Smart Cookie

by Elly Swartz

  Dear Mom,

  I gotta know. What were you doing in Reggie’s desk? Tell me.

  Okay, I get it. I’ll wait, but you should know that while you’re hanging out in the cemetery looking after little Nate with Gertrude, Markus, and Beverly, I’m here, trying to fix things.

  And if I’m being only-you-can-hear-me honest, I’m scared. Like lightning scared. Scared to find out what’s going on. It’s like the part in The Wizard of Oz when Dorothy pulls back the curtain and sees the great and powerful Oz. You know I always hated that part. Not sure I really want to know what’s behind the curtain. But if I don’t find out, who will help Dad? You’re gone and Gram’s with Sid.

  I’m his person now.

  Love you,

  Francine

  I shove the flies swarming around my stomach into the spot behind my big toe. Today’s the day. Shakespeare Rap Day. I stand in front of my mirror, take a deep start-over breath, and practice the lyrics. My costume’s packed and ready to go. Dad meets me downstairs with my favorite breakfast—gooey fried eggs, sausage, and ketchup on an English muffin.

  “Good luck today,” he says, sipping his coffee. “I’m really proud of you.”

  “Thanks, Dad.” The breakfast room is quiet. I don’t ask Dad where everybody is because I don’t want him to tell me Mr. So and So and Mrs. This and That canceled because of rain or snow or a pulled back or an infected toenail, because I won’t believe him anyway. And the look in his eyes that he’s trying to hide from me tells me that he doesn’t believe it, either.

  “I have a meeting at the bank, but I’ll be home for dinner together.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  Elliot’s waiting for me at the end of the driveway. I hand him an English muffin. “Love when you have a big day,” he says, biting into the breakfast sandwich.

  On the way to school, he tells me he’s sifted through 50 percent of the photos I took, but his mom had him cleaning out the garage most of yesterday. So we leave unsaid all the pickles in the path to figuring out what Reggie’s up to, and Elliot gives me a beat so I can practice my rap. “It’s really good,” he says as he pops the last bite of sandwich into his mouth.

  When we get to the front of the school, there’s an old, round man in a crumpled, blue button-down surrounded by a swarm of five-year-olds. “Where’s Annie?” I ask Blue Shirt.

  “Don’t know. Just got a call because the school needed a kindergarten sub.”

  I dig into my brain to try and remember Annie ever missing a day, but I can’t. She was here my first day at Dennisville Elementary. I’d just moved, and my nerves had nowhere to hide. As I scoured the corner of the kindergarten room with the tubs of wooden blocks looking for a friend, she handed me a shiny plastic mouse. I loved him, named him Fly, and kept him in my pocket for the entire first month of school. Now he sits on my windowsill above my desk and Annie and I make up stories about the parallel universe he travels to when I’m not around. “Did they say she was sick? On vacation?”

  “They didn’t say anything, except when and where I needed to be. Sorry, kid.”

  My worry meter ticks. I spin the four-leaf clover Annie gave me and hope she’s okay. She probably just has a cold or something.

  Jess grabs me as soon as I step into Mr. Bearson’s classroom.

  “Did you remember the costume?”

  “Yep.”

  “Practice?”

  “Yep.”

  “Still mad?”

  No answer. If I’m being totally honest, my mad seeped out the day she caught me crying in front of the B&B.

  Sophie and Josh present first. They created an interactive Shakespeare museum. When they finish, they hand out free coupons to visit their museum. I clap and woot. I’d totally go to that museum.

  Next up is Shanti and Jake. They act out the balcony scene from Romeo and Juliet. When they’re finished, they take a bow.

  “Okay, Jessica and Frankie. You’re up,” Mr. Bearson says as he straightens his Snoopy and Charlie Brown tie.

  The rap’s playing on a loop in my head. It’s been doing that since I woke up this morning. I’m ready. I can do this. I look at Jess. She looks less ready or maybe more nervous.

  I have an idea.

  I don’t ask Jess or Mr. Bearson, I just go with it. Trust your gut. Isn’t that what Gram’s always telling me?

  I grab Elliot and whisper something in his ear. Jess seems annoyed or confused, though I can’t really tell which. They look the same on her.

  Then Elliot gives us a beat, and Jess nods and smiles. We set our posters on the lip of the whiteboard behind us as the class joins in the music. Greg taps his boot, Shanti drums her pencil, and Josh clacks his highlighters—one in each hand. Then we break into our Shakespeare rap. In that moment, I’m more convinced than ever that Reggie is like a modern-day Macbeth, all about greed and power.

  When we’re done, we’re breathless, and our classmates stand and clap and cheer. A happy dance zips through my body.

  After school, I burst through the door of the B&B to tell Dad about the rap. Once I fly upstairs, toss my backpack on the bed with Lucy, and give her some lovin’, I peak into the Checkers Room to see if Dad’s fixing the radiator again. But he’s nowhere.

  Then I remember. Out late. Bank thingy. Let’s have dinner.

  I knock on Gram’s bedroom door so I can tell her about my triumphant performance. No answer. She’s not home, but thankfully her stuff is not overflowing into Yahtzee or spilling into the hallway. Rule #11 seems to be working. I lean against Gram’s door and take out the photo of Mom in the yellow dress that I now carry with me.

  Part of me wishes I remembered more about her.

  All of me wishes I didn’t have to.

  Before I head to the senior center, I dip into the Trinket Treasure drawer, pull out a mood ring, and slip it on my ring finger. The rap begins to replay in my head and the ring turns happy purple.

  When I get to Mills, Gram’s in the card room. She’s wearing her now signature coral lipstick and holding hands with Mr. Caldwell. I realize they’re a package deal. Kind of like Dad and me.

  I tell them about the rap. They want to hear it, and I think about belting it out right there in the middle of the room, but then I get an idea.

  I text Jess.

  Within an hour, she meets me in the card room. She looks confused as she walks over to our table and hugs Sid. “Pop! I didn’t know you’d be here today.”

  “Pop?” I ask.

  “This is my grandfather,” Jess says.

  “Today is so weird,” is all I can say.

  After we get over the fact that my gram and her pop are dating, we gather all the seniors into the center of the room and move sleeping Phil to the side. MaryKate from the front desk nods and gives us a beat. Jess and I move to the front of the room and perform our Macbeth rap. When we finish, everyone in the room is clapping.

  Afterward, Gram and I talk and play cards for a while. I lose three games and am losing a fourth. “Why bright red?” I ask as she takes an ace of clubs from the pile.

  She spreads her candy apple red nails out on the table and nods to the table where Jess and Sid are visiting. “It’s his favorite.” She moves around the cards in her hand. “What do you think of it?”

  “I, um, like it.” It’s going to take a while to get used to the polish, the lipstick, the perfume. And Sid.

  I’m about to ask her why Reggie would have a photo of Mom when there’s a knock on the door and MaryKate walks in, holding a box filled with art supplies. I know because I have one of those boxes in Dad’s office on the second shelf from the bottom. You never know when you’re going to need glitter.

  “Who wants to make Valentine’s cards,” asks MaryKate. With Dead Mickey, the quiet B&B, Operation Mom, and Reggie, I totally forgot that tomorrow is Valentine’s Day.

  Gram looks at me and winks. Or maybe she’s looking past me at Sid, who’s definitely looking at her. Jess, Sid, Gram, Mabel, Mae, Gerry, Shelby, and
I spend the next hour making cards. By the end, there are about twenty red hearts full of glitter and stickers and strands of feathers spread across the table. I look over at Gram. She’s covered in red and silver glitter. She and Sid fall onto the puffy couch, look at each other, and laugh.

  Most of me is happy for her.

  When I get back to the B&B, there are pink roses on the doorstep. I smile and am so thankful for my dad. He remembered. Every year, he gives me roses the night before so I wake up to them on Valentine’s Day. Usually, they’re yellow.

  I pick up the vase and read the card—FOR: BRAD GREENE.

  They’re not from Dad—they’re for Dad.

  Who sent these? Dad’s not with anyone. That’s the whole point of Operation Mom. But if I didn’t send them and Gram didn’t send them, who did?

  Then it hits me. He’s been gone a lot. I thought he was at the bank or getting supplies at Harry’s Hardware or helping the neighbors or doing dad stuff.

  I should be happy. Thrilled. He’s dating and the opposite of boring and he’s not alone. We can go to the parade as a family. I have what’s been missing. This is what I’ve wanted.

  The pink flowers and I go inside the B&B. Lucy sprints up to me, baying and licking like it’s been forever since I left. I hug her and tell her Dad’s secret. She’s unimpressed, grabs a pair of stray socks that must have fallen out of the laundry basket on the way to the washing machine, and runs upstairs. I head to the kitchen and plunk down on a stool at the counter, spinning ’round and ’round and ’round.

  Be happy, I tell myself. Gram’s happy. Dad’s happy. You should be happy, too.

  My mood ring turns gray.

  I grab my computer and read Dad’s profile. Obviously he doesn’t need my help. A twinge of sadness creeps into my heart. I thought he needed me. I thought I was his person.

  There are only twenty-four days until the parade.

  He doesn’t need me.

  The mood ring’s gray morphs to a murky black.

  Dad walks into the kitchen holding a bouquet of yellow roses. “Happy Valentine’s Day,” he says.

  I run up to my room and close the door. Then I grab my butterfly book and write as fast as my heart is beating. Dad knocks, but I don’t answer. Not yet. I need to do this first.

  Dear Mom,

  Don’t know what’s wrong with me. I wanted Dad to find me a mom. No offense, just one that’s alive. I wanted to be a family of three again. I even used up all my wishes on it—the one I made on the first star I saw every night, when the clock said 11:11, every time I found an eyelash on my cheek, when I closed my eyes just before I fell asleep. I always wished for the same thing. But now pink roses are here and it feels like a big bag of mixed-up puzzle pieces.

  What do I do? What would you do?

  I wish you were here right now.

  Love you,

  Francine.

  Knock. Knock.

  I can’t ignore him again. I know he’ll just keep coming back. I stuff my butterfly book under my mattress and say, “Come in.”

  The door opens, and Dad pokes his head in. His hair is still wet from the snow, his boots are off. Socks on. No holes. He puts the vase with my yellow roses on my desk, right next to a photo of me and Gram and Dad apple picking two years ago. Gram made the best apple crisp that night.

  “Hey,” he says, scooting next to me on the floor. My blue shag carpet’s like an ocean between us. “You okay?”

  I nod.

  “I rarely get that reaction when I give someone flowers.”

  An unwanted smile sneaks out.

  Dad continues. “But then I saw the pink ones, and I got it.”

  I don’t say anything.

  “I should’ve told you but wanted to wait,” he says.

  “Until what?” I pull off the plaid duct tape, pick at my hangnail, and wait for his answer.

  He shrugs. “Not sure. I guess I thought as time went on, I’d know what to say. But now it’s here and I don’t.” He brushes straggles of hair out of my eyes, and we sit like this for a while.

  “How long have you been dating her?”

  “About six months.”

  Six months! All that time I thought he was alone. Lonely.

  “Does Gram know?”

  His eyes smile and he nods. “That woman knows everything.” We both laugh. “I’m sorry you found out like this. I should’ve been honest from the start.”

  He’s not the only one keeping secrets. I grab my laptop and open it.

  He stares at his profile. His photo. As he clicks and reads, his eyes widen, but he says nothing. The quiet is so loud I want to hide. Or scream. Or both.

  “You shouldn’t have.”

  “I was just trying to help.”

  “By soliciting me on the open market?”

  “I never really thought about it like that. Maybe that should be a new rule, Number Twelve: No soliciting.”

  He doesn’t laugh.

  “I didn’t want you to be alone. Or sad. Or lonely. And—” The words stick in the very back of my throat.

  “What?”

  “I wanted to go to the Winter Family Festival parade as, well, a family.”

  He looks me straight in my eyes so nothing can slip out. “We are a family, Francine. We don’t need another person to make us one.” He holds my hands. I can feel the callus on his right palm.

  A tear quietly drops off my cheek. Dad wipes it away like he did when I was little, and I hug him tight. We stay on my blue ocean for a while talking about my Shakespeare rap and the Valentine’s art fest with Gram.

  Then I dig deep to the place where I keep my lightning brave, and ask, “Do I get to meet Pink Roses?”

  “You already have.”

  My brain runs through at roller-coaster speed any single woman who’s been near my dad or the B&B for the last six months. Georgia. Evelyn. Naomi. Mabel (she stopped by to get something from Gram last Saturday). Grocery Delivery Lady. Cheese Delivery Lady.

  “Who is she?”

  He takes a big breath in. “Annie.”

  “Annie, my kindergarten teacher?”

  He nods.

  “Annie, Mom’s friend?”

  “That’s the one.”

  Like eating a big plate of spaghetti and meatballs, it takes a long time to digest what Dad told me. Over the next few days, I try to understand it, forget it, put it behind my big toe. But none of that seems to be working. I sit on my bed and tell tail-chasing Lucy and burrowing Winston about Pink Roses. Then I wonder how many people a person gets.

  When I can’t convince myself it’s more than one, I grab my list of potential mom questions to see how many I can answer about Annie.

    1. Do you want a kid? An eleven-year-old girl to be specific?

  Definite maybe.

    2. Do you like pets? A beagle and an African pygmy hedgehog?

  I know she has a parrot named Taco.

    3. Do you want to live in Dennisville, Vermont?

  Already does. That one was easy.

    4. Do you want to live in a bed-and-breakfast?

  No idea.

    5. Can you bake?

  I know she can’t. One time, she brought brownies to school. Elliot and I ended up tossing ours in the bathroom trash. They were somewhere between disgusting and inedible.

    6. Do you know how to draw a unicorn horn?

  Don’t know.

    7. Do you like to hike? Ride bikes? Rock climb?

  I’ve seen her riding her mountain bike around town.

    8. Do you like the rain?

  No idea.

    9. Are you afraid of lightning?

  No clue.

  10. What’s your favorite game?

  This one’s easy. I know it’s Scrabble. Just like Mom. Just like my room. Just like me.

  11. Do you like puzzles?

  Don’t know.

  12. Are you free the day of the Winter Family Festival Parade?r />
  I know the answer is yes, because every year she makes hot cocoa and hands it out to all the parade goers.

  13. Are you handy?

  No idea.

  14. Would you feed Lucy and Winston if I were ever gone?

  Not sure, but if she’s feeding Taco, can’t see why she couldn’t feed Lucy and Winston, too.

  15. Do you like me?

  Yes. I mean she seems to, unless she’s just being nice because she was Mom’s friend and Mom died.

  Fifteen questions. Six positive point scores. One negative. Three maybes. And five I can’t answer. I hoped the list would make me feel less weird about this whole thing. But it doesn’t.

  I hop off my bed, grab my sketch pad and colored pencils, quietly slide out the front door, and text Dad an I-won’t-be-gone-long message.

  When I land at Weinstein’s Cemetery, I lean my bike against the wire fence, and settle in next to Mom. The quiet wraps around us like Mrs. Rudabaker’s afghan. “So all this stuff is happening that you need to know,” I tell her. “Gram’s seeing Sid Caldwell, who happens to be Jess’s grandpa. And she seems happy, but it’s kind of weird because now she always smells like flowers and wears lipstick.”

  I close my eyes for a second and get ready to share the other gigantic news. “Also, Dad’s dating Annie. You heard me right. Annie. Your best friend.” As I say it out loud, my mind feels twisty and my heart feels heavy like my backpack when I have homework in every subject. I don’t know what to do with this feeling. It won’t fit behind my big toe.

  I pause for no reason other than my voice feels stuck. When it unsticks, I say, “I wish you were here. Then we’d still live in our red brick house in Boston, and Annie would just be your friend and Gram would just be Gram.”

  I say nothing for a while, hoping I can swallow my heap of sadness. But I can’t. It leaks out, one salty teardrop after another.

  Then I take in a huge breath of dead-people-live-here air and ask my mom, “If you have all your cemetery people, Dad has Annie, and Gram has Sid, who do I have? Who’s my person?”

  Not sure what I think will happen when I ask the question. I guess I hope that maybe Mom will answer me or give me some kind of everything-will-be-okay sign. But nothing happens. And for a long minute, the cemetery is totally still.