The Secret Cookie Club (8 page)

We talked about the Walden project—Nell and Deirdre were partners. Then we talked about what we were going to be for Halloween.

“I'm too old for trick-or-treat,” Nell declared. “That's for little kids.”

“I'm not too old!” Deirdre said. “I'm going as a Greek goddess!”

“Seriously?” I said.

Shoshi mimicked me, “
Seriously?
That's what you always say, Grace.”

“Seriously?” I repeated, and everybody laughed.

After that, things were going so well that I asked the question that had bugged me all year. “Do you guys talk every night and plan what you're going to wear?”

There was a pause, and I thought,
uh-oh, now I've done it, lunchtime exile forever.
But then Nell said, “We don't have to.”

And Deirdre shrugged. “Yeah, like I wore jeans on Friday? And I'm going to wear leggings tomorrow? So I have to wear khakis today. There aren't that many choices of okay clothes to wear, you know? And after a while everybody is on the same schedule. See?”

“What are you wearing tomorrow, Grace?” Shoshi asked. “Do you want to coordinate with us?”

“Oh—I didn't ask because of that,” I said truthfully.

“So”—Deirdre shrugged—“it's okay if you do.”

I thought fast. “I don't think about what I'm going to wear in advance. I just grab what I grab.”

This was a fib. I do plan what I'm going to wear. Tomorrow would be skinny jeans and a hoodie. But dressing the same as three other girls in my class? Even if we actually became friends? I don't know why, but the idea seemed just too strange.

*  *  *

If Shoshi was surprised by my clean room that afternoon, she didn't say so. What she did say was “thank you” five times to my mom for picking us up and driving us. “It sure beats walking,” she added.

I didn't have piano that day, so my mom was working from home. Now I was terrified she'd say something like, “Who would allow their child to walk such a long distance?” Luckily, she just said, “You are very welcome.”

The project was due Wednesday, and we didn't have that much left to finish. I moved my old stuffed animals off my armchair, and Shoshi sat at my desk, and we
read over each other's writing. Because I am not a good artist, I had printed out images of each of the Walden thinkers, then put brown construction-paper frames around them. For me, that's creative, and Shoshi said it looked good.

I was adding a comma to a run-on sentence when I happened to glance up and notice Shoshi looking at my bulletin board. I looked back down at Shoshi's sentence, and then it hit me:
Oh no!

Hopelessly, I jumped up as if I could tear down the Shoshi monsters before Shoshi live-and-in-the flesh saw them, but of course it was too late. Shoshi swiveled the desk chair to look at me, her forehead creased in puzzlement. “What are those supposed to mean?”

Grace

I could tell my cheeks were red, and my stomach had started to churn. I forced myself to speak: “Nothing.”

“Well, obviously
that's
not true,” Shoshi said. “Do you think I'm a monster?”

I sighed. Lying wasn't going to get me out of this. Neither was being overly polite and apologetic. Probably, my best option was the plain old truth. “Not anymore,” I said.

“But you used to,” Shoshi said, and the weird part was she didn't seem that offended. Was it possible she liked herself so much she didn't need everyone else to like her?

“So who drew these?” she asked.

It was a lot to explain—Lucy, the kids she babysits, the cookies, camp—but I tried. Maybe I tried too hard. I was explaining about Hannah and f-l-o-u-r power when Shoshi interrupted: “But why did you think I was a monster?”

“Because you and Nell and Deirdre laughed at me behind my back.” There. I said it.

Shoshi shrugged. “Only sometimes. And only because you acted so perfect. You even knew the number one agricultural product of Florida. Also, we thought you were stuck-up.”

“I'm not!” I said.

Shoshi tilted her head to one side and looked at me. “Oh?”

“Not that stuck-up,” I insisted. “And anyway, ‘oranges' was the obvious answer.”

Shoshi laughed. “To you. So, the most important thing I'm hearing is that somewhere in this house there are chocolate chip pecan cookies, and you are holding out on me.”

“You mean you forgive me for thinking you're a monster?”

Shoshi said, “I've been called way worse than that. You met my sister, right? Now, where are those cookies? Did you say you've got some left? Is there milk?”

Friday, December 4, Emma

Usually I empty my spam folder without even looking. But that afternoon Kayden was late meeting me in the school library, and I didn't feel like starting my homework, so I opened it to weed junk out and there—besides requests from all the organizations my parents belong to—was the e-mail from Grace.

Dear Emma,

How are you?

I am busy.

Besides everything usual, my ballet school is performing
The Nutcracker
,
and I play a mouse, a snowflake, and a flower. The costumes itch, especially when you get sweaty. You might not think it is possible for a snowflake and a flower to get sweaty. But it is possible. I know this personally.

At first I did not like school this year very much. Maybe you didn't know I had to skip a grade, so now I am in sixth. Things are better now. I have a friend in my class, and she has other friends who are good for eating lunch with. My good friend is named Shoshi Rubinstein. She is Jewish like you. Because of her, I know it is Hanukkah starting on Sunday, so happy Hanukkah!

Her parents have invited me and Lily (she also takes ballet, but she is only in fifth grade) over for so+me special pancakes that you eat for dinner. As long as there is maple syrup, that is okay with me! Also we are going to play a game with a top that starts with a D. It might be called doodle. Do you know about this game?

Maybe you will be surprised when I tell you that Lucy remembered about the secret cookies, and she sent me excellent ones. Maybe it will sound even more surprising when I tell you that flour power works. I was feeling lonely, and the cookies helped me get to be friends with Shoshi Rubinstein.

!!!

So now it is your turn. Write and tell me everything! Do you have any problems? Then I will know what your cookies are supposed to do for you. Also tell me
if you are allergic or if you hate any cookie ingredients, like sugar.

Sincerely,

Grace Xi

P.S. That last part was a joke. No one hates sugar. Do they?

Grace's e-mail brought back a flood of happy summer camp memories, all of which seemed very far away from school on a gray December day. The e-mail also made me laugh—especially the part about maple syrup and the game of “doodle.” I hit reply, but just then Kayden arrived with Teacher Dustin, the librarian, and I didn't have time to write anything.

“Hey, buddy. What's the matter?” I said when I saw Kayden's frown.

Kayden's mouth stayed stubbornly closed, and I looked up at Teacher Dustin, who shrugged. “He escaped again.
The head of school found him heading for the exit and brought him back.”

“Kayden”—I stuck out my lower lip—“don't you like me?”

Kayden never stopped scowling. “You're okay, but I like other things better.”

I said, “Like what?”

“I like video games,” Kayden said. “I like cookies and TV. How come teachers get to watch TV and we don't?”

“Teachers don't watch TV at school,” I said.

“Uh-
huh
,” Kayden insisted. “They do in that room they got where kids aren't allowed.”

I didn't know what he was talking about, but Teacher Dustin said, “Ah. You must mean the teachers' lounge, Kayden. There is a TV in there, practically an antique. I doubt it even works anymore.”

“I could make it work.” Kayden Haley was a second grader at the Friends Choice School in Philadelphia. I'm a fifth grader. Besides being the librarian, Teacher Dustin coordinates the Little Buddies program, where older kids like me tutor younger ones who need extra help. I've
been tutoring Kayden twice a week since October. He learns fast but only when he wants to.

“We better do some dancin' before we get started then, huh?” I asked.

Kayden's frown disappeared. “Can we?”

“One song only,” I said.

The dancing idea came to me one afternoon before Thanksgiving when Kayden wouldn't stop bouncing in his chair. I thought of what my parents told me about Ike, our golden retriever. When he was a puppy they had to take him for a walk or a run to settle him down. It seemed to me puppies and second graders were probably alike.

Teacher Dustin would have a cow if we danced in the library. So Kayden and I went out in the deserted hallway, and I let him pick a song on my phone, and we danced up a storm!

I am a terrible dancer, but Kayden thinks that is the best part. Watching me, he laughs and laughs—which makes me laugh too. I think he likes it that he's better at something than I am, even though I'm older and supposed to be so smart.

“Ready for some poetry?” I was out of breath.

“One more song?
Please
 . . .”

“Tell you what,” I said. “If you do a
fantastic
job on poetry, then we can do one more before you go home.”

Kayden is supposed to be memorizing a poem to recite aloud in class. He thinks the memorizing part is easy, but every time he stands up to recite, he gets tongue-tied. That afternoon, we were still trying to find the perfect poem. We had a book by an author named Shel Silverstein. A lot of the poems were funny, and I forgot to look at the clock. It seemed like no time before Kayden's mom had come up to the library to find us.

“You said one more song!” Kayden reminded me.

“I'm sure your mom doesn't want to wait,” I said.

“I don't mind,” said Kayden's mom, Mrs. Haley. She is a tall, dark-skinned woman who wears her hair in braids arranged in neat rows.

Uh-oh.

Dancing in front of Kayden was one thing. But dancing in front of a
mom
?

“Well, okay then. You go ahead and pick a song and dance if you want,” I said. “I'm gonna sit this one out.”

“But you
have
to dance!” Kayden said as we made our way out into the hall. “Mama, you can't believe what a bad dancer Emma is. So funny-y-y-y!”

“Kayden, that's not nice,” his mom said.

“Oh, no, Mrs. Haley, it's okay. He's right.”

Mrs. Haley laughed. “What about if all three of us dance, then?” she said. “And I promise not to make fun.”