P.S. Send More Cookies

by Martha Freeman

  I pictured myself teetering on one toe and thought that was about right. Still, I didn’t want Clarissa’s mom to worry. “I’ll be fine, I think. Thanks for being nice.”

  “Anytime, Lucy. See you at three o’clock.”

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Lucy

  Here are some things my teachers talked about in school that day: Father Junipero Serra, sedimentary rock, number lines.

  If any of it was important, I have catching up to do.

  Instead of listening, I was looking out the window at sparrows in the trees and seagulls in the dull gray sky. I was thinking about my father. What I knew about him was what I had pieced together from my mom and Nana and Aunt Freda. He is charming, funny, and smart, they agree. He is unreliable and late a lot. Sometimes he loses his temper.

  None of that answered the Big Question, though, the one I had wondered ever since I was old enough to understand that I had a father I didn’t know. It looked like soon I was going to have a chance to ask it, but I would need to summon up some bravery first. I would need what Olivia calls “gumption.”

  School ends at three. A little before that, I was looking out the computer-lab window when a messenger opened the door and said, “Excuse me? Can Lucy Ambrose come to the office, please?”

  The teacher, Mrs. Hamilton, had been helping my friend Emmaline. Now she straightened up and looked first at me, then at the messenger. “Should she take her backpack so she’s ready for dismissal?”

  The messenger was a fourth-grade boy whose name I couldn’t remember. You could tell the job made him feel important. “Yes,” he said. “She should.”

  Emmaline shot me a look that meant, Is everything okay? I shrugged because I didn’t know. Then I got my backpack and followed the fourth grader out the door. Maybe it’s different at your school, but at mine older kids and younger kids don’t talk to each other. It would have been majorly strange if either of us had said a word as we walked.

  In the office, a man was standing by the counter, while the two secretaries were laughing at something he had said. Even though the man had been on my mind all day, I didn’t recognize him for a couple of seconds, and when I did, I got a shock. He looked so much older than he did in pictures, more wrinkled, and his hair was gray. He dressed the same as ever, though—classic, my mom would have said: nice jeans, a turquoise polo shirt, and loafers.

  I must not have looked the same as my pictures either, because when I came in, he glanced down and then away. For a moment, I knew him but he didn’t know me.

  Then Mrs. Franklin spoke. She’s the principal’s secretary. “Here’s Lucy now,” she said. “And Lucy, here’s your father. Your mother okayed him for the approved list, so it’s all copacetic on our side. Are you good?”

  I was amazed to see my father right here in front of me after so much time, and almost equally amazed that my mom had actually called the school. I didn’t answer right away. Mrs. Franklin waited patiently. I have gone to this school since kindergarten. Finally, she said, “Earth to Lucy?”

  “Good,” I said, more or less remembering the question.

  “Good,” she said. “It’s near enough to three o’clock that you can take her, Mr. Ambrose.”

  “Call me Cary,” my father said.

  “Righty-o,” said Mrs. Franklin. “Have a nice evening, now. So very nice to meet you.”

  “Shall we?” Now my father looked me in the eye and smiled. He didn’t seem a bit embarrassed that five seconds ago he had no idea who I was. “I can carry that backpack for you.”

  “I’m used to it,” I said.

  Outside I saw the parents in cars waiting at the curb and thought of Clarissa’s mom. “Do you have a phone?” I asked my father.

  “Who doesn’t?” he said.

  “Me,” I said. “Can I borrow it a sec? I’ll give it back.”

  Because our landline at home is ancient, I’ve actually memorized people’s phone numbers. Most of the time this wastes brain storage, but at that moment, it was useful.

  “Who do I know in the seven-eight-six area code??” Clarissa’s mom said when she picked up.

  “It’s Lucy,” I said. “Lucy’s father, I mean—my father. I’m Lucy.”

  “Lucy! Are you all right? I’m just turning in to the school drive now.”

  “I’m fine. My dad’s picking me up. That’s why I have his phone.”

  There was a pause. Then Clarissa’s mom said, “Yes, I see you and your dad. Hang on. Let me park. I’d like to say hello.”

  “Wait. What’s happening?” my father asked when I handed him back the phone.

  “Clarissa’s mom,” I said, and a moment later I saw her striding across the parking lot, waving, a brilliant smile on her face.

  There were the usual nice-to-meet-you’s. My dad said, “Call me Cary.” Clarissa’s mom said, “I’m Emily.”

  “Pretty name,” said my father. “And how do you know Lucy?”

  “I’m a neighbor,” said Clarissa’s mom, “and a friend. Your daughter has many, many friends, and we all think she is a lovely young woman.”

  My father looked down at me and smiled. “Of course she is,” he said.

  Meanwhile, I felt embarrassed and kind of confused by the attention.

  “And all of us look out for her,” Clarissa’s mom continued. She wasn’t smiling anymore. Standing very straight, she was almost as tall as my father.

  “Very kind,” said my father.

  “I wouldn’t call it kindness, per se,” said Clarissa’s mom. “It’s more because of how much we value and appreciate her. And I expect that you do too. Am I right, Cary?”

  “Yes.” My father took a half step back. “Yes, of course.”

  “Well, that is excellent, then,” said Clarissa’s mom. “And now I’d better find my own daughter and take her home. Piano lessons today.” Smiling again, she looked down at me. “I’ll see you in the morning, Lucy.”

  “See you in the morning,” I said.

  I had the feeling something had just happened, but I wasn’t sure what.

  As for my father, I guess he thought something had just happened too. “Formidable woman,” he said.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  Lucy

  What does a kid do with her father anyway? How would I even know? How would he? My dad’s car was a blue Mercedes—a rental, he told me—and for a few minutes we made right and left turns on the streets around my school, going nowhere slow.

  My father suggested pizza. My father suggested ice cream. I politely declined both, saying I’d had a big lunch, but the truth was I felt too nervous to eat.

  “Shopping?” my father said. “A new party dress? Do girls wear party dresses?”

  “No,” I said.

  “Wait—I know,” my father said. “I believe I heard from a little bird that you are a good artist like your mother is. In fact, I think you won an award for art last year, didn’t you?”

  “Do birds talk to you?” I asked.

  My father laughed and pulled a U-turn in the middle of a block. “I know the perfect place,” he said, and soon we were on Wilshire, heading toward downtown.

  “The art museum,” I guessed.

  My father nodded. “So you got my sense of direction and not your mother’s,” he said.

  “Mom’s is okay,” I said.

  “Oh?” My father glanced over at me. “Then how did she manage to get lost on a cruise ship where all the decks are labeled and all the cabins, too? It is nearly impossible to get lost on a cruise ship.”

  “You were on a cruise ship with Mom?” I said.

  “Lots of times,” he said. “I guess she doesn’t talk about that time in her life, does she?”

  “Not really,” I said.

  My father found a parking spot on a street near the museum. We got out and walked around palm trees and the grove of old city streetlights to the entrance. “Shall we buy tickets?” my father asked. “Or just sit and admire the sculpture and chat?”

  At th
at moment I wished even more than before that I was in the car with Clarissa’s mom. What was I supposed to answer? My mom and grandmother never have money. Same with my father? Was that why he wasn’t buying us tickets?

  But he was driving an expensive car.

  My dad’s smile flickered. “Really,” he said, “either one is fine.”

  “I was just here on a field trip,” I said.

  “So let’s hang, then.” He gestured toward a bench, and we sat down. “The point is to get to know each other, right? And it’s a nice day. For weather, you can’t beat Southern California.”

  If you’re wondering, I did not ask my Big Question—not that afternoon. My father did most of the talking. He told me his big plan “involved finance,” but he had to “overcome certain regulatory hurdles” before he could “bring it to fruition.”

  He showed me photos of the house in the Hollywood Hills on his phone. It was not a mansion or anything, just a cute normal house with three bedrooms—one for me, and my own bathroom—and lots of windows. It had a pool. He told me he didn’t own it yet, but it was “under contract” and I could take a tour in person soon.

  When I asked, he said he had missed seeing me kick the goal, but he would have plenty more chances to come to my games.

  After a while the bench got hard. “I have homework,” I said.

  “And you’ve got to be hungry by now, right?” He stood up.

  “We could get fast food,” I said. “I could take something to Nana. Otherwise she might not eat.”

  “Done,” he said, “but I’ll drop you off if you don’t mind. I’m not so popular with Nana.”

  We picked up burgers from the drive-through at In-N-Out and ate French fries as we drove. Two blocks from my house, my father looked at me and asked, “So what do you say?”

  “Thank you,” I said—which made him laugh.

  “That’s not what I meant. What I’m asking is do you want to come and live with me when the sale goes through? The house is plenty big, and I’ll work it so you stay at your school. You can have a phone of your own like normal kids, and a laptop, too.”

  “What about the triplets? Do you know about the triplets?” I said.

  “The kids you watch? There’s no shortage of babysitters, Lucy.”

  We were on my street by this time. My father pulled into the driveway. I put my hand on the door latch. “Thank you for the food.”

  “You are welcome.” My father grinned. His teeth were straight and very white. “And you think about my offer, okay? I talked to your mom already, and you can see her as much as you want to. The new place is not even a freeway away.”

  I had barely pushed the front door open when my grandmother called from her bedroom, “Lucy? Where have you been?”

  OMG—hadn’t my mother told her?

  “I’ve got food,” I answered. “Come in the kitchen and eat.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  Lucy

  Nana must have been surprised that dinner was fast food. She must have wondered where it had come from and where I had been.

  She didn’t ask, though. She might’ve been distracted by the French fries, which are her favorite, even though by the time we ate them they were cooling off and limp. I didn’t volunteer any information. I didn’t want to get into it about my dad. What would be the point?

  I did not see my mom either that night or the next morning. Not unusual. In the car going to school, Clarissa’s mom—Emily—asked how my father and I had gotten along, and Clarissa said, “Father? But I thought you didn’t have a father.”

  We were stopped at a stop sign. Clarissa’s mom did the glare-in-the-rearview-mirror thing and started to speak, but I spoke first. “Everyone has a father. Mammals anyway. We learned it in science, remember?”

  “But you’re—,” Clarissa began.

  “—also a mammal,” I said, then, “It was okay,” to her mom’s reflection in the rearview mirror. “Thanks for, uh . . .” I thought back to the afternoon before, the way Clarissa’s mom had talked to my father. I didn’t know how to describe what had happened.

  “For caring?” Clarissa’s mom suggested.

  “Yeah,” I said.

  When I got home that day, there was a package for me on the hall table and a letter, too. The package was from O, and so was the letter—forwarded by Hannah.

  It was a Friday, and Coach Kamae had brought me home. We’d had an away game, and we had won, but none of my fans had been there.

  There were a few minutes before I needed to make dinner, so I went to my room, kicked off my cleats, set the package on my desk, and dropped back onto my bed. I would give my tired legs a rest while reading Olivia’s letter. On the back of the envelope was a handwritten note from Hannah.

  Hi, Lucy—

  Apparently, Olivia mailed this letter to me by mistake. When you read it, you will understand that I am feeling pretty angry at you Flowerpot girls. I am committed to Moonlight Ranch this summer, but it might be best if you four had a different counselor.

  One other thing: I had intended to send you cookies this semester, but Travis liked my cookies so much I didn’t have time to bake for you (or anybody else but Travis). Sorry about that. Good luck with the rest of your school year.

  —Hannah

  OMG.

  A new counselor?! What had happened? Why was Hannah mad?

  I tore open the envelope so fast I almost ripped the inside letter in two. I read it fast as well . . . and then I was mad at Olivia.

  Why had she said all that stuff about piecing together Travis’s breakup letter and sneaking cookies to Lance? And why had she been so careless about the two envelopes?

  I couldn’t imagine Moonlight Ranch if I wasn’t in Flowerpot Cabin with Grace, Emma, Olivia, and Hannah.

  I had one more letter from Olivia to read, the one I knew I would find enclosed in the package. There was nothing it could say to make me feel better, but there was one consoling thought: cookies.

  Using the scissors from my desk drawer, I opened the box, unfolded sheets of wax paper, and found beneath dozens of small, plain, perfect discs that smelled like butter and sugar—shortbread. Without even thinking, I ate two. They were an excellent aid to tired-muscle recovery. I felt not quite so angry at Olivia too.

  She had never expected Hannah to read that stuff, after all—and yeah, she had been careless, but everybody is sometimes. Who was it that hadn’t even gotten around to forwarding Olivia’s old thank-you note to Hannah?

  That would be me.

  This letter, like the other one, was handwritten on Olivia’s own cream-colored stationery. OLIVIA!!!! it said in all caps at the top. There was only one sheet.

  May 9, Tuesday

  Greetings to the most perfectly Lucy Lucy that I know.

  I wish wish WISH I had the leisure to write you a long long LONG letter, but—alas and alack—I do not. Tonight is the final performance of Little Red Riding Hood at After-School Acting Studio, and Second Chipmunk (a minor character) has to be backstage to attach ears to hair, whiskers to face, and costume to self one full hour before curtain time.

  Jenny and I made these cookies today after school. We chose an easy, fast recipe because IMHO it is IMPERATIVE that you receive your dosage of flour power AS SOON AS POSSIBLE under the circumstances!!!!

  These cookies have been specially formulated to help you face your father because fathers are something I happen to know something about. Here is the 411 on the subject: Fathers are always giving their kids advice, which is really just their sneaky way of telling kids what to do.

  And this is the important part, Lucy—please try to pay attention!!!!

  As a kid, it is your absolute responsibility to fight back the way my brother, Troy, did when he quit baseball. Probably fathers actually do know something sometimes, but not as often as they think they do, and it is your one and only life, and you must live it yourself—just as I must live mine, and Troy must live his, and—according to my acting teacher, Mrs. Wanderl
ing—Second Chipmunk must live hers, which is personal and distinctive and important.

  While it is true Second Chipmunk only has one line, the line is key to the action, and this is it: “Go that way, little girl!”

  I deliver it with so much AUTHORITY, if I do say so myself, that Esmee Snyder has no choice but to obey.

  Still seven more weeks till camp! How will we survive??? Love you always, dear dear Lucy and best to your father too—Cheers from O, the most exalted and loudest Second Chipmunk in theater history!!!

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  Lucy

  That night I dreamed about a forest straight out of Bambi, which at the moment was tied with SpongeBob at the top of the triplets’ playlist. I always think the part with the mother at the beginning is too sad for children, but Arlo, Mia, and Levi barely notice. They are more interested in twitterpated rabbits singing songs.

  In my dream, a rock splashed into a blue pool, and the fish freaked out and the frogs dove off their lily pads.

  There was other stuff, too, the way there always is in dreams—cookies, broken flowerpots, a dark-haired baby, a hunter with white teeth, a chipmunk yelling at a little girl in a ratty red T-shirt. None of it fit together.

  I told Kendall about my dream the next morning when I went over to their house to watch the triplets. Their family lives in a new house at the end of our cul-de-sac. When I got there, the triplets’ dad was home with them watching cartoons, but he had to leave to go to work, and Kendall was taking Piper to infant water orientation at the Y.

  “Was your dream a nightmare?” Kendall asked. We were in the kitchen, and she was collecting the equipment she needed to walk out the door with Piper. “Mia’s been having nightmares. You know how sometimes she’s hard to understand? Twice she woke up crying about a pie-ott, or maybe pie-itt?”

  “Poor Mia,” I said.

  Kendall took a breath and looked around. “Okay,” she said, then scooped up baby, baby seat, and diaper bag. “We should be home in an hour, give or take.”