For my cousin, Nancy Blossom, who shepherded me through my first summer camp experience.
CHAPTER ONE
Jack broke Hannah’s heart on a Friday afternoon, which pretty much guaranteed Hannah a rotten weekend. She knew what all the bloggers she followed would say: Go out! See your besties! Indulge in a little retail therapy!
Do not, do not stay in, wallowing in self-pity!
What did she do? Stayed in, wallowing in self-pity.
Also, homework. Hannah was a sophomore in college. She had decided to study art history because ever since she first saw them as a little kid she had thought Impressionist paintings were the prettiest things in the world. But now, after a year of classes, she was learning to like the sculptures the Greeks had carved out of marble. Some of them were more than two thousand years old. Over the centuries, they had lost legs and arms and chunks of their faces, but you could still see classical perfection shining through.
Not like Jack, Hannah thought.
He was overweight. He was loud. He wore this weird old-man-style hat all the time.
So why was she lying on her bed in her dorm room on a perfectly nice fall Sunday staring at her textbook and reaching for yet another tissue to wipe her tears?
Hannah decided to make some cookies. Her grandfather had been a baker who believed cake, cookies, and cupcakes had the power to fix most problems—flour power, he called it.
True, the bloggers she followed would be horrified. They were anti-gluten, anti-sugar, anti-fat. They lived on kale smoothies, seaweed, and chia seeds.
And they should all just settle down, Hannah thought.
Sure, an all-cookie all-the-time diet would be a recipe for disaster. But a few cookies now and then are exactly what sanity demands.
On the second floor of the dorm was a kitchen kept decently stocked with sugar, flour, and other basics. Hannah stuffed a wad of tissues in the pocket of her jeans, got up, stretched, and headed out her door and down the hall, which was deserted. Only the lovelorn would be indoors on such a beautiful day.
Hannah had met Jack at the Moonlight Ranch Summer Camp in Arizona, where they were both counselors. For a long time, they were friendly, but no sparks flew. Then one day she realized that not only was he funny, he was also someone who listened to what you said and remembered it later.
Besides, who cared that his abs weren’t washboard when his eyes were so beautiful?
Jack and Hannah had gotten together about two weeks before the end of camp.
In the kitchen, she counted on her fingers. That was six weeks ago. She was crying over a romance that had lasted a measly six weeks!
Get a grip, she told herself at the same time her phone bee-bee-beeped like the Roadrunner. She had a text from Jack.
CHAPTER TWO
Tuesday, September 19, Grace
The day I found the package addressed to me in our mailbox I had a lot on my mind. Besides the usual stuff, there was an extra thing that was extra worrying. My best friend, Shoshi Rubinstein, had asked me to walk King, her family’s big furry collie dog, when they went to New Hampshire for her cousin’s wedding.
If I ever have a dog, it will be a small dog, not a big one like King who thinks it’s fun to jump up and put his paws on the shoulders of innocent seventh-grade girls such as me and then knock the girls over and lick their faces.
I think it’s fun not to be knocked over and not to have my face licked.
Therefore, big dogs and I are incompatible.
Usually Shoshi’s family would send King to a pet resort, but Shoshi’s brother is in college now, and they have to save money. So Shoshi thought of me. All I have to do is clip the leash to King’s collar and walk him around the block twice and (yuck!) clean up after him.
“It’s super easy,” she told me. This was at lunch the same day I found the package. Shoshi and I were sitting with Nell and Deirdre at our usual table. “King loves his walk. He’ll be glad to see you. My parents will pay you. Anything’s cheaper than the pet resort.”
“They don’t have to pay me,” I said.
“Oh, that’s really nice, Grace. Thanks,” Shoshi said. “I can give you a key at school on Friday, okay? The wedding’s on Saturday, and we’ll be back Sunday afternoon. You just have to walk him Friday night, twice on Saturday and once Sunday morning.”
“Uh . . . ,” I said, because I hadn’t exactly meant to agree. I had just meant that I did not want money.
“Uh, what?” Shoshi raised her eyebrows and took a big bite of tuna sandwich.
I looked hopefully at Deirdre and Nell, but neither of them said a word. Anyway, they don’t live as close to Shoshi’s house as I do.
“Uh, nothing,” I said. “Okay.” It was already too late to back out. If I did, I would be a terrible friend.
So anyway, later that same afternoon, I grabbed the mail out of the mailbox at the end of our driveway as usual, saw the package, and read the return address: Hannah Lehrer, Floral Park, NY.
Here is the embarrassing part. With so much on my mind, it took me about two seconds to remember who Hannah Lehrer was. Then I did remember and then I squealed (also embarrassing). Hannah Lehrer was good old Hannah, my counselor at Moonlight Ranch!
I was glad to hear from her, but the best part was this: There must be cookies in that package!
After our first summer at Moonlight Ranch, the four Flowerpot campers—Emma, Olivia, Lucy, and I—formed the Secret Cookie Club. The idea was to take turns sending homemade cookies to each other so we’d stay in touch through the school year.
As the name says, it was supposed to be a secret, but Hannah found out, and at the end of camp this summer, she said she wanted to join too. We could not exactly turn her down. The idea of cookies having the power fix things had come from her—or more accurately, from her grandfather the baker. She had even given each of us some of his recipes.
Now I could hardly wait to open that box. Cookies from Hannah would be delicious, and her timing was perfect. After two hours of ballet, I was starving, and my parents would not be home from work to nuke dinner for another hour at least.
I unlocked the front door, threw the rest of my family’s mail on the counter, took out a kitchen knife, and tore the package open. Instantly, I was overwhelmed by a wonderful combination of smells—lemon, sugar, and butter.
Before I even noticed that Hannah had enclosed a letter, too, I had drunk half a glass of milk and eaten two of the perfectly round, white-frosted lemon cookies.
I had a lot of homework, but even so I decided I could spare a few minutes to sit in the plaid recliner in the family room and read Hannah’s letter.
Sunday, Sept. 17
Dear Grace,
I am not sure if my membership application for the Secret Cookie Club thas been approved, but I baked an extra-big batch today, and I didn’t think you’d mind if I mailed you some.
This is one of my grandpa’s recipes but not one I gave you guys last summer, I don’t think. Some people don’t like lemon that much. I know you will, though, because you are more sophisticated than the average seventh grader.
Everything is totally fine with me, especially school, which is very interesting. I am taking a class about old paintings on the walls of caves. Some of the pictures are horses, which makes me nostalgic for Moonlight Ranch and my four campers, too.
I am even a little bit nostalgic for Lance. Do you remember him? The cute counselor from Silver Spur Cabin? For a while I thought you four were trying to fix him and me up. It’s probably too bad that didn’t work because Jack (the counselor from Yucca Cabin—you probably remember him because he wears a stupid hat all the time) texted me Friday to say he thought we should “see other people.”
How unoriginal
is that!
And then (I might as well tell you the whole story) he texted me Sunday that the Friday text had been a big mistake and would I PLEASE forgive him? (Crying face, crying face, crying face, broken heart, roses.)
Of course my answer to that was not till the sun burns out! (Dagger, dagger, dagger, H-bomb.)
Who does he think he is anyway? As Olivia would say, Jack is not worth the nail on my pinky toe.
So sorry, Grace, if that was TMI. But it’s good if you learn now what some men are like so you can avoid trouble later.
Not that there’s any trouble for me anymore. Like I said, everything is totally fine. My grandpa was right about flour power!
Please say hello to your parents for me. And save them a cookie or two. (Ha-ha!)
Love,
Your one and only Flowerpot Cabin counselor, Hannah
P.S. I didn’t have enough cookies to send boxes to all four of my campers. So if you’re in touch with Emma, Olivia, and Lucy, tell them they will get their cookies later!
CHAPTER THREE
Grace
I am ashamed to say that I did not jump up and tackle homework the moment I finished reading Hannah’s letter the way I’d planned to.
Instead, I read the letter again. And the second time a million questions flooded my brain. How could Jack have been so stupid? Was Hannah really okay like she said she was? And how had she figured out we were trying to fix her up with Lance?
We had been very, very sneaky!
It was too bad that of all us Secret Cookie Club members, I was totally the least qualified to advise Hannah on romance. Olivia knows all about boys. She has a new one every week. Emma is understanding and wise about every kind of problem. Lucy knows a lot because she has a front-row seat on her divorced mom’s soap-opera life.
Then there is me, Grace. I had a boyfriend once. His name was Vivek. It lasted four days. End of story.
Should I call Emma or Olivia? Text them? If you can believe it, Lucy does not have a phone of her own, and besides her mom (who is never home), she lives with her grandmother, and even she thinks her grandmother is scary.
I decided not to call anybody—at least not yet. It was possible Hannah did not actually want our help with her love life. The help we gave her last summer had not worked out the way we thought. Besides, didn’t I have enough responsibilities in my life—including now a new one, Shoshi’s stupid dog, King?
I hoped I was not being selfish, but for now Hannah would have to look elsewhere for wise advice about boys.
When my parents got home—dad first, as usual—they said hello, went upstairs to change, came back down, and started fixing dinner. They are both engineers. They are both efficient.
My parents are Joe Xi and Anna Burrowes. Dad is Chinese, born in Singapore. Mom was born in Germany, but her family is from New England. Her dad worked for the US government, so she was raised all over the world.
Most people when they meet me assume I am Chinese through and through, but in the mirror I see a little of each of my parents—my mom’s pointy nose, my dad’s round face.
One good thing about eating dinner from the freezer is you get to have whatever you want. That night I picked pot stickers, and my parents shared a pizza. For health, we shared a big bowl of snap peas. As usual, we sat at the kitchen counter. This was Wednesday, and the housecleaners don’t come till Friday. We shoved newspapers and catalogs out of the way to make places for ourselves.
Both my parents have long commutes from where they work near Boston to our house in Groton. A lot of the time they come home cranky. That day was the same until I told them about the cookies.
“Excellent news,” my father said.
“I love lemon,” my mother said.
“Are there plenty?” my father asked. “Where are they?”
“I put them away for dessert,” I said. “You have to be patient.”
My parents remembered that Hannah was my counselor and about the cookies last year too.
“It’s a charming tradition you girls have started,” my mother said. “How is Hannah doing in college?”
“Fine,” I said, thinking Hannah might not want me blabbing about her boy troubles. “She is taking a class about paintings in caves.”
My mother frowned. “Not practical,” she said.
“Must everything be practical?” my father asked.
“Hmmm,” said my mother, which was her way of saying yes without arguing.
“Is piano practical?” I asked. “Is ballet?” I was feeling a little like Snot-Nosed Grace—the rude girl that lurks beneath the surface of my nice, polite self. For a long time my parents did not know Snot-Nosed Grace existed, but lately she has been speaking up more often.
“Piano and ballet teach discipline, physical fitness, and coordination,” said my mother. “So of course they’re practical. Aren’t they, Joe?”
“Hmmm,” said my father.
After that, my parents asked the usual questions about homework and activities. I gave the usual answers, but I was really thinking about King. Eventually, I had to tell my parents about him. He was going to stay at his own house, but I would still need their permission to go over and take care of him. Sometimes it’s annoying to have parents. They are always paying attention. Sometimes I wish I were grown up and no one knew what I did or cared.
I waited till both my parents were chewing. Then I told them I had agreed to watch the Rubinsteins’ dog.
My mother swallowed her food in a lump. “That big dog?”
“I thought you had a project due on Monday,” said my father.
In case it’s not obvious, my family does not have pets. Neither of my parents grew up with them, and neither sees the point of additional responsibility. According to them, the modern family’s schedule does not include time for anything other than work, house, and children—or in their case, work, house, and child.
“He’s not dangerous, and I’ll still have time for homework,” I said. “But I am a little nervous. I never walked a dog before, never picked up his poop. I’m not sure I’ll be good at it.”
“Certain things should not be mentioned during dinner,” said my mother.
“I’m sure you’ll do very well,” said my father.
“I think you should reconsider,” said my mother. “He’s a big dog, and you’re a small girl. The Rubinsteins still have time to find someone else, someone more experienced.”
I thought I should reconsider too, but when my mom said it, I got stubborn. “I am not that small. It will be fine. It’s you who doesn’t like dogs.”
Now, my mother—who always claims to be a feminist—appealed to my father. “Tell her she isn’t allowed to, Joe. Tell her.”
My father looked thoughtful and dabbed his lips with a paper napkin. “I think,” he said at last, “that Grace is old enough to make the decision for herself.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Grace
After chess club the next afternoon, I went over to Shoshi’s to see the dog equipment and give King a trial walk.
If you ask me, King has a mental disorder—a split personality perhaps. When I was outside on the porch, he barked and growled as if I were a space invader. When I was inside in the hall, he acted like I was his favorite long-lost friend. His tail wagged like an eggbeater. His tongue could not lick my face fast enough.
“He’s giving you doggy kisses, Grace!” said Shoshi.
Did she think this was a good thing?
On the trial walk, I learned that King does not behave like the dogs in the show ring on TV. Instead he zigzags so that the leash slithers on the sidewalk like a snake. But for all the ballet, I would have tripped. Shoshi told me I was catching on fast.
“You’ll be okay with him, right, Grace?” she said in the hall when I was getting ready to leave.
I said, “Sure,” because I was sure it was what she wanted to hear.
“Great.” Shoshi grinned. “Because King is really a lovable goofball, but he can seem
kind of intimidating, plus he’s big and you’re not. But you’re good at everything, right? So that means dog walking, too.”
“I am probably not good at everything,” I said.
“Name one thing you’re not good at,” Shoshi said.
“You are a better artist than me,” I said.
“But you’re still good at art, right?” Shoshi said.
I admitted that I am. Then I thought of something. “I have never tried fishing. Maybe I’m not good at that. I don’t think I would like fish guts.”
“That’s like the poop part of dog walking,” Shoshi said. “But not liking it doesn’t make you bad. Just pay attention so King doesn’t eat what he shouldn’t, and hold on tight to his leash.”
It is four blocks from Shoshi’s house to my house. Up until last year, my parents would not have let me walk so far by myself. They would have told me to wait till they could pick me up in the car. But since Shoshi and I got to be friends, I have been allowed to do more things. With an older brother and an older sister, Shoshi has more freedom than I do. When my parents saw she had survived, they gave me more freedom too.
I checked the mailbox as usual when I got home, and guess what? There was a letter for me—two things in two days! A minor miracle!
Even before I looked at the return address, I knew the letter was from Lucy, my camp friend who lives in Beverly Hills. She is the only person I know who writes real, paper-and-ink letters.
There were a few of Hannah’s lemon cookies left, so for the second day in a row I put off homework to eat cookies and read a letter.
Saturday, Sept. 16
Hi Grace!
How are you? (And don’t say “busy” because I already know. I bet you have five after-school activities and one hundred hours of homework every night!)
Have you gotten over Vivek yet? And no, before you ask, he hasn’t written to me or anything, which is sad but only because I was hoping for pictures of his new baby brother/sister. (I can’t remember which, can you?) I bet the new baby is cute, whatever it is, and I wonder what they named it, and that is probably more than enough about Vivek.
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