The Secret Cookie Club (15 page)

Sophie said, “Better! Obviously!”

“Okay.” I nodded. “Then could you please put a lid on it?”

The rest of the day was normal except that my friends kept wanting to know why I hadn't answered their texts
the night before, and I had to say about three million times, “I'm fine! I'm
totally
fine!
Really
!”

At last the three-fifteen bell rang, and I waited the way I said I would—feeling weird and embarrassed as all my friends filed out the door to freedom. The last one to leave was Sophie. In the doorway, she turned around, smiled at me, and gave me a princess wave good-bye.

I stuck my tongue out, but by then she was gone.

“Take out your math book,” Mr. Driscoll said, and for one terrible moment I was afraid
he
might be my tutor. Then a girl appeared in the doorway—an eighth grader I had seen around but whose name I didn't know. She had braces and thick brown hair she had tried to tame with a headband. Standing there, she looked uncomfortable.

“Someone is here, Mr. Driscoll,” I said. “Are you my tutor?”

“Hi. Yes. I am. I guess. Hi,” she said.

“What's your name?” I asked.

Mr. Driscoll answered. “Olivia, this is Tara.”

“We can go to the study hall,” Tara said.

“That's fine,” said Mr. Driscoll, “but see that you put
in the whole hour—till four thirty. Good luck, Tara.”

The study hall was on the ground floor, so we descended two flights of stairs to find half a dozen pairs sitting at desks. It was like a secret tutoring society down there! Who knew?

Tara and I found a table, sat down, and arranged our books and pencils.

“How do you get to be a tutor?” I asked.

“We are supposed to work on fractions,” Tara said.

“I know, but we should get to know each other first.”

“Should we?” she asked. “I'm good at math, so my teacher asked me if I wanted to.”

“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.

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?

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.