Haley. She is a tall, dark-skinned woman who wears her hair in braids arranged in neat rows.

  Uh-oh.

  Dancing in front of Kayden was one thing. But dancing in front of a mom?

  “Well, okay then. You go ahead and pick a song and dance if you want,” I said. “I’m gonna sit this one out.”

  “But you have to dance!” Kayden said as we made our way out into the hall. “Mama, you can’t believe what a bad dancer Emma is. So funny-y-y-y!”

  “Kayden, that’s not nice,” his mom said.

  “Oh, no, Mrs. Haley, it’s okay. He’s right.”

  Mrs. Haley laughed. “What about if all three of us dance, then?” she said. “And I promise not to make fun.”

  CHAPTER 20

  Emma

  When my mom was pregnant with me, she read somewhere that the children of families that eat dinner together are more successful than the children of families that don’t. I bet my mom has read a million articles about raising children, but that one she remembered, which is why we eat dinner as a family almost every night.

  My mom is a lawyer, and my dad is the kind of doctor you go to if you have a problem with your heart, a cardiologist. They both leave for work early in the morning, so my little brother, Benjamin, and I take turns walking Ike, and then we get our own breakfasts, put on our coats, and walk the two blocks to catch the van that takes us to school.

  If we forget to walk Ike, we have to clean up the mess when we get home. If we forget our homework or our mittens, our homework doesn’t get turned in or our hands are cold. Sometimes I envy kids who have a parent around to solve problems. Other times I’m proud of Benjamin and me for taking care of ourselves.

  My parents usually get home around six o’clock and we eat dinner around seven. After that, they work at their desks while either Ben or I cleans up. Luckily, my parents don’t cook much, so cleanup equals putting plates in the dishwasher and throwing away cardboard takeout containers.

  Since it was a Friday night, the Jewish Sabbath, Mom had prepared what for us counted as a special, homemade dinner: spaghetti with sauce from a jar along with a salad from the expensive grocery store, the one where all the checkers have tattoos and even the ketchup is organic. My parents don’t follow all the rules about being Jewish, but they like the rituals. So we had lit candles before dinner and said the Sabbath prayer in Hebrew.

  Ike sat by my chair while we ate. When I was little, I used to drop a lot of food—more than Benjamin ever did—and even though I don’t drop so much anymore, our dog stays optimistic.

  When I told about tutoring Kayden, Benjamin had one question: “Did you dance in front of Mrs. Haley?” Benjamin is eight years old, a third grader.

  I shrugged. “I kind of had to. She said I wasn’t as bad as I thought and I should practice in front of a mirror.”

  Benjamin made a face. “Please promise me you’ll keep your door closed. If I saw that, I might be traumatized for life.” My mom gave Benjamin a warning look, but he just grinned. “I’m young,” he said. “My brain’s impressionable.”

  “Your brain is soft, you mean,” I said.

  Benjamin covered his head and squealed, “Don’t hurt me!”

  “Enough, you two,” my father said. “Is there any other news of the day?”

  “Oh yeah, I almost forgot,” I said, and I told about the e-mail from Grace.

  “Did someone say cookies?” My father perked up.

  “Cookies are bad for your heart,” Ben said.

  “But good for your soul,” said my father, which made my mom laugh. They have been married about a hundred years, but still really like each other. Sometimes it’s gross.

  “So if the cookies are supposed to help you solve a problem,” my mom said, “what problem do you need help with?”

  There was something, but I didn’t want to say it right then. “Nothing much,” I answered. “My life is actually going pretty smoothly.”

  Note to self: Do not make that kind of announcement ever again. The universe just sees it as a challenge.

  CHAPTER 21

  Emma

  There is no such thing as a clean-your-plate club in my family because (according to my parents) clean-your-plate clubs contribute to obesity. So I was trying to decide whether the remains of my dinner—four spaghetti noodles and a dressing-soaked lettuce leaf—were worth eating when my mom asked, “Did you scan those photos for GG’s book yet?”

  It was the question I dreaded.

  “Right,” I said, which was a way to answer without actually answering. Then—leaving the last bites for the compost bin—I stood up in a hurry. It was my turn to do the dishes, and also I didn’t want to be asked for details.

  GG is what we call my great-grandmother, and the photos were for a book the family was putting together for her ninetieth birthday in January. My grandmother—GG’s daughter and my mom’s mom—was coordinating it all. Mom’s and my job was to scan old photographs of GG’s early life, write captions, and lay them out on pages.

  Mom had thought this would be good for teaching me about family history and good for mother-daughter bonding. But she’s so busy, we haven’t even started yet, and it has to go to a printer by the end of next week.

  Our dog, Ike, followed me into the kitchen. He is ten years old, which is old for a golden. He has a white muzzle and his eyes are cloudy. When he smells bad, my parents and I ignore it; Ben makes faces and blames me. Ike’s dog bed is in the kitchen. Now he circled once and lay down.

  I started loading the dishwasher, and Mom came in. “This weekend we’ll work on GG’s book. I promise,” she said. “I just have to put in a few of hours at legal services in the morning.”

  Legal services is a place where people without a lot of money can go to get help from a lawyer. My mom volunteers there.

  I bumped the dishwasher closed with my toe. “And Hanukkah starts on Sunday,” I said, “and you have to take Ben to hockey.”

  Mom pushed her fingers through her hair—a gesture she makes when she’s exasperated. “I know, Emma. Tomorrow night for sure. Meanwhile, you can maybe draw some ideas of how the photos will go on the pages.”

  “Uh-huh,” I said vaguely because there was a tiny problem my mom didn’t know about. I had lost the photos. Well, not really lost. More like I didn’t happen to know their precise location at that moment.

  * * *

  When the dishes were done, I went up the back stairs to my bedroom. Our house is in a suburb of Philadelphia called Gladwyne, which is nice—winding quiet streets with trees on both sides, comfortable houses and big lawns. Sometimes when I tell someone I live here, they say, “Oh-h-h-h,” then look me up and down in a particular way.

  It took me a long time to figure out what they’re thinking: You must be rich.

  My parents would like you to know that we’re not rich. We are like everyone else. Only because they both work superhard, our family has some nice things. They say we should always remember that we are lucky, and we should be generous to people who aren’t.

  Our house is made of stone and plaster and wood in a style called Tudor. It has a semicircular driveway in front and more rooms than we even use. When I get to the second floor, I turn right and pass Benjamin’s room, then a guest room and another room across the hall.

  That’s the one that belonged to my brother who died.

  His name was Nathan. He was five when he got a scrape on his leg that got infected, and then he got a fever. When they saw how sick he was, my parents took him to the hospital, but the medicines didn’t work against his infection, and his heart stopped.

  All this happened before I was born, so I never even met him. Eventually, my parents took the bed out of Nathan’s room and changed the pictures on the wall. They put in chairs and a sofa and decided it was now a sitting room. B
ut they left one thing of my brother’s, his bookcase with all his books in it—Where the Wild Things Are, Goodnight, Moon, Now We Are Six, and lots more.

  When Benjamin and I were little, my parents would read Nathan’s books to us and say, “This was your brother’s book, one of his favorites,” or, “This was your brother’s book, and he thought it was kind of boring, which is what made it good for bedtime.”

  Because of that, I have always known that my parents loved Nathan and that he is part of my family.

  CHAPTER 22

  Emma

  In my bedroom, I considered my options: (1) read The Sign of the Twisted Candles, which was the Nancy Drew mystery I had checked out of the school library; or (2) reply to Grace’s e-mail; or (3) find the envelope full of pictures.

  If I did the first one first, I would feel guilty that I hadn’t done the other two. And I wasn’t ready to face looking for the pictures because that seemed like work—and hadn’t I already worked a whole day at school? Not to mention I tutored Kayden?

  So I sat down at my desk, opened my laptop, opened my in-box, reread Grace’s note, and hit reply:

  Hello, Grace—Getting your e-mail was like getting a blast of hot Arizona sunshine. (That is a simile. We are learning about them in school. Because you skipped fifth grade, you will never know about similes.)

  Now all of a sudden I miss everybody so much! And I miss summer weather, too, even the sweat and the smells in the horse barn and the flies.

  Do you remember the day our parents picked us up and we all said good-bye? For me, it was SO WEIRD. I never told you, but I didn’t want to go to camp. It was my parents’ idea. I think they thought being outside riding horses and stuff would make me less klutzy.

  Ha!

  At first, I was so homesick I called my parents and begged them to fly back from Philadelphia and pick me up. I even cried.

  Then I got over it. Hannah would say it was because of flour power. (Hannah knows everything.)

  So the weird part is by the time the day came to be picked up, I didn’t want to leave camp at all.

  Also, I was embarrassed about my parents.

  Your parents looked so neat and tidy and full of energy, and Olivia’s parents looked so handsome/beautiful, and Lucy’s mom is young and glamorous in her weird Cali kind of way. I love my parents, and they are nice (I think), but they are old for parents, and my mom refuses to dye her gray and frizzy hair, and they don’t notice how they dress either, unless they are at work. (They always say they have better things to think about than clothes.) Also I think that day they actually held hands with each other. They do that sometimes IN FRONT OF EVERYONE!

  Now you are tired of reading about my parents.

  One more thing about Moonlight Ranch—you have to come back next year because I can’t wait to see you and everybody!

  There is something I have to tell you about the pancakes you are expecting at your friend’s house. On behalf of all the people all over the world who celebrate Hanukkah, I apologize because there won’t be maple syrup. Latkes are made of grated potato and onion. They don’t go with maple syrup.

  Also, the game with the top is called DREIDEL. When you play it, you win gelt, which are chocolate candies in gold wrappers that look like coins. It is a little bit babyish, but still my family plays every year.

  It is so cool that you are dancing in The Nutcracker! I bet you look totally cute in the costumes even if they are itchy. My parents let me quit ballet.

  You asked about a problem. I do have one, but cookies can’t help.

  Some pictures have disappeared. They were in an envelope my mom handed to me, and when she did, she said, “Put this someplace safe. It’s very important. These photos are old and can’t be replaced.”

  I am sure I did put the envelope someplace safe.

  I just don’t know where.

  And now I can’t find it.

  I can’t tell my mom because she is so well organized she separates her socks by color and keeps each color in its own special bag in her underwear drawer. She would think this is a crisis, and I would get in trouble, which is usually my brother Benjamin’s job.

  The idea of being in trouble makes me so upset, I don’t even want to look for the pictures because what if I don’t find them? What if they are really lost?

  Even though cookies cannot solve my problem, it is still okay for you to send some. I don’t think I am allergic to any of the ingredients in the recipes Hannah gave us. Thank you for asking. Have fun at your friend Shoshi’s party!

  Love from your Moonlight Ranch friend, Emma

  P.S Are you going to send Vivek cookies too? You don’t have to tell :^) but one time he told me he likes frosted ones.

  I reread my e-mail and hoped Grace was patient enough to read such a long one. Writing a lot was a good way to put off looking for the envelope.

  When I tapped send, I admit that I wondered how soon I would get my cookies.

  Not that cookies were the important part, of course. The important part was that Grace had remembered about the Secret Cookie Club and about camp and she had written to me. The important part was friendship.

  Still, I did wonder when I would get my cookies and also what kind they would be.

  It was nine thirty by now, and I was out of excuses. The pictures were in a brown envelope like every other brown envelope in the world. Even so, I was confident I would find it . . . at first.

  An hour later, I wasn’t so sure.

  CHAPTER 23

  Emma

  “You’ve got a mystery to solve, Emma. Just like Nancy Drew.” That was my friend Caitlin’s assessment. It was the next morning, Saturday, after services at our temple. Along with my friend Julia, we were walking from there to the food pantry to volunteer. It wasn’t that cold, but the damp was chilly, and we were all puffed up in coats, hats, and mittens.

  “Car’s coming—wait!” I said as we approached the crosswalk. Everyone stopped.

  “I love Nancy Drew,” Julia said, “especially the old ones.”

  “Okay, it’s safe,” I said, and we crossed the street.

  “In the old ones, they drive around in a roadster and wear tweed skirts and cardigan sweaters,” Julia said. “They never wear jeans; they wear slacks.”

  “I like wearing jeans,” said Caitlin.

  “But sometimes wouldn’t it be nice to look nice?” Julia asked.

  “I look nice if I remember to put on lip gloss,” Caitlin said.

  “If we dressed nice, maybe we could have roadsters,” Julia said. “Maybe it all goes together.”

  The food pantry is where a video store used to be. One more block, turn the corner, and we were there. Because it’s so close, our parents let us walk and then one of them picks us up at lunchtime.

  “What is a roadster?” Caitlin asked.

  “A little sports car,” I said.

  “A convertible?” Caitlin asked.

  “I don’t think so,” I said.

  “Well, that’s disappointing,” Caitlin said.

  “Probably safer, though,” I said. “Cars didn’t have seat belts in those days.”

  “In what days?” Caitlin said.

  “The 1930s—that’s when the original Nancy Drew books take place,” I said, “the ones written by Carolyn Keene.”

  Julia said, “There never was a Carolyn Keene,” which was a very Julia thing to say because Julia is nice but also a know-it-all.

  Caitlin said, “But her name is right on the cover.”

  “She still wasn’t real,” Julia said. “Someone just had the idea for those books and thought that name sounded right for the author. Really, they were written by different people. That’s how they could get so many, and how there are still new ones now.”

  Inside the food pantry, the warmth felt good for about one minute. Then we got hot and were glad to hang up our coats. After that, we signed in and said hello to Mrs. Rust, who gave us our assignment: Clean up the shelves of canned goods. She didn’t have
to add instructions. We had done this job before.

  “Got it?” she asked.

  “Got it!” Caitlin, Julia, and I replied.

  Our community food pantry collects food from people and stores that have extra, then distributes it to people who don’t have much money. Caitlin, Julia, and I used to volunteer with our parents, but now we’ve been at it so long we can work on our own.

  Pulling cans off shelves does not require any brain cells, so we continued our conversation.

  “So how would Nancy Drew find my missing envelope?” I asked.

  “The Secret of the Missing Envelope is not a very exciting title,” Caitlin said.

  “I don’t care if it’s exciting. It’s what’s missing,” I said.

  “The Secret of the Stolen Photographs,” said Julia. “That’s better.”

  “But they weren’t stolen,” I said. “Who would steal them?”

  “Aha!” said Julia. “Now you’re thinking like Nancy Drew! I say it was probably Benjamin, because it wasn’t your mom or dad.”

  “Benjamin doesn’t want old family photographs,” I said.

  “If we had all the answers, it wouldn’t be a mystery,” said Caitlin.

  “Has anybody visited your house since your mom brought the envelope home?” Julia asked.

  “Like a mysterious stranger?” Caitlin said. “A mysterious stranger would be a good suspect.”

  By this time our shelves were bare, so Caitlin started spraying them with cleaner and Julia wiped them down. My job was to make sure the cans weren’t dented or old, then replace them on the shelves.

  “No mysterious strangers have come to my house lately,” I said. “But even if one did, how would I find him again to interview him?”

  “It might be a ‘her,’ ” Caitlin said.

  “Finding the stranger’s a problem,” said Julia. “So do it last. Meanwhile, interview your parents. They might be witnesses.”