Smart Cookies

by Adriana Brad Schanen

  When you try stuff over and over, that’s called practicing. I remember Hopper told me he practiced diving a lot before he figured out how to do a good dive.

  Another thing I notice is that Piper is really, truly, absolutely improving. With each new page, she gets more of the words right.

  I guess it’s not shocking. If you work hard at something, you might get better at it.

  My pizza stop might get better if I practice it. My cannonball, too, I bet.

  My math might even get better, just maybe.

  Piper and Hopper sitting there together remind me a little of me and Ms. Jasani.

  Slow down. Take it one step at a time. Keep trying. Stay positive. Don’t give up.

  If Piper can learn to say a whole book out loud, and those chickens can learn to get along, then I can probably-definitely learn some measly decimals.

  So on Monday I go back to Math Lounge and listen to every word Ms. Jasani says, even the ones I don’t understand. (Usually I stop paying attention when I don’t understand something, but this time I try harder to stop my brain from running away.)

  We do another cookie word problem, and this time I finish it before the bell rings. Ms. Jasani gives me another real cookie, which I chomp right there so we don’t get caught breaking Principal Ramsey’s mean food rules.

  I go over math again on the bus home with Hopper. And he asks me to explain it to him, like I am the teacher and he is a kid, and, surprise, that turns out to be really helpful.

  At night, I go over my math again with Daddy, because he is less tired and crabby than Mom for a change.

  And a funny thing happens. The more I go over my decimals, the closer I feel to actually almost understanding them. Not all the way. I still lose track of those decimal dots, but I find them again more quickly. I don’t worry as much, and my breathing feels slower.

  By the end of my day, I still don’t like math very much.

  But I like that I feel less nervous about it.

  In bed that night, I can’t stop wiggling.

  My least favorite kind of Monday is the kind after a long holiday weekend, when you kind of forgot about school, but then school pokes you on the shoulder and goes hey, I’m still here and I OWN you, hahahahaha. But this wasn’t that kind of Monday, it really wasn’t!

  I took my whole day one step at a time.

  One decimal dot at a time.

  One autograph at a time. (I got a lot of new people to sign my new and improved petition at recess, and I even turned it in to Principal Ramsey!)

  One bang on the wood block at a time. (We had a double practice in chorus today, since the Winter Holiday Assembly is coming up soon.)

  One breath and one hello and one raised hand at a time.

  I also made a big decision today: I’m getting rid of the word dummy from all my sentences. It’s a dumb word. (Oops! I meant bad.) It hurts people’s feelings. It hurts my own feelings when I say it. I don’t think anybody deserves to be called that word, not even me.

  I’m no dummy. I’m just a kid, trying my best.

  On Tuesday I wake up ready for another great day, but when I get to school something sour happens that destroys all my hope.

  Ms. Jasani is absent from Math Lounge. So I have to stay in my class for math.

  And Mrs. Flavio passes out a math quiz.

  I shoot my hand up. “Mrs. Flavio, I really, really have to use the bath—”

  “Relax, Quinny, I’ll get to you in a second.” She gives me a pipe-down look.

  Then, a bunch of seconds later, she tells me that I don’t have to take this quiz. I can sit in the back and work on my own worksheets from Ms. Jasani.

  Phew! This means I won’t have to go hide in the bathroom now.

  But, wait a minute.

  I realize I actually do want to take that quiz. Because maybe I’m a math expert now from all my hard work yesterday. I know how to do things one step at a time now. I can just do that quiz one problem at a time, no problem.

  I explain this to Mrs. Flavio and she gives me a tired look and says, “Okay, Quinny, if that’s what you want. No harm in giving it a try.”

  She gives me my very own copy of that quiz, and I sit down and look at it.

  I look a little harder. There are twelve questions on this quiz. That’s three or four too many, if you ask me. I wait for the first question to make sense in my head.

  It should happen any second now.

  I fidget in my seat. Math is much easier when you’re sitting on a big bouncy ball, like the kind Ms. Jasani has, instead of this hard classroom chair. I feel like whistling, but that’s not allowed during quizzes. I try my best to look like a genuine, brilliant quiz taker. But this quiz is much harder than my math with Ms. Jasani. I understand some of the questions. And some of some of the other questions. But mostly I just take my best guesses.

  When the time is up, there are two questions left that I didn’t even get to.

  Everyone is passing up their quizzes. I have no choice but to turn mine in, too.

  I bet I flunked that quiz. I probably got the lowest score in my whole class.

  I shoot my wiggly hand straight up in the air.

  I am not going to cry. Not until I get to the bathroom, at least.

  I guess I can’t stay in this bathroom forever.

  I splash cold water on my face one last time. I look at my drippy chin in the mirror.

  Back by the lockers, Hopper comes up to me and says, “Quinny, are you okay?”

  “Absolutely. Sure. Except I flunked that math quiz and I just want to go home.”

  “You don’t know that you flunked.”

  “You don’t know that I didn’t.”

  “Quinny, I have something for you.”

  Hopper hands me a card he’s been holding behind his back. The cover looks serious and official. Except there’s also an orange-polka-dotted chicken on it.

  “Hopper, what is this thing?” I open it up. I flip through the pages.

  And I can’t believe my eyes. Because this isn’t just a card…it’s a report card.

  Quinny flips through the card I just gave her. She looks confused.

  Then she smiles. And giggles.

  Seeing her gloomy face get brighter because of something I did feels pretty great.

  “Hopper, this is the silliest thing I’ve ever seen.”

  I know how to be silly. I just don’t blast it out for the whole world to notice.

  I love making Quinny laugh, but the pictures I drew in her report card–card are no joke. Everything in there is the truth, from stuff I really saw her do.

  Quinny turns to the last page of it. She gasps.

  A real person’s eyes cannot boing out of their head like a cartoon person’s. That’s impossible. But Quinny’s eyes come close. And then she flings her arms out and wraps them around my shoulders. I’m like a prisoner now. It’s hard to breathe.

  I’ve been hugged by Quinny before. I’m not going to panic. It’ll be over soon. But this hug goes on longer than the others. I raise my arms to push her away, but they don’t actually do that. They wrap around Quinny and squeeze her back, for the first time ever.

  A both-ways Quinny hug feels much different from a one-way Quinny hug.

  It feels much better. That’s all I can really say about it.

  You’re not supposed to hug another person without their permission. I know that.

  But sometimes I forget stuff I already know.

  Hopper wiggles inside my strong, happy hug.

  I’m just so excited, because I’ve never been on the honor roll before—never, ever! Wait until my parents find out. And Mrs. Flavio and Ms. Jasani and Principal Ramsey and Mrs. Porridge and Piper and everyone!

  I’ve also never been hugged back by Hopper’s very own arms before.

  I don’t know which is more exciting. It could be a tie.

  Hopper wiggles some more. I loosen my grip on him. But I don’t ever want to let go of this moment where he showed me all the i
ncredible, brilliant A-pluses I got just for being me.

  “Hopper, did you know I’m going to put this in a frame?” I whisper into his ear. “Thank you for being my best friend in the whole round world.”

  Mom forgot to close my window shade last night, so I wake up early on Wednesday from all the morning light. I don’t mind. The house is quiet now. I get up and find some scrap paper.

  A Little Free Library isn’t free. Everything in life costs money. I write down how much I have:

  $10 from giving Quinny swimming lessons for the past two Saturdays.

  $8 from cleaning out the chicken coop last week. (I convinced Mrs. Porridge to pay me in money, not eggs.)

  $1.04 in coins I found in the sofa cushions. (Dad said finders keepers.)

  $1.53 in coins I found on the floor and seat pockets of the car. (Mom said the same.)

  $5 from Aunt Cindy in St. Charles, Illinois, who sent it in my birthday card last month.

  $11.39 from a birthday gift from Victoria, which I returned, because I’m not into paint-your-own birdhouses. Mom said it was okay to return it, but that I didn’t need to tell Victoria.

  $35 from the money Mom promised me from her Turkey Trot 5K race sponsors.

  All of that adds up to $71.96.

  A woman I spoke to on the phone at a lumberyard told me it will cost $90 to buy enough wood to make the Little Free Library. That means we only need $18.04 more.

  I can’t wait to tell Quinny that we’re getting closer.

  In the kitchen, my brothers stick French-toast sticks up their noses instead of dunking them in syrup. Mom hands me a breakfast plate, too, but I’ve kind of lost my appetite.

  “Hon, Grandpa Gooley called,” she says. “He got ahold of some extra lumber, after all.”

  “Really? How much?”

  “Not enough to build the whole thing, I don’t think, but a good amount,” she says. “You can call him back after school. Boys, time to get moving,” Mom reminds my brothers. “Please remove all food from your nostrils and go find your backpacks.”

  My brothers carpool to middle school with a bunch of big kids, and that’s fine with me.

  On the way to the bus stop, I hear crying coming from Quinny’s house. That’s not unusual.

  Her family bursts outside and trails behind me. Cleo is wailing, Piper is whining, and Quinny is arguing. Their dad roars, “Quinny, please!” and “Piper, that’s enough!” He digs around in his pocket and finds a Binky and sticks it in Cleo’s mouth. Right away Cleo quiets down.

  That’s one out of three.

  “Oooh, Mom said you’re not supposed to give her Binkies anymore,” says Quinny.

  “Mom’s not the one whose eardrums are about to explode,” says Quinny’s dad. “Good morning, Hopper. I hope you’ve had a calmer morning than we have.”

  If you don’t count my brothers sticking breakfast up their noses, I have.

  When the school bus pulls up to our stop, Mr. Bumble groans—he just noticed that Piper is only wearing one shoe. He rushes back home with Cleo and Piper while Quinny and I get on the bus. I tell her that the Little Free Library lumber costs $90, and I already have $71.96, so we need just $18.04 more. But we might not need it at all, because of Grandpa Gooley’s free wood.

  “Hey, that’s kind of like Ms. Jasani’s word problems, except with wood instead of cookies,” she says.

  “Cookies?” says Xander, sitting behind us. “What cookies? You’ve got cookies?”

  “Nope, no cookies,” says Quinny. “Nothing to see here.”

  Then she smiles and shushes me. I’m the only one Quinny told about the cookies in Math Lounge. She doesn’t want to get Ms. Jasani in trouble. We aren’t allowed to have cookies in classrooms anymore, but I think those cookies might actually be helping Quinny. I’ve been doing math with her on the bus all week, and she’s definitely getting less scared of decimals.

  After morning meeting, Principal Ramsey’s voice makes some announcements over the loudspeaker. The last one is that there will be a special delivery today, because Victoria Porridge just donated a Little Free Library to our school.

  “Thanks to Victoria Porridge and her family for this generous donation,” he says. “It will provide a sheltered space for books on the playground, and make the Books & Buddies Bench area an even more exciting place to spend recess.”

  Everyone in class looks over at Victoria. Quinny starts clapping, and everyone joins in. My chest hurts. My breath feels stuck in my throat.

  I’m the only one not clapping, so I force myself to.

  Quinny looks over at me. “Wow! Isn’t that exciting, Hopper? Now you don’t have to worry about making a Little Free Library at all!”

  Victoria looks over at me, too. I wish she’d look at someone else. I don’t know what her Little Free Library will be like, or if it’ll have room for all the books I was imagining. I try to forget about my own ideas, because her idea is the one that’s coming true.

  Kids start talking to Victoria. “I told Daddy about it,” she says. “And he thought it was a great idea, so we just ordered one online. It should be here by recess. It can fit one hundred and twenty-five books and is made of solid teak, which is the best kind of wood.”

  Victoria’s Little Free Library sounds impressive.

  I’m sure it will be better than anything I could ever make.

  Later that morning, Mrs. Flavio returns the math quizzes from yesterday. I got a 100.

  Quinny looks at hers and bops up and down. “Wow! No way! I got a 75! Which Mrs. Flavio bumped up to a 78 because of extra credit, and that’s almost a B!”

  Victoria puts her arm around Quinny. “Congratulations, that’s great news.”

  “I drew a little doodle to explain this one problem and got extra credit because it was made out of parts of a cookie, which are kind of like fractions, so that’s how I got my almost-a-B. I can’t believe it!”

  “Well done, Quinny,” says Mrs. Flavio.

  “Oh, Mrs. Flavio, thank you. I couldn’t have done it if you hadn’t sent me to Ms. Jasani in Math Lounge! I need to go thank her, too, right this very minute.”

  I want to say congratulations to Quinny, too. I’ve been helping her with math on the bus, so I know how hard she’s been working. But she runs out of the room without looking at me.

  I touch my arm to make sure I’m still here.

  Yup.

  I look at it to make sure I’m not invisible.

  Nope.

  At lunch, there is another announcement over the loudspeaker in the cafeteria.

  “Folks, we’ve got some more big news….” It’s Principal Ramsey’s voice, again. “Our new food policy has changed, in response to a student petition. We still believe that too much sugar is not good for growing bodies, and we want to be more mindful of students with allergies. But we also believe in listening to feedback as we shape our school community. This petition was created by a persistent young lady, Quinny Bumble, and signed by many of you. We used it to reach a compromise. Going forward, we’ll allow peanut- and tree-nut-free desserts at your class winter holiday parties. For birthdays, we’ll be consolidating nut-free treats each month into one celebration per classroom. Hot lunch remains dessert-free, and the rule against eating in classrooms stands, except for the winter holiday party and monthly birthdays. For more details, see the flyer going home today. Thanks for your attention, and enjoy your lunch.”

  After Principal Ramsey finishes talking, everyone else starts talking. It sounds like a swarm of bees just invaded the cafeteria.

  Wow. The petition worked. We’ll get sweets at our winter holiday party next week. We’ll still get birthday treats once a month. Principal Ramsey listened to us. He compromised.

  I look over at Quinny, who is surrounded by kids.

  “Quinny, you’re awesome,” says Xander.

  “You rock,” says Izzy.

  “Thanks, Quinny,” says Caleb.

  “Nice job, Big Foot,” says Alex.

  Even Victori
a, who didn’t like the petition, says congratulations on getting Principal Ramsey to change the rules. “That’s hard to do. It must have been a really smart petition.”

  I kind of get bumped out of the way as people try to get closer to Quinny.

  No one says anything to me. No one’s proud of me.

  I head toward the restroom at the end of the cafeteria. It’s calmer there.

  By the door, I look back at her. The more people come at her, the more she glows and chats, bounces and laughs. The petition worked. Everyone is happy. Quinny is a superstar.

  And I suddenly feel like I’m shrinking.

  That petition did such a great job!

  Everyone rushes up to me like I’m famous, except Hopper.

  He’s the one I really want to celebrate with, but he’s been acting funny all day.

  He barely said thanks to Victoria for the Little Free Library she got us. He didn’t jump for joy about my amazing almost-a-B on the math quiz. (Not even a tiny little yay.) And when Principal Ramsey compromised and said yes to cookies for the holiday party, Hopper’s face did nothing. Really, truly, absolutely nothing.

  It’s hard to tell what’s going on inside his head, sometimes.

  I thought he’d be happy about Victoria giving us a Little Free Library, since now he doesn’t have to spend any money or make one himself.

  I thought he’d be proud of my quiz, since he helps me with math so much on the bus.

  I thought he’d be thrilled the new and improved petition changed Principal Ramsey’s mind about cookies, since he’s the one who new-and-improved it with his brainy compromise.

  The bell rings for recess, and I look around for Hopper, but he’s gone.

  I guess I just don’t understand that boy.

  At recess, I watch from behind the slide as a man rolls a big crate across the playground.

  “Mr. Delivery Man, wait!” Quinny chases after him. “Is that what I think it is?”