The Classy Crooks Club

by Alison Cherry

  3

  Stanley opens the car door for me, just like he did earlier. As I get in, I see Brianna glancing back at us as she walks toward a fancy red sports car. She’s so busy staring, she almost crashes into a lamppost, and I snort out a laugh. It’s not very ladylike, but I’m pretty sure Stanley doesn’t care about stuff like that, unlike Grandma Jo.

  “Friend of yours?” he asks as he slides into the driver’s seat.

  “Brianna? Ugh, no. She’s the worst.”

  “You need me to take her down?”

  Stanley’s obviously kidding, but the image of him kicking Brianna’s butt is kind of awesome anyway. “Don’t worry, I can handle her,” I say.

  “I’m sure you can. Toughness obviously runs in your family.”

  For a second I wonder how Stanley knows anything about my parents and Ben, but then I realize he’s talking about Grandma Jo. “What’s it like driving my grandmother around all the time?” I ask. “Is it terrible?”

  “No, not at all. She’s not exactly warm and fuzzy, but she seems like a decent person. She does a lot of good work.”

  “Really?” I ask. “She works?”

  “I mean, she doesn’t have a day job, but she does a lot of charity stuff. She was even honored by this animal rescue league a couple months ago. My grandma went with her to the awards gala.” It’s hard to imagine Grandma Jo caring about rescuing animals, considering she won’t even let me bring my well-trained dog into her house.

  Stanley asks how soccer practice went, and we talk drills and strategy the rest of the way home. I’m feeling pretty happy and relaxed by the time we pull into the garage, but then I remember it’s time for my etiquette lesson, and my stomach balls back up into a knot. Why is it impossible to appreciate feeling calm until you’re suddenly not?

  “Same place, same time tomorrow?” Stanley asks. He holds up his hand for a high five.

  “Yup,” I say, and I slap his palm. At least I’ve got one ally for the next four weeks.

  The house is eerily quiet. I wonder if I can slip up to my room unnoticed and avoid Grandma Jo, but it’s not like I could hide from her for a very long in her own home. It’s probably better to get whatever horrible thing she has planned for me over with. If I cooperate, maybe she’ll let me go out and explore the neighborhood later.

  I’m about to go look for her, but then I hear a muffled shriek from somewhere deep inside the house, and I freeze. It’s that same noise I heard through the vents earlier, and now I’m positive I wasn’t imagining things. I creep toward the sound, which seems to be coming from the direction of the forbidden hallway—maybe there’s another TV down here after all, one Grandma Jo didn’t tell me about. But as I pass the parlor door, my grandmother’s voice makes me jump.

  “I see you’re back,” she says, and she doesn’t sound super happy about it. “Come here.”

  So much for my investigation.

  I go into the parlor, and I’m surprised to find that there are three other old ladies sitting with Grandma Jo around a table. Each of them has a hand of cards, but they’re all abandoned facedown, like they haven’t really been playing. When they notice me, they all scramble to pick them up, looking a lot like Maddie does when a teacher catches her reading comics under her desk.

  “This is my granddaughter,” Grandma Jo says to the ladies. “Annemarie, this is my bridge club. You’ll be seeing quite a lot of them this month, so you might as well get acquainted.”

  The ladies look me up and down, taking in my messy ponytail and my grass-stained soccer clothes. Two seconds ago I didn’t care how I looked, but I suddenly feel incredibly self-conscious. If the rest of these women are anything like Grandma Jo, I’m about to get an earful about how I should make more of an effort with my appearance. But they all just stare at me, like I’m some sort of mythical creature they didn’t know was real. Honestly, it’s a little weird, but I smile and say hi since I have no idea what else to do. I realize I’m twisting Maddie’s bracelet around and around my wrist, and I force myself to stop.

  The lady closest to me reaches out to shake my hand, and there’s a loud clanking sound because she’s wearing about forty huge bracelets on her skinny wrist, wood and metal and ceramic all jumbled together. “Hello, dear,” she says as she closes her knobby fingers over mine. “I’m Cookie. I’ve been so looking forward to meeting you.” She’s tiny and wiry, with dark gray hair cut almost as short as my dad’s, and she’s wearing bright red pants and a red blazer even though it’s summer. Her giant, round, red-framed glasses make her look a little like a bug.

  “It’s nice to meet you, too,” I say. “I’m AJ.”

  “Her name is Annemarie,” Grandma Jo corrects, like I don’t know my own name.

  “I think my grandson Stanley already had the pleasure of spending some time with you,” Cookie says.

  “Yeah, he’s really nice.” I wasn’t exactly sure what “eccentric” meant when Stanley used the word to describe his grandmother earlier, but now that I’m looking at Cookie and her outfit, I totally get it.

  Cookie turns to the woman on the other side of her, who’s wearing this weird flowy dress and a whole bunch of silk scarves with different patterns that don’t match. “She’s perfect. Isn’t she perfect, Edna? So lithe and athletic.”

  “Come here, child,” Edna says, holding out her hand to me. Her voice sounds super far away, like it’s coming through a radio that’s not quite picking up the signal. I drop my soccer bag, go around the table, and extend my hand to her, thinking I’m going to get another handshake. But instead she puts on the reading glasses that are hanging on a chain of glass beads around her neck, turns my palm faceup, and starts tracing the lines. It feels like someone is tickling my hand with dried leaves.

  “Mmm-hmm . . . ,” she hums to herself. “Ahhhh, yes. Yes. Very good.” She doesn’t make eye contact or say anything directly to me, but she finally lets go of my hand and nods, obviously satisfied about something.

  Cookie picks up her teacup, and as she turns to say something to Edna, she accidentally knocks the matching saucer off the table. I dive for it and manage to catch it before it hits the floor, and Cookie beams at me. “What reflexes!” she crows. “Such dexterity!” She peers at my hands as she takes the saucer back from me. “Such nice long fingers. Oh yes. This is very good.”

  “She’s perfect through and through,” says the last lady. The other two are so weird that I’ve barely noticed her until now. When she smiles at me, her face crinkles into a field of wrinkles and dimples, like a crumpled-up paper bag. Behind her glasses, her eyes are warm and brown, and her hair is short and curly and on the bluish side. There’s a walker sitting next to her, each foot capped with a tennis ball. In her blue dress printed with flowers, she looks like a grandmother from a picture book, the kind who always has pies cooling on the windowsill.

  “Hello, dear,” she says. “I’m Betty. It’s wonderful to meet you.”

  “You too,” I say.

  “So polite,” Betty says, putting her blue-veined hand over her heart. I notice she doesn’t have any jewelry on, like the rest of the ladies do, not even a wedding ring. I wonder if her husband is dead or if she never got married.

  All the ladies are staring at me again now, like they’re expecting me to break into a song-and-dance routine, and the silence gets awkward pretty fast. “I guess I should go change out of these clothes,” I finally say. “Respectable young ladies try to keep themselves neat and clean, right?” I glance at Grandma Jo, wondering if that got me any points.

  Cookie snorts. “What are you teaching her, Jo? We have no use for respectable young ladies around here.”

  “Don’t encourage her,” Grandma Jo huffs. “She’s wild enough already.”

  “I like a wild streak in a girl.” Cookie pats my hand. “Be your wonderful self, AJ. We can’t wait to see more of you.”

  “Lots more,” Betty says. Edna makes a sound of agreement, but she’s staring off over my left shoulder, like she’s trying
to crack a code painted on the fireplace.

  “You guys too,” I say.

  I pick up my soccer bag and start backing away. I want to get out of this room while Grandma Jo is too distracted by her friends to remember that she’s supposed to be giving me etiquette lessons. I’m nearly out the door when she calls out, “Come back down when you’re finished changing, Annemarie, and you can get started on your sewing sampler.”

  Ugh, can she read my mind or something? And is she seriously going to make me sew? What is this, the Middle Ages? But I’m sure I’ll get in trouble if I argue with her, so I say, “Okay. I’ll be right back.”

  I change as slowly as I can, but I can drag out putting on clean shorts and a T-shirt for only so long. As I’m coming back down the stairs, I hear Cookie say, “. . . don’t know why you didn’t want to take her in, Jo. She’s the perfect solution.”

  I freeze halfway down the steps. Are they talking about me? I’m suddenly hot with embarrassment. Even though I’ve made it clear that I don’t want to be here at Grandma Jo’s, it still feels like a punch to the stomach to hear outright that she doesn’t want me, either. Isn’t my own grandmother supposed to love me, even if she doesn’t actually like me?

  And what does Cookie think I’m the solution to?

  “Having a child in the house makes it infinitely more difficult to stay under the radar,” Grandma Jo says. “It puts us under increased scrutiny.”

  “But don’t you see how much she could help us?”

  “Absolutely not. Using her is not an option.”

  “Come on, Jo, are you kidding me? We have this invaluable resource right here at our fingertips, and you’re going to ignore it?”

  “She’s not a resource, she’s—” One of the steps creaks under my feet, and Grandma Jo breaks off. “Annemarie, is that you?”

  I consider staying quiet so they’ll keep talking. My grandmother and her friends are clearly hiding something, and I want to know what it is. But Grandma Jo seems like the type who might get up to check if I’m there, and if she finds me eavesdropping, she’ll probably want me even less than she already does. So I call out a cheerful “Yes,” paste a smile on my face, and go back into the room, pretending I haven’t heard anything.

  “Come with me,” Grandma Jo says, and I follow her into the dining room.

  On the table is a small wooden hoop with a square of white fabric stretched tight across its middle, a pincushion shaped like a tomato, a pencil, and some bundles of thick thread in blues and pinks and purples. There’s also a slim hardback book called My First Sewing Sampler. “This should be basic enough that you can understand it,” Grandma Jo says, tapping the book. That’s when I notice that the smiley, happy kids on the cover are six years old, tops.

  “I’m sure I can handle it,” I mutter.

  “Get started on your name sampler,” Grandma Jo says, ignoring my tone. “I’ll be back to check on your progress in a little while.” Then, without telling me what a name sampler even is, she turns around and leaves the room, her long skirts rustling behind her.

  I sigh and open the book. On the first page is a picture of a really overexcited little girl who’s missing both front teeth. She’s holding up a pillow that says KIMMY in neat pink stitches and beaming like it’s a kitten that poops candy. In a cartoony speech bubble coming out of her mouth are the words Sewing is fun! Sewing is fun! Sewing is fun for everyone!

  Oh my God, I think I might barf. I snap a photo of it and text it to Maddie, but she doesn’t respond.

  Trying my best to ignore the sappy rhymes and bug-eyed kids in pigtails, I read the instructions for sewing a name sampler. The fabric in my embroidery ring has a grid of little holes in it, and apparently I’m supposed to sew tiny x’s that make letters when you put them together, like pixels. The book suggests that beginners sketch their letters out with a pencil first—Whoa there, partner, put on the brakes! If you sew with no guide, you will make more mistakes!—so I get to work. I quickly discover that my name is too long to fit across the little circle of fabric, so I break it into two parts, ANNE on the top and MARIE on the bottom. I think about just doing AJ right in the middle, but I know how Grandma Jo would feel about that.

  I’m finishing up my first A—Crisscross, crisscross go the needle and thread! It’s fun for your fingers and fun for your head!—when Betty shuffles into the room with her walker. I assume she’s on her way to the bathroom, but instead she comes up right behind me, so close I can smell her talcum-powdery scent, and peers over my shoulder. Has Grandma Jo sent her to spy on me? I try to look very busy and focused, just in case.

  “Phenomenal,” Betty whispers after about thirty seconds. “Such excellent fine motor skills. You’re exactly what we need,  AJ.”

  I’m doing okay with the sewing, but it certainly doesn’t seem like anything to get excited about. “Um, thanks?” I say.

  Betty nods to herself, pats my shoulder gently, and heads back toward the door. But when she’s nearly out of the room, I hear her say, “Oh no . . . oh dear.” She’s looking around on the rug like my mom does when she drops a contact lens.

  “What’s the matter?” I ask.

  “I seem to have lost one of my tennis balls. It’s so difficult to walk when the feet are uneven like this.” She gestures at the right front foot of her walker, which now ends in a bare plastic knob.

  The ball can’t possibly have gone very far, since she was going about a quarter of a mile per hour, but I don’t see it anywhere. “Did you see which direction it rolled?”

  “It went right under this gorgeous china cabinet.” She pats the hulking piece of furniture next to the door. “Do you think you could help me get it?”

  I crouch down in front of the china cabinet (seriously, who has a cabinet this big to display dishes?) and peek underneath. The ball is under there, way back against the wall. “I think I’m going to have to get something to fish it out,” I say. “Do you know where the brooms are?”

  “The legs on this cabinet are awfully tall, dear. Do you think you might be able to scoot underneath and grab it?”

  “Yeah, okay. I can try.” I lie down flat on my stomach and start pulling myself forward with my arms the way my baby cousin used to do before she learned to crawl. It’s a little dusty under the cabinet, but Betty’s right—there’s enough room for me to worm my way all the way under.

  “Got it!” I call as I grab the ball and start inching backward. I’m careful not to bang my head as I squeeze back out, and when I stand up, Betty’s looking at me all misty-eyed, kind of like Maddie looked when she unwrapped her Xbox on her eleventh birthday.

  “Oh, Annemarie,” Betty breathes. “You’re just perfect, aren’t you.”

  Betty already seems to like me a lot more than my own grandmother does. “It’s no big deal,” I say as I squat down and reattach the ball to her walker. It fits pretty tightly, so I have no idea how it managed to fall off in the first place.

  “It’s a very big deal to me,” she says. She gives me a watery-eyed smile, and then she shuffles back into the parlor.

  When she’s gone, I creep after her and lurk next to the doorway, eager to hear Betty tell Grandma Jo how wrong she was about me. “She squirmed right under there like a little eel, Jo,” I hear her saying. “Cookie’s right, she’s the answer to our prayers.”

  “I said no,” Grandma Jo snaps.

  “Don’t you think I should have a say in choosing my successor?”

  “Betty, you’ve proven you are not to be trusted in matters like these.”

  “There’s no need to bring that up, Jo,” Betty says, and she sounds hurt. “I dealt with the consequences of my actions. Haven’t I proven that kind of behavior is all in the past now?”

  What kind of behavior could she possibly be talking about? I’ve only known Betty a few minutes, but she seems so sweet and wholesome. I can’t imagine her doing anything worse than eating cookies in bed. Then again, according to my grandmother, almost everything counts as bad beha
vior. Betty probably walked in one of her flower beds or used her phone during a bridge game or something.

  “This isn’t about Betty,” says Cookie’s voice. “This is about AJ. Give us one good reason why she’s not suitable.”

  “She’s twelve years old! There’s no way she can handle this level of responsibility. Do you honestly trust her to keep a secret of this magnitude? She hasn’t been brought up to be decorous or discreet. She’s even more unpredictable than Betty.”

  I bristle at that—I’m great at keeping secrets. When Ben planned a surprise party for my parents’ twentieth anniversary, I didn’t slip even once. But I hate it when people keep secrets from me, and if someone doesn’t clue me in immediately about what my grandmother’s friends want to use me for, I feel like my head might explode.

  “I’m sure she can handle it,” says Betty. “You never know until you try.”

  “All kids are a little unpredictable,” says Cookie. “It doesn’t mean she’s immature.”

  “I was wild when I was young,” says Edna’s faraway voice.

  “Betty’s still wild,” snorts Cookie.

  “Cookie, be fair.” Betty sounds super exasperated. “I told you that would never happen again.”

  “In all seriousness, Jo, we have to use AJ,” Cookie says firmly. “We can’t do it alone anymore, not with Betty’s hip the way it is. We either include her or we’re done. Is that what you want?”

  Everyone’s quiet for a minute, and I stand there motionless, holding my breath and dying of curiosity. “Of course that’s not what I want,” my grandmother finally says.

  “Then it’s decided,” Betty says.

  “We’ll discuss it later,” Grandma Jo says. “Now, quiet. Do you want her to hear you?” And to my dismay, their talk turns away from me and toward “trumps” and “redoubles,” whatever those are.

  I tiptoe back to the table and start working on sewing my first N, but my mind is spinning so much I can barely pay attention. Most of the ladies seem to want to share this mysterious secret with me, and that means my time living at Grandma Jo’s house might not be as boring as I expected. Then again, if my grandmother gets her way, it sounds like I’ll be sewing useless stuff all summer, totally clueless about what’s happening on the other side of the wall. How dare she dismiss me without even giving me a chance, just because I’m not like her, obsessed with dresses and tea parties and bridge! Sure, I like to have actual fun once in a while, but that doesn’t mean I should be kept in the dark.