The Secret Cookie Club

by Martha Freeman

  “Who’s your teacher?”

  She told me, and then I asked some more questions—like what she did for fun—and she answered them, and all the time I noticed the second hand of the clock on the wall spinning around, moving the Earth closer to four thirty p.m.

  “Olivia, don’t you have an important math quiz coming up?” Tara finally asked.

  “Not till Friday,” I said.

  “But today’s Tuesday!” Tara said. “How much do you understand about fractions anyway?”

  “Practically nothing,” I admitted.

  Tara nodded sympathetically. “Okay. What is it you don’t you get?”

  I shook my head. “No offense, but that’s a dumb question. If I get what I don’t get, then I get it, right?”

  Tara tugged at a loose strand of hair. “Let’s look at chapter nine.”

  I shook my head no and sighed. It was a big sigh, the sigh of someone who wished very sincerely that math tutoring would last forever. “I really wish I could, Tara, but it’s almost four thirty.”

  This was true. The other kids and their tutors were gathering their stuff. I had gotten through an entire tutoring session without suffering any actual tutoring!

  Score: Olivia 1, Tutoring 0.

  “Okay.” Tara picked up her backpack. “In that case, we go back and report to Mr. Driscoll.”

  “Wait, what?” My heart sank. “No one told me about that part.”

  Upstairs, Mr. Driscoll asked to see my homework and Tara had to tell him we never got that far. Mr. Driscoll raised his eyebrows and looked at me—which wasn’t fair. He should have looked at Tara.

  “Actually, I learned a lot,” I told him. “Who even knew our school had computer club?”

  * * *

  Mom picked me up from school that day. On the ride home, I told her about tutoring, and she said Tara sounded like an excellent role model.

  “There’s one thing I hadn’t thought about with these after-school sessions,” she went on. “You’ll have to miss some of your brother’s games.”

  I hadn’t thought of that part either. Yes!

  A few minutes later we walked into the kitchen.

  “What’s this?” Mom picked up a cardboard box sitting on the island. “I didn’t order anything. Oh! It’s addressed to you, Olivia.”

  “To me?” It was a second before I realized what it was.

  Things were definitely looking up.

  CHAPTER 35

  Olivia

  The secret cookies were chocolate cookies, chocolate frosted cookies—so many of them that my mom announced we’d either have to freeze them immediately or gain ten pounds.

  “Mom!” I scolded. “You’re not supposed to say stuff like that. The school nurse told us girls my age start to have bad body images, and worrying about our weight will only make us sick and unhappy.”

  Mom said the school nurse was absolutely right. At the same time, she got plastic wrap out of the cupboard. “So we’ll freeze most of the cookies to prevent breaking out in pimple constellations. Would the school nurse approve of that?”

  “You’re not funny, Mom. How many cookies can I have before dinner?”

  “Zero,” said my mom. “We will save them for dessert.”

  “You mean I have to share?”

  My mother had been wrapping cookies to freeze them. Now she stopped, raised her eyebrows, and looked at me.

  “I guess that’s supposed to be a yes,” I grumbled.

  “Do you have homework?” Mom asked.

  “I might.”

  “If you get it done now,” Mom said, “you don’t have to worry about it later.”

  “How does that make any sense?” I asked. “Worry now, worry later—same thing.”

  “Darling?” My mom put most of the neatly wrapped cookies into the freezer and then shut the door—with a little more force than necessary. “Math tutoring seems to have given you an attitude. Think of this as a command rather than a suggestion.” She turned to face me, her hands on her hips. “Go upstairs and do your homework. Now.”

  I stiffened my arms and legs and made my face go blank—my best zombie imitation. “Must obey,” I said in my deadest voice. Then, walking straight-legged, I headed for the door.

  Mom called me back. I could tell she was trying not to laugh. “Hang on a second, zombie princess. There was a letter for you in the cookie box.”

  The envelope she handed me was fat. In my room, I dropped my backpack, kicked off my shoes, sprawled on my sofa, tore open the envelope, and tossed it toward my wastebasket.

  There were three big sheets of paper! All handwritten! I swear this letter was as big as a novel! How could Emma possibly have that much to say?

  Wednesday, April 13

  Dear O,

  These cookies are to help you get along better with your brother.

  I know that isn’t what you were expecting, and probably you think I didn’t even read your e-mail at all, that I don’t understand you or your troubles and that flour power can’t help.

  But I do, and it will.

  It is important for you and your brother to get along. You don’t have to agree on everything, and you can fight, but you and he are family, and you are stuck with your family in a way you are not stuck with your friends.

  For example, in twenty years your brother will still be your brother, but you will have had many best friends and forgotten about them—even some of the ones you thought were BFForever. In twenty years, you might even have had more than one husband. (This happens!)

  But your brother will still be your brother.

  This is true even when your brother is dead . . . or you are dead.

  I am saying this for a reason.

  Before I or my brother Ben was born, my parents had a son named Nathan who got sick and died. I was born two years later, so all I have ever known about Nathan are his books, visits to the cemetery where he is buried, and stories my parents tell. But Nathan is still my brother.

  It’s true dead brothers are less annoying than live ones. I have to go to Benjamin’s hockey games but never Nathan’s. Nathan never leaves the lid up on the toilet seat, and he doesn’t leave the sink full of toothpaste worms. Nathan doesn’t make fun of my hair, and he doesn’t drink a whole carton of chocolate milk that just came from the store so I don’t even get one single sip. And Nathan doesn’t get in trouble at school, putting my parents in a bad mood so they are grumpy with everybody for hours—even grumpy with me, who didn’t do a single thing wrong.

  But I would have put up with all that and put up with more, too, if I could have known Nathan for real. Maybe he would have ignored me, but I wish I had had the chance to find that out. I am a lucky person with a good life, but there is a hole in it where Nathan was supposed to be.

  Here is an important thing, though. I think in a weird way Benjamin and I are closer because Nathan is gone. Because of him, we both know bad things happen and we should be grateful for each other—at the same time we are driving each other crazy.

  So, anyway, that’s why the cookies are supposed to help you get along with your brother.

  Sorry if this doesn’t make sense. Sorry if this too serious. Sorry if this letter is too long. It didn’t seem right to put this stuff in an e-mail. Enjoy the cookies. No nuts!

  Love from Your Moonlight Ranch BF (F?) —Emma

  P.S. Your turn to write to Lucy. She doesn’t have a computer (!!!) so you will have to use snail mail.

  P.P.S. See you this summer!

  My grandma used a word sometimes, “gobsmacked,” that means feeling so surprised it’s like you’ve been smacked in the head. Now Grandma’s word fit how I felt—gobsmacked.

  Emma had never mentioned an older brother, and I couldn’t imagine living with a ghost the way she did. Emma was Jewish—did Jews believe in heaven? Did she think her dead brother was looking out for her?

  So far in my life, I have been protected from death and accidents and sickness—from the kind of sadness Emma’s family
must feel. Her letter made the world seem dangerous. If something bad happens to me, will I be tough? Or will I curl up in a ball and hide under my bed till I starve?

  How do you find that out about yourself? Does something bad have to happen first?

  CHAPTER 36

  Olivia

  Troy said grace before dinner. What he said was something stupid about staying healthy for baseball season, but because I had Emma’s letter in my head I didn’t say anything sarcastic; I said, “Amen.”

  During dinner we talked about baseball—as usual—and then about “The Princess and the Pea.”

  “Don’t you want to play the princess in your show?” my mom asked.

  “Yes! You know I do. I’ve almost got my part memorized.”

  “That’s great, darling,” Mom said. “But your father and I meant what we said. No B on the quiz, no play. So tomorrow you need to get serious with your tutor. Did you get your homework done before dinner?”

  “What homework?”

  “Olivia!” My mom shook her head. “I would hate to see you disappointed when Courtney and your other friends get to do the play and you don’t.”

  It was quiet for a moment while we chewed, and then my mom changed the subject. I knew she was trying to be cheerful. “Olivia, do you want to tell your dad and Troy about where our dessert came from?”

  Dad and Troy both echoed, “Dessert?”

  I explained about secret cookies.

  “They’re not secret now,” Troy said.

  “They have secret powers,” I said.

  Troy waggled his fingers and made spooky, “woo-oo-oo-oo-oo” noises.

  Usually I would have glared at him, but instead I laughed—causing my dad to send my mom a look that meant: “How come Olivia is being so pleasant to her brother?” and my mom to reply with a tiny, supposedly invisible shrug: “No clue.”

  A few minutes later, Jenny cleared the dishes and brought in a plate of cookies. After one bite, we were all transported to a state of silent cookie bliss.

  “May I have one more?” I asked my mom when I was done.

  “If I say no, I risk the wrath of the school nurse,” Mom said.

  Troy looked at me, then Mom. “Are you guys speaking in code? And can I have another one too?”

  “Better ask your sister,” Mom said.

  Normally I would’ve said no on principle, but I didn’t. “Sure, if you want.” Then I even held out the plate—causing my parents to glance at each other again.

  Finally, my father picked a last cookie crumb off his plate and said, “That was delicious. But I’ve got desk work to do. If you’ll excuse me.” He stood up.

  Mom pushed back her chair as well. “I’ve got a report to shareholders to write.”

  Troy and I were still finishing our second cookies, and now—awkward!—we were alone at the dinner table together. I figured my brother would make his escape as soon as possible, but to my surprise, he actually spoke to me. “How was math tutoring?”

  “Okay,” I said.

  “Did you learn anything?”

  “Not yet,” I said.

  “ ’Cause I had this idea about cookies and fractions. It’s fractions you don’t get, right?”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “If you let me eat one more, I’ll show you.”

  “Ha!” I said. “Now I see why you’re all of a sudden helpful.”

  Troy grinned. “No lie. Do you want me to show you?”

  “No,” I said. “You can have another cookie. But I’m the smart one and you’re the athlete. If it turns out you’re smart too, there’s nothing left for me.”

  I was kind of kidding and kind of not. Troy’s face said he was listening, but then he went ahead and ignored what I had said. “I didn’t get fractions at first either. What confused me was how you multiplied them and got a smaller number, but divided them and got a bigger number. It made no sense.”

  This was one of my problems with fractions too, but I would never admit it. “You just want to show off,” I said.

  My brother surprised me by looking hurt. “Suit yourself. I’ve got my own homework. Are you coming to the game tomorrow?”

  “I have math tutoring,” I said. “But what do you care? Mom and Dad will be there.”

  “You’re right,” Troy said. “I don’t care. You’re just my dumb little sister who can’t even do fractions.”

  “You take that back! Just because I’m not the star athlete that everyone falls all over themselves for. You think you’re so great.”

  Troy hesitated. “Is that what you think?”

  I felt a little bad. Was it possible to hurt my brother’s feelings? I never thought so before.

  “Totally,” I said. “I could star in a hundred shows and Mom and Dad would never pay half the attention they do to you. And they would never tell you you can’t play baseball just because you’re having trouble with math homework, either. Baseball is too important.”

  Troy sighed. “I know, Livvy. It’s awful.”

  Livvy is how my brother used to say Olivia when he was little. He hadn’t called me that in roughly forever.

  “Sports aren’t even fun anymore,” my brother went on. “I’m not me. I’m just Joe Athlete. And if Joe Athlete doesn’t succeed—break records, get a scholarship—then he’s nobody, a big fat failure. Or worse than that, just a rich kid. I don’t even like being the center of attention,” he said. Then he paused. “Not like some people.”

  I might’ve been mad about that last part, but I was too surprised. “I didn’t know—” I started to say, but my brother kept talking.

  “Here’s the thing, Livvy. I’m sore all the time. People think football is tough, but our coach works us like crazy. Sometimes after practice I’m so tired I think I’m going to die.”

  It is too bad my brother had to go and say all that, because on top of the letter from Emma, it made something happen in my head that I totally didn’t expect . . . and neither did Troy.

  “Don’t die!” I wailed, and then I started to cry.

  Poor Troy. His eyes were big as saucers. “Holy rats, Livvy! I didn’t mean it for reals! Sheesh—” He handed me a napkin. “I knew you were a drama queen, but this is ridiculous.”

  I sniffed back tears and told him about the letter from Emma. This time he listened.

  “Awww,” Troy said when I was done. “That’s tough for your friend, but that kid’s not me, and most people’s brothers grow up, you know. I’m going to grow up too.”

  “I hope so.”

  “And another thing,” said Troy. “You don’t need a tutor. I can help you with fractions. Only it’s hard for me to find the time with practice and everything.”

  “Do you really hate it?” I asked. “You could quit. You could explain to Mom and Dad . . .”

  Troy shook his head. “No, I can’t. People are counting on me. Maybe after the season’s over.”

  “Thanks for offering to help with fractions,” I said.

  “Can I make another suggestion?” Troy asked.

  “If you have to.”

  “Take your tutor some cookies.”

  CHAPTER 37

  Thursday, May 19, Lucy

  I must have been facing the wrong way when the soccer ball hit me in the head. All I know for sure is one second I was standing on the field at school waiting for the whistle to blow, and the next I was lying flat on the grass, looking up into the pale gray sky. My right ear was stinging.

  Then the worried faces gathered around.

  “Lucy, how many fingers am I holding up?”

  “Who’s the president? What day is it? Do you know the year?”

  “On a scale of one to ten, Lucy, how much does it hurt?’

  I couldn’t think about so many questions at once. So I didn’t answer, just blinked a couple of times . . . and then the faces seemed even more worried.

  “We’d better call nine one one,” said Mrs. Kamae, my PE teacher. “We can’t take chances with concussion.”<
br />
  “Wait—no, Mrs. Kamae,” said my best friend, Emmaline Woolsey. “I think it’s just Lucy being how she always is. Are you okay, Lu?”

  I sat up and rubbed my ear. “Fine, I think.”

  “No stars? No headache?” Mrs. Kamae asked.

  “Stars?” I was confused.

  “I mean,” said Mrs. Kamae, “you don’t see stars flashing in front of your eyes?”

  “It’s daytime, Mrs. Kamae,” I said.

  Emmaline looked at Mrs. Kamae. “See?”

  Mrs. Kamae nodded. “Yeah, she’s fine. But to be on the safe side, Lucy, I think you’d better sit out today.”

  “No!” I protested. “My team needs me!”

  It was true, too. I’m not usually good at games. I don’t have what Mrs. Kamae calls “killer instinct.” (She had to explain she didn’t mean that literally. She just meant I’m not very aggressive.) But for some reason, when I kick a soccer ball, it goes where I aim it. I have a “knack,” Mrs. Kamae says. She wants me to go out for the school team next year.

  “You can play tomorrow,” Mrs. Kamae said. “And tell your mom if you feel funny later—nauseated, or anything.”

  “I will,” I said, not bothering to explain that I might not even see my mom later. She had a new waitressing job, and if she went out after, she often didn’t get home till I was asleep. I could tell my grandmother, maybe, but she’d just tell me to drink a cup of tea, and could I fix one for her while I was at it.

  School ends at three fifteen. Clarissa’s mom gave me a ride home, as usual. Clarissa and I are the only kids in my neighborhood who go to public school—me because we don’t have the money for private and Clarissa because her dad is on the school board and it would look bad if he sent his daughter to private school. Clarissa’s mom is always nice, but I feel like a mooch for getting rides all the time.

  Some days I walk, but on Thursdays I can’t be late for my job watching Arlo, Mia, and Levi.

  Inside our house it was so still it felt like no one had moved since morning when I left. “Hello Nana!” I called. She didn’t answer, but I didn’t worry. She is a little deaf and spends most of the time in her bedroom, which is on the far side of the kitchen.