The Secret Cookie Club (13 page)

“What's that smell?” Troy asked when I sat down. “Did you spill a juice box?”

“At least it's better than boy smell.”

“Children,” said my father, “I love you both, and I have a request. Could we please get through a meal without acrimony?”

“Yes, dear Papa. Of course,” I said. “Only, please could you tell me, what is this thing called acrimony?”

“Contentiousness,” my mother said.

“That doesn't help,” I said.

“Conflict,” my brother said. “Fighting.”

“Who's fighting?” I asked.

“No one, and let's keep it that way,” said my mother.
“Now, who would like to give thanks?”

“I will,” said my kiss-up brother. “Dear Lord, thank you for this family and thank you for this food. And please give Saint Ignatius the hitting and fielding we need to have a winning season. Amen.”

“Amen,” said my parents, but not me. With all the bad things God had to worry about, he might be annoyed to be asked for something as stupid as a winning baseball season—and if he was, I did
not
want to be blamed.

My family believes in table manners, so we all waited for my mother to raise her fork and take a bite of baked beans (made with Baron Barbecue Sauce, of course) before we ate.

Between bites, my mother asked about my math homework. “Did you get it turned in?”

I repeated, “Math homework?” as if the words were from an alien language.

“You forgot again, didn't you?”

I cut a piece of chicken, chewed it, and swallowed. “Mr. Driscoll didn't remind me,” I said at last.

“Darling, Mr. Driscoll has two dozen other students to keep track of,” my mother said. “You just have yourself.”

I nodded. “I hear what you're saying, but look at it this way. It's Mr. Driscoll who cares whether I turn in my homework; therefore it's Mr. Driscoll who should remind me.”

“Young lady,” said my father, “you will care, too, if you get a bad grade. Engineers, scientists, computer programmers, airline pilots—they all need to do math. So do regular people if they want to get along in the world. Where would we be in our business if we didn't understand math?”

“In the toilet?” I said.

My mother made a face. “Olivia, we are at the dinner table.”

“I will tell you where our business would be,” said my father. “The recipes wouldn't work out, and neither would the spreadsheets. Nothing in the world of barbecue sauce works without math.”

“But I'm not going to make barbecue sauce when I grow up,” I said, and when I saw my parents look at each
other, I added, “Not that making barbecue sauce is bad.”

My father put his fork down. “It cheers me to hear you say that, Olivia, considering that you owe the clothes on your back, the food on your plate, the roof over your head, the phone in—”

My mother interrupted. “I think we get the idea, George.”

“Do we?” My father looked at me.

“We do,” I said. “But I am going to be . . . an
actress
.”

“That's fine, but you still have to do homework,” my mom said. “Does anyone want more cole slaw? I think Jenny said there's plenty.”

“I do,” said Troy.

Mom keeps a silver bell next to her water glass. She picked it up and rang it, and Jenny, our housekeeper, came in from the kitchen. “Let me guess,” Jenny said. “Troy wants more cole slaw.”

Troy grinned. “Got that right.”

Jenny had the bowl in her hand and served a big spoonful.

“Thanks,” Troy said. “It's delicious like always.”

“It's the pineapple makes it special,” Jenny said. “That's how my own mama made it.”

Jenny went back to the kitchen and—unfortunately—my mom remembered what we'd been talking about. “Tonight before bed, Olivia, I will check to make sure your homework's done.”

“Well, okay,” I said. “I just hope I have time to finish it.”

“Why wouldn't you?” my father asked.

“Because I have a very important letter to write.”

“Yeah, right,” said Troy.

“I do!” I explained that I had heard from Emma.

“Was she the one whose mother was wearing the shorts?” my dad asked.

“That was Lucy,” I said.

“Emma's mother is a lawyer,” said my mom.

“I only remember the shorts,” said my dad.

My mother turned to me. “Darling, do you want to go back to Moonlight Ranch this summer? It's time to make the reservation.”

“I have to think about it,” I said.

“Well, don't think too long,” my mother said.

After dinner, I went back up to my room. It's pretty big, I guess—bigger than the apartment my parents lived in when they were first married and trying to get the business going. Anyway, that's what they are always telling me. My colors used to be mostly pink, but after camp I decided that was too little girly, so we had it redecorated in mostly purple with red accents—like the pillows on the sofa are red, and the comforter on my bed has giant red roses. On the walls there are posters from some of my favorite movies,
The Philadelphia Story
,
Frozen
,
Titanic
, and
Cinderella
.

I reorganized myself, my remote, my iPad, and my phone on top of my quilt on my sofa. I probably would have put off answering Emma's e-mail—except I had told everyone I was going to. Anyway, it was more fun than fractions.

Dear Wonderful, Sweet, and Kindest Emma!!!

It was so TOTALLY AWESOME to get your e-mail!!!

It made me think about Flowerpot Cabin and Vivek, too, and how fun camp was!!!

Remember the last day when we all had lunch and said good-bye? I was so embarrassed about my dorky parents in their big car and how everybody looked at them because they have their pictures on bottles of barbecue sauce. Did I ever tell you how much I wish my parents made phones or computers instead of barbecue sauce?

Except I guess they could make dog food, and that would be worse, right? What if your parents had their pictures on bags of dog food? That would be a TOTAL MATTER OF MORTIFICATION.

Anyway, you asked what is going on in my life. Here is the good thing:

My class at After-School Acting Studio is putting on “The Princess and the Pea,” and guess who got the part of the princess?

OLIVIA BARON!!!

(When I told my star athlete brother, he said, “I guess that's better than playing the pea.”)

The only bad part is that Esmee Snyder plays the princess's archenemy the queen, which is a big part, and now I have to see her at every single rehearsal.

But I can deal with that. I can. Truly. It's not like the part of the queen is BIGGER than the part of the princess. The princess is the STAR!

As for the rest of my life—WOE IS ME!!!—it is a disaster, and not even flour-power magic can fix it.

At school, I keep forgetting to do my math homework (why do I need to understand fractions anyway?), and my teacher, Mr. Driscoll, sent a letter home saying my grade is currently a big fat F, and I am supposed to have the letter signed by my parents, but who is Mr. Driscoll even kidding? I can't do that! My parents think I'm smart. If they find out I am getting an F, my life will go down the TOILET!!!

Then there is baseball season. It is just the start, and
my brother is the shortstop, and I have to go to all his games, which RUINS MY LIFE until May at least—longer if his team makes the playoffs.

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.

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.