Campfire Cookies

by Martha Freeman

  “Think of it as learning a skill,” I said. “Like a backflip or how to multiply fractions. In the end, you will be really, really, really proud of yourself!”

  “Is breaking and entering a skill?” Grace asked.

  “Absolutely,” I said. “And it could be you’ll have so much fun you’ll take up a life of crime. I hear the money’s good.”

  Grace rolled her eyes. “You’re not funny, Olivia.”

  “Yeah, I am,” I said. “Ask anybody. Ask Jenny. Only don’t ask my brother. He doesn’t think I’m funny either.”

  We retrieved our horses’ bridles from their hooks in the barn and started walking up the hill toward North Corral. We were almost to the gate when Grace said, “There’s something I don’t get. Why can’t we just ask one of the other guys in Silver Spur Cabin to put the cookies on Lance’s pillow?”

  “Because we don’t know them,” I said. “They would blab all over camp, and PFHL would be toast. Plus Hannah might be mad.”

  “How do we know Vivek won’t blab all over camp?” Grace asked.

  “Because he’s Vivek,” I said. “Duh.”

  “Okay,” said Grace, “if you say so.”

  “Great!” I said. “So you’ll do it?”

  “I didn’t say that,” Grace said. “I just guess you’re right about Vivek not blabbing.”

  “And also you guess you’ll do it?” I repeated.

  “I’ll think about it,” Grace said.

  • • •

  You might remember that my horse that summer was named Shorty, and guess what? He was short—only fourteen hands high—and dusty white in color, with dirty speckles of gray and brown. Personality-wise, he possessed all the charm of Eeyore, the gloomy donkey friend of Winnie-the-Pooh. Also like Eeyore, his usual posture was head hanging, as if lifting it up required too much effort.

  The first time I saw Shorty, I was disappointed. As far as I could tell, everybody else had prettier, happier horses.

  But then I decided that Shorty was part of God’s plan for Olivia Baron. Just as I was his burden to bear (get it?), he was mine—and I was going to live up to the challenge! I was going to improve that horse’s attitude if it was the last thing I did! I was going to boost his morale and raise his self-esteem!

  So, along with a bridle and a saddle, Shorty always got a pep talk. “You’re a handsome horse and a strong horse, too,” I told him. “And you’re not even that short, I mean, compared to a pony. Compared to a pony, you are an equine giant!”

  If this did anything for Shorty’s attitude, morale, or self-esteem, he didn’t show it. His head went on drooping as low as ever. And slow? As we moseyed down the trail, crawling ants on the ground overtook us.

  Among the counselors in charge of afternoon riding was Jack, the one from Yucca Cabin and the man I especially wanted to talk to. Unfortunately, his horse was a long-legged chestnut, and no pep talk on earth could goad Shorty into catching up with a long-legged chestnut. It wasn’t till we all dismounted for snacks and water at our destination for the day, Red Ridge, that I had the chance to tell him that the girls of Flowerpot Cabin really, really, really needed a favor.

  Now, maybe I should back up a little. For example, are you wondering why I had picked out Jack as the counselor most likely to assist?

  Mostly it was a matter of my well-known intuition. Sometimes you just know something, you know?

  But if I had to cite a reason, here it is: Because Jack was different. Just from the way he dressed (that old-man hat!) and the way he laughed and the stupid jokes he made, a person could see he didn’t mind standing out or bending rules.

  I mean, horse poop? Hello-o-o-o? Tarantulas we had in abundance, but no other cabin put horse poop on their flag.

  So I explained to Jack that we needed to make a double batch of cookies in the camp kitchen, and I was terribly, terribly sorry that I couldn’t tell him just exactly why, but it was for a good cause, a noble cause, a cause any right-thinking person would wholeheartedly approve.

  Hannah’s afternoon off was Sunday. Was Jack available? Would he help us?

  “Also, it’s a total secret,” I concluded. “So you can’t tell anyone.”

  All this time, Jack had listened attentively to my plea. He hadn’t asked a single question. His face had registered no hint of surprise. Maybe people were always asking him for secret favors.

  At last I was out of words and waiting for him to reply. It seemed to take forever, but probably it was closer to five seconds. Then he nodded. “Mystery and intrigue,” he mused. “I like it! And did you also say there would be cookies?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Emma

  When we first started whispering about PFHL, we expected it to take a week or two, and after that we would all high-five and admire the good we’ d done in the universe. Then we would get on with our lives.

  But it didn’t end up being that way. Each step took longer than expected; new steps had to be added. What should we write on the cards that would go with the cookies? How was Grace going to wake up without a phone to put on vibrate? What kind of cookies did Lance like?

  He might be one of those people who hates chocolate.

  He might be allergic to nuts.

  It would have been bad if, after so much trouble, Lance had refused to eat the cookies, not to mention embarrassing (and sad) if they had killed him by mistake.

  So Lucy asked Jamil, who had been following her around like a puppy, and Jamil reported back that oatmeal cookies were Lance’s favorite—but this piece of spy work took two days because Jamil first asked what was Lance’s favorite kind of cake (carrot) and then what was Lance’s favorite kind of candy (red jelly beans).

  “Jamil must not be the brightest bulb in the chandelier,” I said when Lucy reported this. It was after siesta on the fourth Saturday of camp, and the four of us were sitting on the side of the pool with our legs in the water, which came from a spring and felt wonderful. To protect us from the sun, we were wearing hats on our heads and T-shirts over our bathing suits. Even with my legs in the water, I could feel lines of sweat along my backbone.

  “When can we go in, Annie?” Olivia wanted to know.

  Annie was the CIC (counselor in charge) of the pool that day.

  “Hang on. We’re still short a lifeguard,” she said. “It’s times like this I really wish we all had phones.”

  “It’s times like always when I wish I had mine,” Olivia said.

  “I don’t think Jamil is dumb exactly,” Lucy said. “He claims that talking to me confuses him.”

  Grace said, “That’s fair.”

  Lucy looked at Grace. “Is it? Why?”

  I was afraid of how Grace might answer—sometimes she is not totally sensitive—so I helped her out. “Because you’re gorgeous-gorgeous-gorgeous, Lucy! That’s how my great-grandmother would say it. You drive all the boys wild.”

  “You drive Jamil wild at least,” said Olivia.

  “That’s gross,” said Lucy.

  “Watch out, or Olivia will make another speech,” I said.

  “Too hot for speeches,” Olivia said.

  “I’m not sure gorgeous is the problem,” Grace said. “Sometimes talking to Lucy confuses me, too.”

  Shoot—I was afraid she might say something like that. I leaned forward and looked over in case Lucy’s feelings were hurt, but from what I could see, she wasn’t listening. Her eyes were on a water bug doing laps in the pool.

  I was looking at the water bug too, when all of a sudden there was a commotion behind me. It sounded like someone was neighing. . . . Neighing?

  I turned my head and, yup, that was what it was exactly: Jack neighing. Also whinnying, snorting, and braying as he galloped up the path toward the pool, left hand in the air as if it held reins, right hand slapping his own butt.

  “Whoa there, Silver!” He burst through the gate, reached the edge of the pool, lurched forward as if he might fall in, then leaned back, teetering, to save himself. “Did so
mebody ’round here call a lifeguard?”

  Most of us campers were laughing, but Annie didn’t crack a smile. “You’re late,” she said. “You’ve kept all these campers waiting.”

  “Hi-i-i-i, kids!” Jack waved in an expansive arc. “You’re not mad, are you?” He put his hands over his heart. “Please tell me you’re not.”

  “We’re not! We are! We’re hot!” came the answers.

  “Where were you?” Annie asked.

  “Little lady, I would love to tell you,” Jack said, “but if I did, I’d have to kill you.”

  Annie scowled and pointed at the lifeguard stand.

  Jack looked stricken. “No, not that!” He got down on his knees. “I’ll do anything, anything you say, Annie, but please! Not that!”

  Annie ignored him. “Okay, guys, get in the water. But don’t any of you go and drown on this guy’s shift. He might be too busy cracking jokes to save you.”

  “Hey,” said Jack, getting awkwardly to his feet, “I resemble that remark.”

  Again, Annie pointed to the lifeguard stand. “Go!”

  • • •

  By this time, even though PFHL was nowhere near full implementation, Hannah was getting better. She no longer had circles under her eyes. Sometimes she even laughed with us. Still, she wasn’t the same old Hannah from last year. Like, when she announced, “Lights-out!” or “Hurry up and get to breakfast!” and we argued—because sometimes it is the job of campers to argue with counselors, just as it’s the job of kids to argue with parents—she would give in with a sigh that meant, “Whatever. Why do I think I know any better than a ten-to-eleven-year-old anyway?”

  Also, a lot of times when we came in from an activity, she was there already, lying on her bunk.

  “You should get out and socialize more,” I told her one day when I was the first one back from lunch.

  “That’s what Jane says too,” she said.

  “Are you okay?” I asked. “Do you think you got sunburned?”

  “Nah,” she said. “It’s just been kind of a tough summer.”

  “I know.” I nodded solemnly. “It’s because you’ve got a cabinful of problem campers.”

  She smiled. “Hardly. Right now Flowerpot and Purple Sage have the only perfect Chore Scores in all of Girls Camp.”

  I already knew we were tied with Purple Sage. But then I thought of something. “Girls’ Camp?” I repeated. “Not the whole camp?”

  “Silver Spur has a perfect Chore Score too,” Hannah said. “They announced the totals at the counselors meeting last night. Lance was totally trash-talking me too. You girls better beat those boys. If you don’t, I will never hear the end of it.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Vivek

  On Sunday afternoon, Grace, Emma, Olivia, and Lucy came into the camp kitchen followed by that counselor from Yucca Cabin, Jack.

  I know this because I was in the camp kitchen already. I was preparing to make a batch of cookies. I had expected to have the kitchen to myself, so I was surprised to see them—and I guess they were surprised to see me, too.

  “Vivek!” Olivia was the first one through the door, and you would’ve thought I was a ghost. “How did you even get in?”

  “I unlocked the door,” I said. “Then I opened it, and then I stepped across the threshold. Would you like me to demonstrate?”

  Grace rolled her eyes. “She means who gave you a key, obviously.”

  “It wasn’t obvious to me,” I said, “and Mrs. Arthur did.”

  “Seriously?” Grace frowned. “She wouldn’t give us one! We had to ask a counselor to come with us and be responsible.”

  Jack waggled his thumbs at himself. “That’s me, the responsible party . . . although, come to think of it, what fun would that be?”

  I had a feeling Jack had made a joke, but I didn’t get it.

  “Do you believe Mrs. Arthur gave Vivek a key and not us?” Olivia asked. “How sexist is that?”

  “Not to mention it’s unfair,” said Emma, “since everybody knows girls are more responsible than boys in the first place.”

  “Speaking of sexist . . . ,” said Jack.

  Olivia took a step back, lowered her chin, and looked at Jack. I knew that look. My mother gives it to me all the time. “Are you saying guys are more responsible?” she asked.

  “No offense, Jack, but you’re a guy and you were late to lifeguard duty yesterday,” Emma said.

  “Oh, swell,” Jack said. “Now the eleven-year-olds are keeping tabs.”

  “I think I made my point,” Olivia said, and then she turned to me. “So, Mr. Responsible? What are you doing here? Making cupcakes for your mom like last year?”

  “That can’t be it,” Grace said. “His mom’s birthday must be over by now.”

  “I, uh . . . kind of missed it,” I said. “So I’m making her cookies—belated birthday cookies.”

  Olivia, Grace, and Emma looked at Jack. Their expressions were smug.

  Then Lucy started to giggle. “I get it,” she said. “Responsible party. Like the only fun kind of party is one that’s irresponsible.”

  “Thank you, Lucy,” Jack said. “I am glad someone appreciates my humor.”

  Responsible party . . . what?

  I still didn’t get it, but I would have felt dumb asking, so I changed the subject. “I am making raisin cookies,” I said. “They’re my mom’s favorite.”

  Grace made a face. “Ewww.”

  “It’s okay if we don’t all have the same tastes, you know,” Emma said.

  “It’s actually better that we don’t,” said Lucy. “If everyone liked chocolate chip best, chocolate chips would become scarce, and the price would rise.”

  Jack’s eyebrows about jumped off his face. “Whoa! Lucy Lu!” he said. “You not only get my humor, but you’re a thinker, too. How did you know that?”

  “I’m not dumb, you know,” said Lucy. “I just have things to do besides pay attention.”

  All this time, Emma had been retrieving cookie sheets, bowls, measuring spoons, and measuring cups from the cupboards and drawers. Then she went to the giant silver refrigerator for eggs and butter. From the pantry, she brought back flour, baking soda, sugar, and walnuts. Each of these she placed on the wooden countertop by the sink.

  Then she turned on the oven and said, “Okay. Who wants to do what?”

  “I’ll measure dry ingredients,” said Grace.

  “I’ll set up the mixer and cream the butter and eggs,” said Olivia.

  “Great,” Emma said. “In that case, I’ll grease the cookie sheets.”

  Eleven years as an only child had taught me many tricks, and one of them was how to make the face of a sad, sad puppy dog. I made this face now. “Uh, so I guess I’ll just make my own separate batch of cookies over here,” I said, and then I slumped away toward the other side of the kitchen.

  “Wait a sec, Vivek,” Emma said. “You guys, we’re going to have plenty of cookies. Couldn’t Vivek mix in the oatmeal for us? And then he could add raisins to part of the dough for his mom. Is that okay?”

  “Sure,” said Olivia.

  “Go for it,” said Jack, “provided, that is, that I still get my agreed-upon share.”

  “Your cookies are secure,” said Emma. “Grace? What do you think?”

  “Hmph,” said Grace.

  Meanwhile, Lucy said nothing. She was at the table by the window, setting up some project of her own. I guessed it had to do with painting, because I noticed there were brushes.

  “Come on, Grace,” Emma said. “It’s for his mom, and she is having a baby.”

  “Hmph,” Grace said again. Then she added, “Girls are not only more responsible, but they are nicer, too.”

  I took this to mean yes, and went to the pantry to get a box of raisins. When I came back and saw the girls hard at work, I suddenly remembered something. “Wait a sec. Is any of this about that thing that Grace asked me—?”

  Before I could finish the question, laser bea
ms shot from the eyes of Olivia, Emma, and Grace.

  Jack saw them too. “Whooey,” he said. “You seem to have touched a nerve with that one, buddy.”

  “Never mind,” I said. “I withdraw the question.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Lucy

  After a whole lot of discussion—most of it too boring to listen to—the membership had decided that I should paint flowers on Hannah’s card and balloons on Lance’s. I wonder if that was sexist.

  Note to self: Ask Olivia.

  Last year when we baked cookies, it was exciting. We set off the smoke detector. There was thunder and lightning. Then the power went out.

  In the end, we ate our cookies by candlelight.

  Not that I care, but Vivek did look cute by candlelight.

  Also last year, our “responsible party” had been Hannah and not Jack. Hannah doesn’t make as many jokes as Jack, but she works harder.

  This year nothing exciting happened, but you know what? In the end, there were cookies, so no complaints—as my nana would say (usually right before she finds something to complain about).

  By the time the timer dinged for the last cookie sheet, the atmosphere was thick with the sweet smells of butter, sugar, and nuts.

  “Do we get to actually eat any, or are they all designated for a higher purpose?” Olivia asked Emma, who was putting away the ingredients while Grace washed the dishes.

  “Why are you asking me?” Emma asked.

  “Because you are the boss,” said Olivia.

  “Oh, no,” said Emma, “not anymore. I’m just normal Emma this summer. No more bossiness. I swore it off.”

  “Is this about that time I called you bossy?” Olivia asked.

  “What if it is?” said Emma.

  “Because I never said bossiness is bad,” Olivia said.

  “Yes, you did, O,” I said. “I was there. What do you think of my pictures?” I held them up to be admired.

  “Excellent!” said Vivek.

  “Vivek—you weren’t supposed to look!” said Grace.

  “I promise to pretend I never saw them,” said Vivek, “but the balloons look almost 3-D, and the roses are quite realistic.”