Smart Cookie

by Elly Swartz

  Another loud clank comes from just outside. I ball my fists and squeeze my fears. I swallow hard when I ask this next question. “So where do you think he is?”

  He stares back at me. “I don’t know where exactly his body is, but I’d bet his ghost is at the B&B.”

  “Maybe we should call the police. I mean if Mickey really is dead and no longer going to wear his boots in the snow, we should tell someone. Do something.”

  “Not until we get more evidence. Right now, no one would believe us.”

  He’s right. No one’s going to believe a couple of kids with a ghost meter.

  We walk out of the bedroom, down the hall, through the kitchen, out the back door, and around the house. Standing on the front lawn staring at us is a woman holding a snow shovel. She has a pointy chin, two long braids, and a wool hat with a large, brown pom-pom. “What are you kids doing here?” Her voice is sharp and accusing.

  “We, um …” is all I get out before Elliot jumps in.

  “We’re conducting a ghost survey.”

  I can’t believe he’s going with ghost sightings.

  “A what?” Braids steps closer. Too close, but I don’t think this is the time to tell her that she’s invading my personal space. I step back.

  “I understand the confusion, ma’am. This is a new town service. There’ve been some complaints about ghosts in the area, so we’re looking into it,” Elliot says with the authority of someone who’s actually telling the truth.

  “We, as in you two kids?” she snaps, her voice louder.

  Don’t think this is working. We should have gone with Girl Scout cookies.

  “Of course not,” Elliot says. Clears throat. “The man heading up the initiative is Mr. Melville Jenkins, maybe you’ve heard of him. Mayor Hartman held a press conference last week recognizing the good work Jenkins has done for other towns with similar problems.”

  I can’t believe it. She’s nodding.

  “Anyway,” Elliot continues, “we’re just volunteers conducting the survey.”

  “So what were you doing here at Mickey’s?”

  “We were just going to ask whoever lives here if he’d like to take the survey.”

  The angry etches on her face soften. “Haven’t seen Mickey in months. Unlike him to disappear for so long.”

  I feel a sharp knot wedge into my stomach.

  “He’s got Mr. Cuddles to think about.”

  “Who’s that?” I ask. My image of Dead Mickey doesn’t fit with anything named Mr. Cuddles.

  “His cat. Whenever he goes away, I take care of Mr. Cuddles. About three months ago, Mickey said he was going out of town. Asked me to look after Mr. Cuddles, and I haven’t seen him since. He’s usually never gone for more than a few days.”

  “Well, we hope your friend and his cat are fine. Would you like to take the survey?” Elliot asks.

  “I don’t believe in ghosts,” Braids says as she trails back to her house.

  I watch until I see her walk through her front door. “That was close.” I exhale and try to breathe like a normal person for the first time since I spotted the gnomes. Then my phone pings.

  It’s a text from Jessica. Sorry. Sorry. Meet me at library to rehearse. Sorry. Sorry.

  I text her back. No.

  That night, all I can think about is Dead Mickey and his boots. Don’t know why the boots stick in my head, but there they are, sitting in the kitchen. Dry. Abandoned. My mind traces back to what actually happened to Mickey.

  I grab my purple butterfly book.

  Dear Mom,

  Not sure what to think about Mickey Hogan. Mostly I don’t understand why no one is looking for him. I mean his neighbor Braids is worried, but she’s not doing anything about it. Doesn’t anyone care that he’s missing? That he doesn’t have his boots and it’s snowing? Doesn’t he have people?

  If I was gone, Gram would be worried that I didn’t have my boots. I mean I think she would, even though now I’m not 100 percent sure since coral lipstick, perfume, and Mr. Sid Caldwell have come into the picture. Dad would be worried if it was lightning. 100 percent.

  Does it snow in heaven? Do you need boots?

  Just wondering.

  Love you,

  Francine

  I roll over and read my letter to Winston. “Don’t worry, if you were gone, I’d go looking for you. Lucy, too.” Then I practice my rap to stop thinking about Dead Mickey. I must have fallen asleep somewhere between worrying about Mickey and rapping Shakespeare, because soon the sun is peeking through my shades and I smell Dad’s waffles. I fly around the kitchen grabbing breakfast, my hat and gloves and scarf, and shove all of it into my backpack, while Dad’s spouting a detailed list of instructions. Remember to put down more sand after school. Gone all day. Something about some meeting. I’m on my own for dinner. Stuff in fridge. Make the cookies. Love you.

  I meet Elliot, breakfast in hand.

  “You could be the best friend ever,” he says as he stuffs the first waffle into his mouth.

  I hand him a second waffle. “You mean, I am the best friend ever.”

  He nods.

  When we get to the front of school, I see that Annie is surrounded by her flock of kindergarteners. She seems to be embracing her inner grape today. She’s wearing a purple speckled hat, a purple-and-green-striped scarf that covers most of her face, and a matching winter coat. “Hello, friends!” she sings.

  “Hello, friends,” her flock echoes, followed by a bevy of giggles.

  People would look for Annie if she went missing. I’d look for her.

  Then she dips under her many layers, into her pocket, and pulls out a small bell. “I found this and thought of you. If you ever need anything, all you have to do is ring it.”

  “My own personal bat signal. I love it.”

  Her smile makes its way above the scarf line.

  “The bell can be heard between the worlds of Lazos and home. If Fly and Fitzgerald were ever to get separated, all Fitzgerald would need to do would be to ring the bell and they could find their way back to each other.”

  I ring my bell. Nothing extraordinary happens. Except Elliot says I rang it too close to his ear and now he can’t hear anything.

  “Well, at least you won’t be able to hear when Jessica tells you that you smell like beef jerky.”

  “Good point,” he says as we walk into our classroom. That’s when I realize today is the dress rehearsal for our presentations. And my costume is hanging over my desk chair.

  At home.

  I think about ringing my bell, flashing the bat signal, but I know neither will help.

  Jessica is blanketed by her minions, and I’m not telling her that I’m not prepared in front of the vultures. I wonder who would start the search if she disappeared. Not the shadows by her side. Between the two of them, they couldn’t find a single thing. Then I think about her mom crashed on the couch and her dad with his other family. Cracks in my mad wedge in.

  Mr. Bearson runs through today’s announcements. I catch the one about the float meeting and promptly erase it from my brain. Then he tells us he’s extending the deadline for the float theme entries. “Reminder, I’m looking for everyone to participate.”

  He stares straight at me. I realize with everything happening, I still hadn’t submitted a float idea. I search my brain, but the only thing I come up with is a float shaped like a giant waffle.

  We break off into our pairs. I sit across from Jessica and dig into my backpack, trying to look like I’m searching for something important. Then I swallow hard, and say, “I left my costume at home.”

  I wait for the shriek and the indignant outrage, but it doesn’t come. “Just bring it the day we present for real.”

  I look up to make sure a zombie hasn’t taken over her body. It looks like Jessica, but I’m not totally convinced.

  “I made these,” she says, handing me posters of Lady Macbeth, the witches, and Macbeth.

  “Wow! They’re good.” I try to hold
on to the angry knot floating around my stomach, but feel it slowly slipping away.

  For the rest of class, we rap Shakespeare. I realize between stanzas that if I don’t submit a float idea soon, Mr. Bearson’s going to call me up to his desk for a you’re-not-in-trouble-but-this-is-still-embarrassing talk. Raheim and I are the only two who haven’t pinned our ideas onto the board yet and I can see a very uncomfortable Raheim talking to Mr. Bearson now. I tell Jessica I need a rap break and quickly write the only thing spinning in my brain that doesn’t have to do with waffles.

  After we finish our run-through and I endure pre-algebra, the History of Civilization, and Spanish, I tack my idea to the Winter Family Festival Parade board.

  And say a small thank-you to zebras everywhere.

  “I’m moving out.”

  Gram’s words trail up the stairs into my room and settle next to the rest of my worries behind my big toe.

  “I don’t want you to leave. No one wants you to leave, Bea. I just need you to remove your things from Yahtzee and the hall.”

  “I did.”

  “And then you found or bought or unfurled more stuff, which is back in the room and the hall.”

  “Need I remind you that space has been empty for months?” Gram says.

  “That’s not the point.”

  “What’s not the point?” I ask, walking into the kitchen.

  No one says anything.

  “I mean it. I want to know. You both said everything was fine. That I shouldn’t worry.” I stare at their faces. “This isn’t what fine looks like. Fine doesn’t include Gram moving out.”

  “No one’s moving out,” Dad says.

  “I wouldn’t say that. I saw the dumpster,” Gram says.

  Dad paces between me and Gram. “We’ll go through your things together.”

  “That’s not happening,” Gram says, unmoved by Dad’s offer.

  I look out the window and sitting behind the garbage bins is one large steel container. On the side in bright red block letters it says DANNY’S DUMPORIUM—ONE MAN’S TRASH IS ANOTHER MAN’S GOLD.

  “Bea, we talked about this. Your stuff is a fire hazard.”

  “See, that’s not fine,” I say.

  “I got a call from the health department yesterday. Someone complained,” Dad continues. “I can’t let them shut us down.”

  “My daughter would’ve never let you do this to me,” Gram says.

  “Do what? Take care of you?”

  “Make me get rid of my things.”

  Dad’s jaw twitches. “That’s not fair.”

  “But it’s true.”

  “I’m not—”

  “Stop! Just stop.” I step between them. “This isn’t working and it’s not fine.” I grab my gold sparkle Sharpie from the treasure drawer (a gift from Mrs. Beasley the artist) and a piece of computer paper from the drawer and write out Rule #11: No one’s throwing anything out. No one’s moving. I tack the new rule to the wall and look at the two of them. “This is the new rule.”

  I walk outside. The falling snow mixes with the tears streaming down my cheeks.

  Gram can’t leave.

  We need her here with us.

  I need her here with me.

  Even if I have to share her with Mr. Sid Caldwell.

  I wipe the snow off the curb in front of Elliot’s house and sit and breathe and cry. The worry and sadness that I stuffed behind my big toe twists inside me. I wait for the tears to stop, but they don’t. They roll with purpose.

  Then someone sits down next to me.

  “Are you okay?” Jessica asks me.

  “Have you been following me?” I ask. I can smell the raspberry gum dancing around her mouth.

  “No. You’re the only loser who follows people around,” she says. “This was my old house before Elliot moved here, remember?”

  I don’t answer. I don’t want to hear her tell me to make Elliot take care of her blueberry bushes and roses. I don’t want to remember living next door and being friends. All those memories are buried deep under her lies.

  She stuffs another piece of gum in her mouth. “So are you okay?”

  I nod as the tears slip down my cheeks.

  “Not sure I believe you.”

  “You’re not really the person I want to talk to right now.”

  She looks around. “No one else is here.”

  “I’m fine.”

  She laughs.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “When we were eight and I told you the cookies you made were fine, you told me that you hated that word. That it meant nothing. Then you made me rank the cookies on a scale of one—the best thing I ever ate—to ten—going to puke.”

  A crack of a smile slips out. I remember. They were chocolate chip sugar cookies.

  “So let’s pretend I’m not the jerk who stole the jewelry and planted it in your pocket. Pretend I’m the friend you used to play hide-and-seek with in the B&B and almost won by hiding in the dryer. Until your gram turned it on.”

  The idea of pretending nestles around us.

  “She says she’s moving out,” I say.

  Screech. A car down the street skids on the ice.

  “Who?”

  I turn and look at my once friend. “Gram.”

  Jessica squeezes my hand like she used to when we watched scary movies. Just before I’d scream, run upstairs, and hide in my closet.

  “She says everything’s okay, but I know it’s not.”

  “Remember the time we took her to get her first pair of cowboy boots.”

  I do. That day Jessica and I must have watched Gram try on twenty pairs of boots. They were all too tall. Too pointy. Too big. Too tight. Too not-just-right.

  I laugh.

  We sit like that for a while. Then I ask what’s been on my mind since that day I followed her on the street. “What’s your dad doing here? I thought he lived in Florida.”

  I hear her sigh and wish I hadn’t said anything.

  “He was in Florida. Then I got a call a few months ago after not hearing from him for over a year. He said he was back. With his family. His new family. And he wanted to spend time with me.” She looks at me. “I wasn’t ready to hang out with him and his new life, but I wanted to see him. So I did.”

  “Was that the day I saw you?”

  “Followed me,” she corrects.

  “That was the first time you saw him since that day in fourth grade?”

  She nods.

  “Jessica, I’m sorry.”

  “Me too,” she says, staring at the street. Then, “Can you call me Jess?”

  “I guess, but why? You’ve been Jessica forever.” Like when we made those T-shirts in third grade with our handprints and signed them Frankie & Jessica. And when we made friendship bracelets with letter beads at camp. Mine’s sitting in my jewelry box. It says Frankie and Jessica BFF.

  “My dad calls me Jessica.”

  Now I get it. We sit for a while saying nothing. Then Jess says, “I really am sorry about the other day. I know I messed up. I’m just trying to keep it together for Leila, with my mom being all …”

  “All what?” I ask.

  She’s quiet for a minute, then says, “I guess tired and super sad all the time. She’s been like this for a while now, but it’s gotten worse since my dad moved back. She sleeps a lot and just, kind of, stopped doing all the mom stuff.”

  I don’t even know what that is.

  “So I’ve been trying to keep things normal. I thought if we celebrated my mom’s birthday and ran the float stuff like we used to, maybe it would help. Maybe Leila would stop sneaking into my bed in the middle of the night and my mom would see that we’re still a family. That my dad leaving hasn’t changed that.”

  In that moment, I realize we’re both trying to put our families back together.

  Big, light snowflakes in no hurry to land fall gently around us, but neither of us gets up to leave. Then Jess breaks into our Macbeth rap. Around the second stanza, I j
oin in.

  When we finish, a speck of happiness finds its way into my heart.

  A layer of snow coats my boots. “I’ve got to get back to make the cookies for the new guests.” I don’t say that I hope they haven’t canceled.

  “Yeah. I’ve got to get home, too.”

  When I walk into the B&B, neither Dad nor Gram is in the welcome area. But tacked to the wall is Rule #11. And, at the bottom of the page, I see both of their signatures.

  I add a noseless smiley face.

  I’ve got just enough time to make sugar cookies with a sprinkle of nutmeg. I leave out the chocolate chips. I remember Jess only gave that recipe a four—would eat them again if they were the only dessert. I still don’t see Dad anywhere, but then I remember he said something about being out late. Now that I think about it, he’s been gone a lot lately. I can’t recall where he said he’d be. Nothing surfaces, so I take the cookies out of the oven and check the messages at the desk. There’s one from Naomi. Uh-oh. The profile lists my cell. Never thought the Possibles would call Dad at the B&B. If one of them actually reaches him, I’m dead. Or grounded for life. Both equally possible.

  I quickly run upstairs and write Naomi an email from Dad.

  Sorry our meeting was so short. You seem very nice, but I think we’d be better as friends.

  I call Elliot. “Does that sound okay? I don’t want to hurt her feelings. She’s nice. She’s just Mabel nice.” Lucy noses open my door, grabs my right boot, and jumps onto my bed.

  “Well, keep out the part where you tell her she’s old.”

  I add another line about how glad I was to meet her. This last part is more about me. Then I read Elliot a new message from the latest Possible.

  You sound great. I love B&Bs and pets, and your daughter seems wonderful, too. I am currently in Beijing working on a cryogenics research project, but will be thawed and back in the States in seven months. Would love to connect.

  Signed,

  Wait for me?

  “Is she kidding?” I ask Elliot.

  “I hope so.”

  “Brad” responds with a thoughtful and polite nope. Then I slide her name into the Impossibles column right next to Georgia, Naomi, and Evelyn. As I hang up with Elliot, I wonder if I’ll ever find a Possible and be part of a family again.