You said your brother plays hockey so you understand, right? I totally forgot you had a brother. (Sorry.) How old is he? Is he nice? He can’t be, right? He is your brother.
My brother and I fight so much that sometimes I wish he would JUST DROP DEAD, and then I could be a SPOILED and HAPPY only child!!!
But he is strong and healthy, so I guess I won’t be that lucky.
Now you know my problems. And you also know they are simply too ENORMOUS for flour power to solve.
On the other hand, cookies never hurt.
I do not like nuts. I do not like raisins. I do not like oatmeal. What I do like is CHOCOLATE, lots and lots of CHOCOLATE.
Now I am sending all the hugs, love, and kisses in the UNIVERSE to my very favorite Moonlight Emma—Your Most Fabulous Friend, O.
P.S. I don’t know about camp this summer. It won’t be the same. What if I sign up and it’s not and then I am SO DISAPPOINTED???
P.P.S. Do you know if Grace sent Vivek cookies too? ;^)
My mom came in before bedtime—which is nine thirty on school nights. How is a girl possibly supposed to get her homework done before nine thirty? This is still another example of how my parents are totally unreasonable.
“Let’s take a look at that arithmetic homework,” Mom said.
“Uhhhhh,” I said,
“You didn’t do it?”
“I don’t understand it.” I shrugged the giant, sad shrug of someone who really, really wished she understood the homework but—tragically—does not. “I’ll ask Mr. Driscoll for help in the morning. We’re allowed.”
“What is it?” my mom asked. “Still fractions?”
“It’s not the kind of fractions you did in school, Mama. It’s a new kind. Just invented.”
“Uh-huh,” my mother said. “What if you let me see your math book? It’s just distantly possible that I will remember something that helps.”
I yawned and looked even sadder. “I don’t think so, Mama. I’m pretty sleepy, and remember what happened last time you helped me with homework?”
My mother sighed. “I do remember.”
She and I had been working on memorizing state capitals, and when I announced for the third time that the capital of California is Hollywood (it’s really Sacramento), she lost it. There was yelling. There was door slamming. There was even an inappropriate word—from my mother!
“All right, Olivia,” my mother said. “I suppose we can do it your way this one time. Do you need to go to school early, then?”
“No. Regular time. Mr. Driscoll gives us a few minutes after announcements for homework help.”
Mama looked skeptical. “Since when does he do this?”
“Since, you know . . . since a lot of people are having trouble with the new kind of fractions.”
My mother said, “Uh-huh,” as if she didn’t entirely believe me, which—since I was making it all up—did not come as a total surprise.
CHAPTER 31
Olivia
The next morning I had barely entered room 22 when Mr. Driscoll stopped me. “Olivia? Did you bring back the signed letter?”
“Which signed letter?”
“Olivia . . .”
“Oh! You mean the signed letter about my very, very, very unfortunate grade in math?”
“Yes, Olivia. That signed letter.”
“No, Mr. Driscoll. I didn’t bring it back.” I smiled sadly, shook my head, and then looked humbly at my toes. “I don’t know what’s the matter with me. Lately, I’ve been forgetting a lot of stuff, and sometimes I get dizzy, too.” To illustrate the point, I staggered a few steps and bumped into the wall. “It could be I have a brain tumor.”
Mr. Driscoll closed his eyes and pinched the skin above his nose like he had a headache. “A brain tumor is unlikely, but if you don’t feel well and want to see the nurse, you may.”
I had seen the nurse once already this week and twice the week before. I had a feeling she wouldn’t be sympathetic. So I squared my shoulders and stood up straight. “I feel better all of a sudden. Who knows? Perhaps I’m just a medical mystery.”
By now the bell was about to ring, and most people were already at their desks. “You go ahead and take your seat, Olivia,” Mr. Driscoll said. “We will talk later.”
Hoping Mr. Driscoll would forget I exist, I was quieter than usual in class that day. And guess what? It worked. When the bell rang at three fifteen, I shot out the door before he had a chance to call me up to his desk.
My friend Courtney Sanchez goes to the Acting Studio too, and today it was her mom’s turn to drive us to the old theater where they rent space. Inside, it was gloomy and cool, and the air smelled dusty the way it always does. Courtney and I walked up the aisle from the lobby to the stage, where the other students and our director, Mrs. Wanderling, were waiting. We did a few loosening-up exercises, and then we sat down on the floor.
“What we’re going to do today is talk about our parts,” said Mrs. Wanderling, also known as Mrs. W.
I don’t know if you know the story of “The Princess and the Pea,” but here it is, short version:
Once upon a time there was a kingdom with a prince who could not find a princess to marry. This was because of his mother, the queen. Every time a new princess showed up, the queen gave her a test to see if she was for real. So far, all the princesses had failed.
Finally a new princess arrived (me!). To test her, the queen put a single pea under the mattress on her bed. According to the queen, if the new princess was a real princess, she wouldn’t be able to sleep because her delicate skin would be bruised by the tiny pea.
Lucky for the new princess, the king was on her side, and he put a boulder under the mattress. The next day the queen asked the princess how she slept, and the princess said not a wink because the bed was so lumpy.
Ta-da!
The princess passed the test and married the prince, and everyone lived happily ever after—except probably not the queen, but that part wasn’t in the story.
The first character we talked about that afternoon was the queen, who would be played by Esmee.
“Why do you think the queen behaves the way she does?” Mrs. W asked.
“Because she’s evil!” I said, looking at Esmee.
“Raise your hand please, Olivia,” Mrs. W said. “What else?” She looked around.
Esmee raised her hand. “Because she loves her son and wants him to stay at home with her.”
“Ewww,” said Kevin, prompting a chorus of “Ewww.”
Mrs. W laughed. “I think Esmee has a point. It may be ewww, but it’s understandable that the queen doesn’t want to lose someone whom she loves.”
After that, we went through every important character—the prince, the king, the jester, the wizard, even the lady-in-waiting (that’s who Courtney played). At last, we got to the princess—also known as me! Also known as the star!
I had a lot to say.
“Yes, Olivia?” said Mrs. W.
“The princess is totally awesome!” I said. “She’s strong and says what she thinks. She’s funny. She’s smart. And she’s brave, too.”
“That doesn’t sound like much of a princess, does it?” Mrs. W said.
I was insulted. “You take that back!”
“Raise your hand please, Olivia,” said Mrs. W. “Kevin, what do you think?”
“Princesses aren’t supposed to be all that stuff Olivia just said—like strong and everything. They are supposed to be pretty and they are supposed to be nice to the prince.” He shrugged. “That’s about it.”
“But that’s so boring!” I said. Then I remembered and raised my hand so Mrs. W wouldn’t have to remind me.
“Do you think the queen wants a strong, brave princess for her son?” Mrs. W asked.
Esmee raised her hand. “I think she wants the traditional kind, the wimpy kind. I mean I want that because I am the queen.”
“But a wimpy princess isn’t who the prince wants,” I said. “He wants someo
ne cool.”
“Oh! Oh! I know.” Courtney raised her hand. “Maybe the prince likes strong women because his mom is one. I mean, the queen’s nasty, but she’s tough, too. Maybe the princess and the queen are kind of alike.”
Mrs. W nodded. “Very insightful, Courtney.”
But both Esmee and I protested: “No-o-o!”
By this time Courtney’s mom and some of the other parents had arrived to pick us up.
Mrs. W stretched and got to her feet. “Lots of good insights today,” she said. “On Friday we’ll start blocking, and I don’t need to remind you we’re off book next week. Get those lines down, everyone!”
In the car, I told Courtney her idea about the princess and queen being alike was not a good insight at all; it was ridiculous.
“Olivia,” she said, “you know it’s not the same as saying you-your-actual-self is like Esmee-her-actual-self, right?”
“Of course I know that,” I said. “Why would you even ask?”
“Because it’s how you’re acting,” Courtney said.
“No, I’m not.”
Courtney shrugged. “Okay.”
And this was even more irritating because I could tell she still thought she was right, only she had decided it wasn’t worth it to argue.
CHAPTER 32
Olivia
“Hello-o-o!” I called when I came in the front door.
Jenny answered from the kitchen, “Hello, sweetheart!”
Jenny is usually who’s home when I get back after school. For as long as I can remember, she and her husband, Ralph, have lived in an apartment downstairs in our house and helped out our family. The way my mom says it is, “Someone has to keep everything from going haywire around here while your dad and I are at work—and that’s Jenny and Ralph.”
Now I headed down the hall and through the dining room to the kitchen to see what Jenny was making for dinner and to snag a snack.
“Biscuits,” Jenny announced as soon as I walked in. She was standing at the kitchen island rolling out snow-white dough. Behind her through the French doors I could see into the backyard. The rosebushes, trees, flower beds, and lawn all looked gray, wintry, and dead in the late-afternoon light.
I love biscuits, and we don’t have them very often. I said, “Yum—how come?”
“Just a little treat for you, and besides, they go well with pork chops,” Jenny said. “Your parents are on their way home, by the way.”
I should have wondered why my parents were coming home early, but I was too distracted by hunger. “What is there to eat?”
“Apples right in front of you in the bowl,” Jenny said.
“Will you cut one up for me?” I asked sweetly.
Jenny wiped the flour from her hands, opened a drawer, and got out a knife. “Honestly, child, was there ever anyone so helpless?”
“Sure there was. Like Marie Antoinette, for example, and Cinderella’s stepsisters. From what I hear, they were totally useless.”
Jenny set a plate of apple in front of me. “You are funny is what you are,” she said.
I looked up to say thank you and noticed frown lines between her eyes. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing, sweetheart. How was princess practice?”
I told her while I ate the apple. Then I volunteered to cut out biscuits. When my parents walked in, sixteen were lined up in neat rows on the sheet pan, and I was rerolling dough scraps.
“See what a nice job Olivia is doing with the biscuits,” Jenny said before my parents could say a word.
I expected praise for being helpful, but when I looked up, I saw frowns instead—and that was when, at last, my math skills kicked in. One parent plus one parent equals Olivia is in big trouble.
CHAPTER 33
Olivia
Like you have already figured out—like I should have figured out—Mr. Driscoll had called my parents at work, and that’s why they both came home early.
They said they were disappointed in me. They said when you came right down to it, I had been lying to them and lying to Mr. Driscoll. They said the lying was the worst part, worse than the bad grade in math.
If you have ever been in trouble, you know how I felt. Partly, I was ashamed for messing up, and partly, I was angry because anger is normal if you’re scolded. I thought about running away to someplace where people were nice and would understand me. I thought about throwing myself in my parents’ arms the way I did when I was little and no one blamed me for anything.
Finally, my parents’ anger wound down, and they got to the point, my punishment. This was it: I would have to stay after school every single day and work with a math tutor until my math grade rose at least to a B.
“But what about Acting Studio?” I whined. “We have rehearsals and—”
“Acting Studio is a privilege,” my father said, “and privileges are reserved for people who deserve them. Anyway, as I understand it, your next rehearsal is on Friday, and there is a math quiz on Friday morning. Let us see how well you do on that.”
“But everybody’s counting on me!” I said. “I am the star!”
My father raised his eyebrows. “Perhaps the trouble is that’s how you see yourself.”
We were still in the kitchen. It was after six o’clock. At some point Jenny had baked the biscuits, taken them out of the oven, and gone downstairs to her apartment, but I hadn’t been paying attention, not even to the delicious buttery smell of biscuits baking.
“Can I eat dinner in my room?” I asked. “Since everyone hates me.”
“ ‘May I?’ and no, you may not, and no one hates you,” my mother said.
I stomped upstairs after that, then stomped around my room a few times, too. I opened my math binder and shut it again. I would show them. I would never learn fractions. Not if I lived to be a hundred years old.
I heard my brother come home from baseball practice. I heard the shower in his bathroom running. Soon after that, it was time for dinner.
“Who would like to give thanks?” my mother asked when we were all seated.
I said, “I will!” which prompted suspicious looks from my parents. “It’s my turn,” I added politely.
“All right, Olivia,” said my father.
“Dear Heavenly God on High, dear Jesus Christ, and dear, dear Holy Ghost,” I began. “Thanks eternally for this delicious dinner we are about to receive, and thanks especially for the biscuits that Jenny made for me because they are a sign that at least someone around here still loves me. Amen.”
No one echoed my “Amen.” Instead, Troy looked up and asked, “What was that about?”
My father started to answer, “Your sister got into some—”
But I interrupted. “Don’t you dare tell him! It’s not any of his business at all!”
“Never mind,” Troy said. “It’s not like I care.”
After that, Mom asked about baseball practice and my brother was so busy talking he didn’t notice no one listened. That’s the way my brother is. Totally self-centered.
CHAPTER 34
Olivia
When I walked into my class the next morning, I made myself as invisible as possible . . . but not invisible enough. In fact—I swear—Mr. Driscoll was lying in wait for me, like a tiger on the lookout for Bambi.
“Olivia? Did your parents speak to you?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“Then for now we’ll say no more about it—except that your tutor will meet you here after school. Please sit tight when the bell rings.”
“Okay.”
I swung my backpack off my shoulders, sat down, and unzipped it to pull out my binder. From her desk behind me, Sophie spoke up. “Tutor? For what? I thought you were smart.”
“I am smart,” I said.
“If it were me, I’d be embarrassed to have a tutor,” she went on.
“Thank you,” I said.
“Oh! I didn’t mean you should be embarrassed. Everyone has their own unique strengths, Olivia.”
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Sophie is a white girl with brown hair, blue eyes, and freckles. She is not my good friend, but I never thought anything bad about her—till that moment. “Sophie?” I said. “Are you trying to make me feel worse? Or better?”
Sophie said, “Better! Obviously!”
“Okay.” I nodded. “Then could you please put a lid on it?”
The rest of the day was normal except that my friends kept wanting to know why I hadn’t answered their texts the night before, and I had to say about three million times, “I’m fine! I’m totally fine! Really!”
At last the three-fifteen bell rang, and I waited the way I said I would—feeling weird and embarrassed as all my friends filed out the door to freedom. The last one to leave was Sophie. In the doorway, she turned around, smiled at me, and gave me a princess wave good-bye.
I stuck my tongue out, but by then she was gone.
“Take out your math book,” Mr. Driscoll said, and for one terrible moment I was afraid he might be my tutor. Then a girl appeared in the doorway—an eighth grader I had seen around but whose name I didn’t know. She had braces and thick brown hair she had tried to tame with a headband. Standing there, she looked uncomfortable.
“Someone is here, Mr. Driscoll,” I said. “Are you my tutor?”
“Hi. Yes. I am. I guess. Hi,” she said.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
Mr. Driscoll answered. “Olivia, this is Tara.”
“We can go to the study hall,” Tara said.
“That’s fine,” said Mr. Driscoll, “but see that you put in the whole hour—till four thirty. Good luck, Tara.”
The study hall was on the ground floor, so we descended two flights of stairs to find half a dozen pairs sitting at desks. It was like a secret tutoring society down there! Who knew?
Tara and I found a table, sat down, and arranged our books and pencils.
“How do you get to be a tutor?” I asked.
“We are supposed to work on fractions,” Tara said.
“I know, but we should get to know each other first.”
“Should we?” she asked. “I’m good at math, so my teacher asked me if I wanted to.”
The Secret Cookie Club Page 9
