The Secret Cookie Club

by Martha Freeman

  I dumped my backpack on my bed and looked around for something to wear to watch the triplets.

  My room used to be as gloomy as the rest of the house, but last year I asked my mom if we couldn’t do something about it, and to my surprise she said why not? So we went to a paint store and spent a whole weekend turning the walls bright yellow.

  Then I made collages out of old magazines and comic books and whatever I could find and sprayed them with lacquer and hung them up. So now, even if the bedspread is ancient and the dresser wobbles and sometimes my clothes are mounded on the floor in a heap, at least my room is colorful.

  Now I kicked off my shoes and traded my capris for gym shorts and my top for a ratty old T-shirt of Mom’s. It’s not like my school clothes are so special, but babysitting usually equals grass, jelly, and juice stains, and laundry is not my favorite chore.

  Clothes changed, I made my way through the house to check in with my grandmother.

  “There you are, Nana. Have you even been out of your bedroom today?” I asked.

  My grandmother has long streaky gray hair that she pulls back and then clips on top of her head in a free-form sculpture that’s different every day. She wears Levi’s and T-shirts with the names of old bands on them—the Grateful Dead, the Beatles, Jefferson Airplane. She almost never wears shoes because she almost never goes outside. Her skin is pale as paper.

  Now she was sitting in the room’s only chair, reading a fat book. The blinds were drawn and a lamp was on.

  “No reason to go anywhere,” Nana said. “I’ve got everything I need right here.”

  “It’s Thursday, so I’ve got babysitting, remember?” I said.

  “Lucy, I am not demented. I know the days of the week.”

  I ignored this and nodded at the book in her lap. “Which one is that?”

  “Bleak House,” she said.

  My grandmother only reads books by Charles Dickens. “Is that the one with Jarndyce versus Jarndyce—the legal case that never ends?”

  Nana nodded. “I like the depiction of evil lawyers futilely beavering away at meaningless work. It’s like the real world, only it’s funnier.”

  My grandmother believes lawyers cheated her out of her money, leaving her—and my mom and me—in “straitened circumstances,” aka broke. Also, my grandfather was a lawyer, and he and my grandmother got divorced when my mother was little, long before I showed up on the scene.

  “I have to go,” I said.

  “Give Maya, Rambo, and Leland my regards,” Nana said.

  My grandmother knows the triplets’ actual names perfectly well. It’s no use trying to correct her.

  “Yes, ma’am. I will. See you for dinner.”

  We live in a town that’s known for being wealthy—Beverly Hills—and our house is the smallest and most ordinary on our street, maybe in the whole town. It was built in the 1940s in a style called “ranch,” which has nothing to do with the salad dressing or with horses and cows. It just means it has only one floor. Most of the other houses on our street are new enough that I remember when they were built. One by one, little ones like ours were torn down and gigantic ones went up. Now our house looks like a midget among giants.

  Anyway, with the low ceilings and the drapes closed, our house is kind of dark, which my mom says is just as well because it makes it harder to see the peeling wallpaper, dust, and shredded places in the furniture where Mitzi the cat (she’s dead now) sharpened her claws. Because its floor is black slate, the front hall is even darker than the other rooms. This explains why I didn’t notice till now—when I was almost out the door—that there was a letter on the hall table addressed to Lucy Ambrose.

  My mother must have gotten the mail today on her way to work and then come back and set it there for me.

  I thought it was from my dad until I picked it up and saw how nice the paper was—cream-colored stationery, not like a greeting card you’d buy at Thrifty Drug. Also, my name and address were printed in type. There was no return address on the front, but when I flipped the envelope over, I saw an address on the flap in slightly raised letters—Kansas City, Missouri.

  Oh. My. Gosh.

  Olivia!

  For a minute I couldn’t believe it. Secret cookies had really happened! Way back last summer we had planned it, and way back last fall I had sent cookies to Grace. Then Grace had sent cookies to Emma and Emma to Olivia—and I was the last link in the chain. It had come full circle just the way it was supposed to.

  What were the odds of that?

  CHAPTER 38

  Lucy

  I wanted to read my letter, but I couldn’t be late. So I laid it back down, flew out the door, and ran.

  The triplets live at the end of the cul-de-sac in one of the big new houses. Because of the way the dead end is arranged, they have the biggest backyard on the street. Kendall, their mom, says this is a blessing because the triplets can run around and yell without bothering anyone on the patio or in the house. But it’s a curse because they are easy to lose track of.

  Since last fall, I have had the job of watching them two afternoons a week and sometimes for a few hours on weekends. The triplets are four, and they don’t go to preschool. Their parents believe children should be free to explore the world around them in an unstructured free-form play-focused manner until they are ready for kindergarten. I think Kendall read some book about this when she was pregnant. Arlo, Levi, and Mia don’t even have to wear clothes unless they want to, and I am not allowed to discipline them, only to “point out the consequences of poor choices.”

  Nana says the three of them sound like little savages; Mom says they sound charming. I think they’re somewhere on the overlap between.

  When I arrived that day, Kendall was standing by the window next to the front door, waiting. The kids ran in circles around her like excited poodles.

  Arlo and Mia shouted, “Lucy!”

  Levi shouted, “Woo-see!”

  Kendall exhaled a big sigh. “Thank goodness you’re here.”

  “How is everybody?” I asked, happy to see them—even though Levi had a snot mustache, the spaces between Arlo’s toes were caked with mud, and Mia’s hair was still recovering from the haircut Levi gave her last week with craft scissors.

  (Kendall told me she looked away for only one second to answer a text, and—snip—Mia had a bald spot.)

  Even so, they were adorable and they were happy. And since it was me being there that made them happy, how could I not be happy back?

  “Anything I should know?” I asked Kendall as we made our way to the kitchen. Forward progress was slow because three children were tangled around my legs.

  Kendall told me the news of the triplets’ day—food spilled, games abandoned, damage inflicted, books read.

  “Wow, you must be exhausted,” I said.

  “Oh, I am,” Kendall agreed. “In fact, I was hoping to take a little catnap while you watch them. Of course, I’ll be right here if you need me.”

  Last fall, when I started watching the triplets, things didn’t always go so smoothly. The way the kids saw it, my job was to keep their mom from them, which made their job bothering her as much as possible. If Arlo couldn’t find his favorite book, or Mia fell down, or Levi wanted a snack, they went to her and complained. I felt like I was getting paid for nothing.

  I don’t know when exactly things changed, but they did. Maybe I got the hang of watching them. Maybe they started to trust me.

  Anyway, I have to say I’ve learned stuff about kids since fall, and now Kendall says she couldn’t get along without me.

  “Hungry?” I asked them.

  It was a rhetorical question, which means one where you know the answer already: Of course they were hungry!

  But here is an example of what I’ve learned: Never ask little kids what they want to eat. If you do, they will place an order, change their minds, and place a new order . . . and what you’ll do all afternoon is make snacks. So instead I set the menu myself. That day it was
ants on a log (celery with peanut butter and raisins), sliced apples, baby carrots, and goldfish crackers—all organic, non-GMO, and fair trade, of course.

  At my own house, no grown-up ever thinks to buy snacks, so I fixed myself some too, and then the four of us ate on the patio.

  After that it was playtime. Sometimes we wrestle, sometimes we read books, sometimes we play pretend, and sometimes we paint. That day it was soccer. The triplets have a green half-size ball and little plastic soccer goals that we get out of the garden shed and set up at either end of the yard. We played three-on-one—triplets against me. The boys play tackle soccer, their own invention. Mia cheats and uses her hands.

  There are plenty of arguments and sometimes tears, but not so many freak-outs anymore. As long as there’s laughing—and all the owies can be fixed with Band-Aids—I figure we are doing okay.

  We were outdoors all afternoon and so busy that when Kendall—looking calm—came out to tell us it was six o’clock, I was surprised.

  “Watch me kick, Mommy!” Mia said.

  “No, watch me!” Arlo insisted.

  Levi just grinned.

  “Magnificent!” their mom told them. “Would you like to stay for dinner, Lucy?”

  “Stay! Stay! Stay!” Mia and Levi grabbed my legs while Arlo clung to my right arm.

  “Wait . . . dinner?” I said. Sometimes it takes me a second to make my brain move from one idea to another. Right then it had been busy thinking about how the triplets are getting better at soccer. I hadn’t been thinking of dinner at all. But no, I couldn’t stay for dinner. Somebody had to make something for Nana. Otherwise she would try to live on nothing but sugar-free yogurt.

  “I can’t,” I said. “I’m sorry. Thanks for asking.”

  I didn’t think of O’s letter until I was walking home. Even so, I didn’t have a chance to read it right away.

  The second I opened our front door, Nana called, “What time is dinner?”

  She was in her room but still must have heard me come in. I have noticed when she wants something her hearing improves.

  “I’m home, Nana,” I called. “I’ll get right on it.”

  In the kitchen, I boiled whole wheat noodles and tossed them with butter, nuked frozen broccoli and a can of garbanzo beans (drained).

  I moved a stack of mail out of the way so that Nana and I could sit at the kitchen counter to eat. She asked about school and then about the health of “Warren, Maria, and Larry.” I’m not sure she paid attention to my answers. I would have asked about her day, too, but I already know the plot of Bleak House.

  After dinner, I washed up. My mom or my grandma would have done it eventually, but I learned from triplet duty that dirty dishes are harder to wash if they sit around; the food dries on them, and you have to scrub. It’s better just to get it over with.

  And besides, you can think while you wash the dishes. I was thinking about my bricolage for art class. A bricolage is a sculpture made from whatever you find lying around—sort of like a collage in 3-D. Mrs. Coatrak, the art teacher, thinks I’m some kind of star student, and Monday she told me she might enter mine in a citywide contest.

  I said, “Okay, Mrs. Coatrak. Only I don’t know what it is yet.”

  “Let your ideas flow!” said Mrs. Coatrak. “Trust the process!”

  If you don’t know what she was talking about, that makes two of us, but my mom was an art major in college, and sometimes she talks about art and creativity the same way. My mom was a good painter, I guess. A long time ago, some of her watercolors were even in fancy galleries. I remember she used to paint when I was little—when my dad still lived with us—but she hasn’t painted in a long time.

  As for my project, so far I had bent a fat cardboard strip into the shape of a heart, like a frame.

  But what was my heart supposed to mean, anyway?

  Since I was in the kitchen, I started to think about hearts and kitchens. And after I put the dishes away, I unpeeled the label from the bottle of dish detergent. Then I went in the recycling closet and pulled out empty boxes of granola and pasta, the label from the package of frozen broccoli, and two yogurt containers.

  I still had no idea what I was doing, but this was a start.

  I saved O’s letter for my treat after homework. It was almost nine o’clock when at last I opened the envelope—which was lined with red foil—and read:

  Saturday, May 14

  Dearest Darling Most Special and Exalted Lucy,

  Excuse me, but this is REALLY, REALLY, REALLY weird.

  I am typing a letter that I am going to PRINT OUT and put in an ENVELOPE and MAIL!!! Before I mail it, I am going to have to ask a grown-up to show me how to write an address on an envelope because I can never remember the right way.

  Now, Lucy. I must tell you something like I was Hannah or some other big-sister person. I remember sometimes how you are an artist who likes to think about big, important things rather than small ones like where you are stepping (into a cow plop—remember that time?) or what you did with your toothbrush (under your pillow—why did you put it there?), but NOW it is important to FOCUS. You must ask your mom something. You must ask her to buy you a computer and a phone. Otherwise, you cannot communicate with your friends and be a REGULAR PERSON!!!

  Can you please remember to do that? Maybe you can write it down right now someplace you will see it, like in ink on your arm!!!

  Here is another important thing: HOW ARE YOU?

  I am REALLY, REALLY, REALLY fine!

  Let me tell you about my life. Last weekend I got to play the part of “princess” in “The Princess and the Pea,” and everybody says I was excellent.

  I am sorry if that sounds braggy, but I also don’t care. I worked hard to memorize my lines and then to get everything about the part just right. Some people say I was already good at being a princess (like my brother, who thinks he is TERRIBLY FUNNY), but the truth is you have to work hard to be an actress, and I did, and it was TOTALLY worth it.

  To play the part I also had to learn math!!!

  I know that sounds weird.

  I was FLUNKING math and I had to get a tutor and she helped me learn to do fractions, and here is where flour power comes in. You will never believe it—but it really works! Just like Hannah and her dead grandpa said.

  Anyway, Emma (it was her turn) sent me cookies, and I took cookies to my tutor, and she cut them up to show me how if you have a half of a half it equals a quarter, and all of a sudden multiplying fractions made sense!!!

  Then we got to eat the cookies.

  Against ALL ODDS, it was my brother who had the idea of taking cookies to my tutor, which is not only amazing that he would have a good idea but also that I actually listened to him because we didn’t even like each other, which was partly because I was jealous because he is a star at baseball and my parents go TOTALLY CRAZY for baseball.

  But then we had this talk while we ate Emma’s chocolate cookies, and now we understand each other better.

  My brother even helped me practice my lines for the play, so to be fair I offered to practice baseball with him, too, but he said that was unnecessary.

  So now you have to tell me all about your life!!!

  Is there anything in it that is not perfect? Because the secret cookies will help—you can trust me on this.

  Are you going back to Moonlight Ranch this summer? Emma (you know how bossy she is) told me I have to! And I kind of want to because I miss you guys. But I’m scared that we won’t be in the same cabin again, and then I’ll be disappointed, and I HATE being disappointed. Anyway, if you don’t go to camp and I do then I’ll DEFINITELY be disappointed. So tell me what you’re going to do.

  I am REALLY, REALLY, REALLY looking forward to getting your letter!!!

  Love, Your Favorite Princess (JK) from Flowerpot Cabin—O

  P.S. What kind of cookies do you like? And don’t say barbecue sauce cookies!!! People think jokes like that are funny, but not if you’re me.

  I p
ut the letter back in its envelope and laid it on my desk. I got ready for bed. I went back to Nana’s room to say good night and—surprise—she was in her chair reading. I didn’t tell her about the letter. She might have been interested, but I was feeling bratty, wanting to hold on to something for myself.

  It wasn’t till I climbed into bed and turned out the light that I thought about what Olivia had written.

  It was cool that flour power had worked for O, for Emma, and for Grace.

  But their problems were nothing like mine. They probably had clean houses with stoves where all four burners worked and refrigerators packed with food (even snacks and ice cream).

  At Moonlight Ranch the differences between me and them were not so obvious. But I bet none of them would be able to imagine a real-world life like mine, not even for a single minute.

  Then I thought about Moonlight Ranch—and realized I really (REALLY, REALLY!!!) wanted to go back, but I had no idea if I’d be able to. My aunt Freda in Santa Barbara had paid last summer. She is my dad’s stepsister, who somehow manages to get along with my mom and my grandma still. So far this year she hadn’t said anything about it.

  I must have just fallen asleep when I heard knocking on my door. “Come in, Mom.”

  “Did I wake you?” Her voice was soft.

  “I’m okay. How are you?”

  Mom sat down on the edge of my bed. “My feet hurt.”

  “How were your tips?”

  “Meh.” She shrugged. “They won’t change our lifestyle. Oh, say—what was that letter all about? At first I thought it was from your father. I was kind of hoping he might’ve sent a check—but then I saw the Kansas City postmark. Is it from one of your camp friends?”

  “It’s from O—from Olivia,” I said.

  “Ah, the barbecue sauce heiress,” Mom said.

  “She hates when people say things like that,” I said.

  “Then I won’t, at least not in front of her,” Mom said. “How is Olivia?”

  I told her, and how the cookies would be coming, too—just as soon as I wrote back. Mom said, “I’m impressed with all four of you. It’s not easy to maintain camp friendships during the year. Do you want to go back to Moonlight Ranch this summer?”