P.S. Send More Cookies

by Martha Freeman

  At least someone is popular and loved, I thought when I looked up from Hannah’s letter. Not like yours truly. Oh, sure, I’ve had plenty of boyfriends, but none as good as Richard, who never volunteers to do the problems on the board but gets them right if he’s called on. Plus I like his blond curly hair and the way his forehead wrinkles when he’s thinking.

  By this time entire minutes had passed with no news from my phone. I was about to check it but leaned back against my pillows for a second and closed my eyes. Instantly, a picture of Flowerpot Cabin popped into my head—the four of us campers sitting on the smooth clay floor with Hannah, working on a flag to represent us in the mess hall.

  After that a slide show of pictures went by: Grace storming out of the dining hall when I teased her about Vivek, my horse Shorty alongside the beautiful bay show horse Brianna Silverbug had brought from home, me playing lookout while Lucy, Grace, and Emma studied the breakup letter from Travis that Hannah had thrown away.

  Hey, wait.

  I opened my eyes.

  Travis?

  Hannah’s letter was still in my lap. I read it again and—holy Christmas!—she was back with that same guy, the one who dumped her! The one we had all agreed was a loser!

  What had happened to the other one, the nice one, the counselor from whatzit cabin who was so funny and wore that old-man hat?

  Jack—that was his name. Jack.

  Emma would know what had happened. Right? Or Grace would. I sat up straight and grabbed my phone, ready to text, but I never even typed an emoji.

  “Olivia!” my mother called up the stairs. “Dinner!”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Olivia

  One day you will hear that a smart, fashionable, well-spoken African-American girl with an exceptional singing voice has run away from her home in Kansas City, Missouri, and that girl will be me.

  Why?

  Because my parents don’t allow phones at the table.

  You will probably want to read that again because you didn’t believe it the first time.

  Talk about missing out! Half my friends could be taken by zombies in the time it takes my family to eat, and I would never know. As it is, they regularly live a miniseries worth of drama, and when I find out it’s too late to catch up.

  Here’s another thing: My parents are hypocrites! According to them, it’s 100 percent okay to read the newspaper at breakfast.

  Excuse me? How is the newspaper different from a phone?

  “No batteries,” says my brother, who thinks he is a laugh riot. Besides, whose side is he on, anyway? Isn’t he a kid too? Shouldn’t the kids stick together on matters of vital importance?

  We eat dinner in the dining room every night because, my parents say, it’s wasteful to have a room we don’t use. There is always a clean cloth on the table and napkins to match. In the center is an old silver bowl with an arrangement of flowers, either from the garden or the florist. Today it was blue hydrangeas.

  My mother had us on a healthy-eating kick, and that night’s healthy-eating creation was a Chinese stir-fry with shrimp.

  My father scrutinized the plate after Jenny set it before him. “There seem to be bugs in my food,” he said.

  Jenny frowned. “Very funny, Mr. Baron.”

  “You know very well I’m kidding,” my father said. “I have the highest regard for your abilities in the kitchen.”

  “Mm-hm,” said Jenny. Then she served my brother and finally me before returning to the kitchen.

  “Bugs and shrimp are closely related biologically,” my brother said. His name is Troy. He’s a senior in high school. He plays baseball. My parents love him best. “They both have exoskeletons. Mammals like us have endoskeletons.”

  “Everyone knows that,” I said.

  “But we don’t have to discuss it at the dinner table,” my mother said. “Now, whose turn is it to give thanks?”

  “Troy’s,” I said.

  “Livia’s,” Troy said at the same time.

  My mother shook her head and looked at me. “Olivia? Why don’t you do the honors tonight?”

  See what I mean that they love Troy best?

  “Heavenly father,” I began, “thank you for this house and for this meal. Thank you for most of this family. Thank you for inventing the iPhone. Thank you for my good friend Hannah who sent me cookies today, which, if my family shows sufficient appreciation, I may deign to share for dessert tonight. Amen.”

  I swear I hadn’t even opened my eyes yet when Troy attacked. “Did you really just thank God for inventing the iPhone? Do you know how stupid you sound?”

  “Troy,” said my father.

  “Well, she does sound stupid,” Troy said. “Steve Jobs invented the iPhone. Everyone knows that. There’s even a movie.”

  “At church they say nothing happens without God,” I said. “So that includes phones. Anyway, isn’t Steve Jobs dead?”

  “What’s curious to me is that you think about your phone when you’re saying grace,” my father said.

  “She’s always thinking about her phone,” said my brother.

  I said, “That’s not true!” and it wasn’t. At that moment I’d been thinking about whether Richard had liked my polar bear post yet. If not, it must mean he didn’t like me but only my taco chips.

  “This argument is unlikely to be productive,” said my mother. “So how ’bout if we cool it, okay?”

  I nodded and grumbled and took a bite. Troy did the same. I must be growing again because even after cookies I was hungry—too hungry to let the close family ties between shrimp and bugs disturb me in any way.

  For a few minutes we talked about school and which football teams would win the playoffs and go to the Super Bowl. Mrs. Wanderling, my after-school drama studio teacher, was getting ready to announce her choice for the spring play, and my mom and I speculated on what it would be and who (me!) would play the lead.

  It was all very mannerly and polite, the way my parents require meals to be. Having eaten this way all my life, I don’t think about it much, but my friends tell me when they come to dinner they are nervous wrecks worrying they’ll interrupt somebody or chew with their mouths open.

  Finished eating, my mother rang the silver bell that sits beside her wineglass, and Jenny came in to clear the plates. “How did you like the stir-fry?” she asked.

  “Excellent,” said my mother. “How many servings of vegetables did you say are in it?”

  “Recipe says you each got two,” Jenny said.

  “Rabbit food,” my father mumbled, which made my brother laugh.

  “You’ll thank me when you’re old and healthy,” my mother told him.

  “I’m old now,” said my father. “What’s for dessert?”

  “You’ll see,” Jenny said. Then she winked at me and I winked back. Soon she was bringing out Hannah’s cookies on a tray along with glasses of milk for Troy and me, decaf for my mom and tea for my dad.

  “They smell divine,” my mother said, “but what’s in them? Not too much butter, I hope.”

  “Probably full of vegetables,” my father said. “Now, quick, grab your allotment before I finish them all.”

  For a few moments, we all enjoyed cookies. Then my mother mentioned that she and her assistant had gone over options for our family’s spring vacation that afternoon.

  “It would be wonderful, Troy,” Mom said, “if you could join us for a day or two, depending on baseball, I mean. I was thinking the Canadian Rockies. Even if it’s another warm winter, we ought to be able to ski there.”

  Troy shrugged. “I’m down.”

  “Has your coach announced the schedule yet?” my dad asked.

  “I don’t know,” Troy said, “but it doesn’t make any difference. I’m not playing baseball this year.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Olivia

  Ordinarily, I don’t pay much attention to my brother when he talks, but I heard that. In fact, the bite of cookie in my mouth dissolved because I for
got to chew.

  As for my parents, they froze.

  Troy, meanwhile, finished his cookie. “Really good, Livia,” he said. “Which one of your friends sent them again?”

  I stammered something about Hannah and who she was. Then, because my parents still looked incapable of speech, I kept right on talking: “Hannah made cookies like these for Grace and Emma, too. Did you know she broke up with Jack? At least, I guess she must’ve because now she’s seeing Travis. Travis hates to be late to movies. I think that might mean he’s bossy, don’t you?”

  No one answered me (surprise!), but by then my father’s voice had returned. “We will discuss this, Troy,” he said, “after I’ve put my thoughts together.”

  Troy shrugged with one shoulder. “Nothing to discuss,” he said. “It’s done.”

  “But baseball has been so important to you.” My mother’s voice was unnaturally sweet. “You’ve devoted so many hours.”

  “Enough hours,” Troy said. “And now no more. I’ve got better things to do.”

  “Such as?” said my father.

  “Vacation with my family,” Troy said.

  “That part will be nice,” my mother said.

  “No, it won’t,” said my father, “because it isn’t happening.”

  “Uh, excuse me?” said Troy. “It’s my life, Dad.”

  My father ignored this and looked at my mother. “Why didn’t Coach Droske call me?”

  “George,” said my mother, “Troy is right. It’s his decision.”

  “It’s a bad decision,” said my father, “and a parent’s role is to steer his children away from bad decisions.”

  Up until this point, Troy had stayed really calm—unnaturally calm, come to think about it. But now his frustration came out. “I hate it when you act like you know everything,” he told my dad.

  My dad kept his voice even. “I would never make that claim,” he said. “But I’ve been hanging ’round the planet for thirty years more than you, and I’ve kept my eyes open. I have a pretty good idea what leads to success and what doesn’t. This is why, when you think of it, God put grown-ups in charge of kids, young man, and not the other way around.”

  Uh-oh. When my dad says “young man” that way, there is bound to be trouble. I, Olivia Baron, did not want to stick around to see it.

  “I have homework,” I announced, and stood up so quickly I almost knocked my chair over.

  No one bothered to look.

  “Hello-o-o?” I said. “Good-bye? Effective immediately, I am excusing myself and departing the dining room. You are all very welcome for the cookies.”

  Strangely, no one protested my leaving—even though I made more noise than necessary marching across the floor. Back upstairs, I threw myself across my bed, stared at the pink stars on my ceiling, and thought: I should be shouting for joy.

  Ever since I was a baby in a stroller, I had been forced against my will to go to baseball games. Now, at long last, I wouldn’t have to. No more extra innings on hard bleachers in the freezing-cold spring! No more scoreless ties on splintery bleachers in the hot, sweaty summer!

  But I wasn’t shouting for joy, and here’s why: There were good parts to baseball, too. My brother’s teammates, some of them extremely adorably super cute, were almost always nice to his kid sister, also known as me. Also, my parents, usually so particular about what I eat and how I eat it, loosened up at games, where I was allowed to buy my own hot dogs, chips, sodas, and ice cream bars from the concession stand and eat them standing up with no napkin if I wanted.

  Besides—and swear you’ll never tell anyone—it was exciting anytime someone on my brother’s team made a good play, even when the someone was my spoiled, stuck-up brother himself.

  Trying to sort out my random and conflicting thoughts was very, very hard work. For a break, I grabbed my phone, and—yes! Richard had reacted with a sad face to my crying polar bear in a Santa hat!

  What did that mean, exactly? Like me, was he sad that Christmas was over? Or (even better!) was he sad that I was sad?

  Never mind my stupid brother and his stupid baseball drama.

  This was important.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Olivia

  My brother’s announcement would mean changes for my family and for my brother especially. But the next morning I found out that one thing wouldn’t change: Troy’s daily smoothie.

  A couple of years ago Troy’s coach had brought in a nutrition guy to talk to the players. This guy believed in protein shakes, and soon everyone on the team was drinking them for breakfast. Since Troy hated the gritty taste of the protein powder, he’d tried combinations of bananas, nuts, syrups, and juices to disguise it. Later, after he researched vitamins and minerals himself, his concoctions got even crazier—with raw greens, berries you never heard of, and even some kind of algae that comes from the deep dark reaches of a swamp.

  I don’t think Troy had recipes for these smoothies. He just threw ingredients in the blender with ice and hoped the results tasted good. On the days he made faces and choking noises, I figured they did not.

  I am not a morning person, and the next day, as usual, I was running late. Jenny, Ralph, and Troy were in the kitchen when I charged in with my shoes untied and the buttons of my school jumper matched wrong. Jenny took one look, shook her head, came around the counter, and started putting me back together.

  “You’ll have to survive on a granola bar, Olivia,” Jenny said. “There’s a glass of milk right there for you. What’ve you done with your backpack?”

  “I dunno. It must be somewhere, right? Upstairs?”

  Jenny turned to face her husband, who was leaning against the pantry door drinking coffee. “Ralph?” she said.

  Ralph set the mug down on the counter and looked at me. “On your bed, do you think?” he asked.

  “A very excellent place to start,” I said.

  Ralph left. Pouring the daily smoothie from the blender into a glass, Troy shook his head. “Sheesh, Livia, it’s not rocket science to get ready for school. Most people don’t have Ralph and Jenny to help out in the morning, you know.”

  “I do know,” I said, “and I am very, very, very eternally super grateful every day of my life.”

  “Don’t slather it on too thick,” Jenny said. “You can eat the granola bar in the car. Are you about ready, Troy?” She looked over at him and started to laugh. “Oh my goodness,” she said, so I looked over and saw his face and started laughing, too.

  “What?” Troy scowled.

  “What was in your smoothie this morning?” Jenny asked. “Raspberries or what?”

  “Beets.” Troy’s eyes shot from Jenny to me. “What?”

  “You’re sporting a fine-looking hot pink ’stache, my friend,” Jenny said, and before he could do a thing to get rid of it, I had whipped out my phone and snapped a picture.

  Ralph came back at that moment, explaining he had found my backpack on my pink love seat, buried beneath a pile of shoes, coats, and hoodies. Meanwhile, Troy came at me, trying to grab my phone, and Jenny went at him with a damp cloth to wipe his face.

  “Delete that right now!” my brother demanded.

  “As soon as I post it,” I said, dancing backward.

  “Oh, whatever.” Troy stopped so Jenny could clean him up. “Who cares what your friends think? We’re gonna be late. Come on.”

  * * *

  By lunchtime, the picture of Troy Baron rocking a pink mustache had fifteen shares and 128 likes.

  When I checked after school, it had two hundred shares and more than twenty-five hundred likes.

  By the time Mom called me for dinner, it had almost three thousand shares and more than thirty-five thousand likes.

  I thought my phone was going to blow up!

  Since the very first time I ever snapped a selfie, I had hoped for this kind of super-colossal response. Well, now I had it—and a gigantic expanding ocean of followers, too.

  It was exciting. . . . It was a disaster.
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  Like he wasn’t self-centered and stuck-up enough already, my brother had gone viral.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Olivia

  The photo, I have to admit, was pretty funny.

  It was a close-up of Troy’s face, tilted, wild-eyed, protesting—his tongue out trying to taste his smoothie mustache, which stretched from one corner of his mouth to the other and reached almost to his nose. In real life, it had been brilliant magenta, but it was startling magenta after my rock-’em-sock-’em editing. In a thoughtless hurry, I had written a caption: Troy Baron and his pink smoothie ’stache.

  Still in school that same day, I got suspicious that something was going on because girls I barely knew started mentioning how my brother is cute, and I had to think: Why are they telling me this now?

  Then, later on, kids started asking about smoothies. Does my brother make them himself? Are they always pink?

  Even before I saw the numbers, a sneaky plan started forming in my head. My brother had always been known for being smart, a good athlete, and good-looking, too. Well, what if he got even better known for something ridiculous?

  Besides, Christmas was over, school was easy, and the spring session of After-School Acting Studio wouldn’t start for another couple of weeks. As Jenny would say, I needed a project to keep me out of trouble.

  I didn’t see Troy till that evening when we all sat down to dinner. Jenny served our plates as usual. By this time, I’d forgotten all about baseball. The online frenzy had wiped it clean out of my head.

  “Who would like to—,” my mother began.

  “I’ll give thanks!” I said.

  “Nice to see some enthusiasm,” my father said.

  “Isn’t it?” I said. “And now, let us bow our heads in prayer. Heavenly father above, thank you for Jenny and Ralph, without whose help I would never make it to school in the morning. Thank you for my youthful, loving, and generous parents. Thank you for the food we eat, even if it is healthy. And thank you most of all for Troy Baron, my strong, handsome, smart, and viral brother. In Jesus’s name we pray. Amen.”