Smart Cookie Page 3

  xoxo

  Alice

  I like your spirit, Alice, but he’s got me, his eleven-year-old daughter, so just saying, young at heart may not cut it.

  I call Elliot, and we quickly eliminate Abigail Lucinda, the broken heart, and the grandmother. I reach for my Boston snow globe. At last count, I had fourteen snow globes in my collection, but this one is my favorite. I turn it upside down, and the snow sprinkles across Fenway Park. The baseball field and the Green Monster get a sparkly white coat. Mom was a huge Red Sox fan.

  “I think I like the third email,” Elliot says.

  Lucy moves from my lap to Winston—nose to quills. I shake the globe one more time and watch the snow glitter fall. It reminds me of once upon a time.

  When I had my family.

  Dad. Mom. Me.

  I get back to Elliot. “I liked that one, too. How should I reply?”

  “Are you free for life and more specifically, the Winter Family Festival Parade this year?” I hear Elliot snort.

  “Not funny. I need to sound like my dad.”

  Elliot’s still laughing.

  “Okay, a little funny. But seriously, what should I say?” The scab on my hand starts to bleed. Lucy cleans it off, and I put a piece of plaid duct tape over it.

  “How about this? ‘Georgia, thanks for reaching out. A meeting sounds great. Why don’t you come by the B&B on Thursday afternoon for cookies and—’ ”

  “Cookies? No grown-up asks another grown-up to come over for cookies.”

  “But no grown-up makes cookies as great as you and your gram,” Elliot says.

  “Even so, we have to say something more grown-up sounding.”

  “Pizza?” Elliot offers.

  “Coffee. Let’s just say coffee. All Dad-age people drink that stuff.” I edit the email and read it back. “What do you think?”

  “That’s the one.”

  For the second time that day, I hold my breath and hit SEND.

  Then my whole body exhales.

  “So how will you know?” Elliot asks. I hear him chewing what can only be a stick of beef jerky.

  “Know what?” I stare at Winston poking his nose in the toilet paper tube I put in his cage and wonder if he misses his mom.

  “If this Possible is the one your dad should marry?”

  I don’t answer.

  Because I don’t know.

  “Maybe you should have some kind of list.”

  Elliot’s got an emergency chore list, a favorite food list, a rotating what-to-wear list.

  “That’s not a bad idea. What kind of list do you think would help?”

  “Maybe a list of questions you want to ask? And then you could have some scoring system for each answer.”

  “A scoring system? Like in baseball?”

  “No. Like you ask if she likes kids.”

  “Kid. Just one. Remember?” I flip the New York City snow globe upside down. The horse-drawn carriages and people and dogs in Central Park get a dousing of marshmallow white. Gram says I loved when Mom gave me this one. It was a present for something, but I don’t remember what.

  “Okay. You ask if she wants a kid, and then you rank her answer. Let’s say the scoring is out of ten. Ten is she’s always wanted an eleven-year-old kid named Frankie, and one is she’s the wicked stepmom from ‘Cinderella.’ Get it?”

  “Got it.” My mind fills with potential questions for my new list.

  Then Elliot clears his throat. I always know he has something important to tell me when he does that.

  “When I left you, I dug around, and—”

  “The ghost is actually in my closet?”

  “Close, but no.”

  I know he’s kidding, but I peek in my closet anyway. No ghost.

  “Then what?”

  “I’m not the only person in town who thinks there’s a ghost around the B&B.”

  Days later, Elliot’s still talking about the whole floating dead thing. “I know you don’t believe me about the ghost, but yesterday afternoon, I had to go to the pharmacy to get some stuff for my mom’s stomach. She said it was all wonky from the chili Samantha made for the class.” Elliot’s mom teaches at Montclaire Cooking School and often says, “Not all people were meant to cook.” One time Elliot confessed that his mom may be a better teacher than chef, but then swore me to secrecy.

  “What kind of chili was it?” I ask as I hand Elliot one of Gram’s melt-in-your-mouth pumpkin spice cookies.

  “Don’t know. I was going to ask, but then she threw up, so I just left.” Elliot stops talking and walking to inhale the cookies in two bites. “Anyway, Mr. Barker from the pharmacy and Joe from Winston Farms were there. Joe had a really bad cough. Before I said anything, they both asked if I’d been at the B&B lately and when I said yes, they wanted to know if I’d heard any strange noises.”

  “Like what? The BB is old, and the pipes are always howling,” I say.

  “I know, but that’s not what they meant.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I said the place is always making weird noises. Then Mr. Barker got real close. Close enough so I could smell the peppermint floating around in his mouth. And he said, ‘No, son. I mean strange. Like moaning or floating.’ And then Joe said, ‘Floating doesn’t make noise.’ Mr. Barker nodded and said, ‘Well, I heard it may be the spirit of that poor dead chap …’ Then he sorta trailed off, like he knew he shouldn’t be gossiping with some kid, and cleared his throat and said, ‘Never you mind, just be careful over there.’ ”

  My breath feels spigot fast, so I count slowly in my head but it doesn’t work. I can ignore Elliot’s ghost meter and even Elliot, but it’s hard to ignore Mr. Barker and Joe. I’ve known them since I moved here. Joe’s the one who brings Dad wildflowers every week for the B&B. They wouldn’t just make up stuff.

  Elliot continues. “I got my mom’s medicine and pretended to look at the new Beyond This Life—Ghosts, Zombies and Their Spirits magazine so I could hear more.”

  “What did you find out?”

  “That Joe got his cough from his wife, who got it from her mother. Reggie Hogan’s real mad about something. Reggie’s cousin Mickey owes someone a lot of money, and no one knows where he is. And Mr. Barker can’t wait to go home and eat Mrs. Barker’s famous chicken parm even though it gives him gas.”

  Onyx, the Gordons’ black cat, crosses in front of us from his house across the street.

  I stop walking. “This is not good,” I say to Elliot, pulling my Patriots hat down to block the cold from sneaking in through my ears.

  “It’s just a cat. Actually, a kind of cute cat.”

  “It’s a sign. A bad sign. First Joe and Mr. Barker spread rumors about the B&B and now a black cat crosses our path.”

  Elliot’s chocolate-brown eyes roll upward. The first time he did this I thought he was dying or fainting or about to start foaming at the mouth. Now I know it’s his thinking face. “There’s no empirical evidence to support the idea that black cats cause bad luck.”

  “Not everything can be explained with hard evidence.” I think about Mom’s bad timing, Gram’s love of multi-use hangers, and her amazing chocolate, chocolate cookies.

  “Most things that are true can be either proven or disproven. Unlike superstitions.”

  “Well, there’s no evidence that there’s a ghost at the B&B.”

  “That’s not entirely true. We have the ghost meter reading,” Elliot says.

  “Which isn’t really hard evidence.”

  “Well, it is if you believe the 2007 documentary Ghost Adventures: The Beginning.”

  “Which I don’t.” I blow a big breath out when Onyx makes his way across the street behind Sal’s General Store, then say, “You didn’t tell Mr. Barker or Joe about your ghost meter, did you?”

  “No. But if you don’t think the reading means anything, what does it matter?” His curls hang in front of his eyes.

  “It probably doesn’t, but I don’t want them to go think
ing something about nothing.” There’s a speck of me that hopes I’m wrong. Maybe there is a ghost. And maybe it’s Mom. “For now, let’s keep this just between us. I don’t want to say things that could hurt the B&B or my dad. Not to mention, any chance with the Possibles. I mean who’s going to want to join a family that’s harboring a ghost?”

  “I’m not sure you can actually harbor a ghost. It just kind of gloms on like a slug,” Elliot says.

  Up ahead I see the back of Jessica Blaine’s sweater and her long, stick-straight blond hair. It’s weird how from the back she looks harmless holding her little sister’s hand, even nice. But as she walks past Ms. Annie Devlin, our former kindergarten teacher and Mom’s best friend, that image disappears like the sandy beach at high tide.

  “I hate parrots,” Jessica spews at Annie, who’s wearing her dangling parrot earrings.

  Annie simply says, “Good morning, Jessica.” Annie’s been the kindergarten teacher at Dennisville Elementary for a long time. She grew up here, like Mom, and knows everyone. Gram says people stick to this place.

  Jessica stops and stares at Annie. “It’s Jess,” she says, like she ate venom for breakfast, then moves along down the path to the middle school. No good morning, no hello, no nothing to the person who trusted us to babysit Herman, the kindergarten pet hamster, when we hadn’t even mastered tying our own sneakers.

  Annie doesn’t flinch. Her eyes continue to smile as she turns toward Elliot and me. Her long black hair is tied back with a cheetah-print scarf, her parrot earrings are part of a jungle jeweled theme, complete with zebra styled bangles swimming up her wrists. “Good morning, Elliot. Good morning, Frankie.”

  “Hi there,” Elliot replies.

  “Morning,” I say.

  She digs into the front right pocket of her rainbow-striped dress and hands me a small key. I tell her this gold key goes to a brick hideout where the boy named Fitzgerald camps with his pet mouse named Fly. They hide there when they’re not fighting Marco, the evil ruler, in the parallel universe of Lazos.

  Annie laughs. This is the game she and Mom used to play. Find an item, tell a story. Our story started years ago with a plastic mouse she gave me when Mom died. I named him Fly, gave him a friend named Fitzgerald, and a sort-of-superhero to-do list. Find the chosen one, unleash the powers of the Greek gods, and defeat the bad guys.

  “I love this key.” I slip it into the front of my backpack. “It’s perfect. Thanks.”

  Elliot and I make our way through the crowded halls to our lockers. Everything in sixth grade is alphabetical, so Elliot and I are always next to each other—Greene and Greer. My locker’s decorated with drawings of dragonflies; his is stuffed with all different kinds of beef jerky: BBQ, black pepper, hickory smoked, habanero, garlic, and teriyaki. I never knew something that gross could have so many flavors. We grab our notebooks and head to class with Mr. Bearson. He’s stroking his long beard and standing at the front of the room when we walk in.

  Once everyone is standstill quiet, he waves Jessica-call-me-Jess to the front of the room.

  “As you all know by now, my family’s running the Winter Family Festival Parade again this year.” Pause. Smile. I’m surprised when I don’t see her doing the parade float wave. “We need everyone, kids and parents, to sign up to help.”

  That’s when I stop listening, wave or no wave. I already know Dad’s answer: “I wish I could help, Francine, but I can’t. I need to run the B&B. It’s so busy this time of year. But Gram can fill in.”

  I love Gram, but my eighty-year-old, gin-playing, fold-up-chair-toting grandmother isn’t going to be nailing, painting, and building our class float. Every year it’s the same thing. We bake and everyone else builds. Just another reason Operation Mom has to work.

  “Thank you, Jessica,” Mr. Bearson says. I wait for her to correct him, but she doesn’t. He scratches his beard. “This year we’re going to do the parade a little differently.”

  Now I’m interested.

  Jessica-call-me-Jess’s head whips around like a possessed demon’s.

  “Our class will be running a float-theme contest. Everyone will brainstorm themes for the float. Whoever comes up with the most creative and clever idea, wins.”

  Hands shoot in the air rapid-fire.

  Mr. Bearson runs his fingers across his Snoopy tie.

  “What do you win?” Shanti asks, her hand waving like a flag on the Fourth of July.

  “The winner’s family gets to ride on the float with the class the day of the parade.”

  Jessica-call-me-Jess deflates like a popped balloon. Since her mom’s been running the float, her family’s been at the helm each year. Her hand jets into the air. “That’s not really fair,” she says.

  “It’s good to shake things up a bit. Besides, it’s a wonderful way for everyone in our class to be involved in the festival.”

  Her hand stays in the air, but her mouth stops moving.

  I flip and twirl the key Annie gave me between my fingers, thinking about the possibility of riding on the class float as a family.

  Dad, Gram, me.

  And maybe a new mom.

  When I walk into the B&B, Gram’s holding the lime-green tea kettle and standing behind the small wooden roll-top desk. I’m grateful for that desk—it hides the dents in the floor of our reception area where I may have dropped that green tea kettle. More than once.

  “How’s my favorite granddaughter?” She puts down the kettle, navigates her four foot ten inch body around the welcome center, and goes in for the hug.

  “I’m your only granddaughter.” I toss my bag on the floor and grab a cookie from the platter.

  “And my favorite,” she insists as she releases me from her hug that would suggest it’s been more than twelve hours since I’ve seen her last. Which it hasn’t.

  She picks up a brown box of not-sure-what she’s bought online and nods toward the paper in my hand. “What’s that?”

  Dang. I forgot about the parent sign-up sheet. I’d meant to put it away. Or throw it away. Or shred it into a million pieces. “Oh, um, nothing.” I toss it into the garbage.

  She reaches into the trash and eyes the paper. “I can do this.”

  “No thanks, Gram.”

  “Do what?” Dad asks as he walks in, refills the vase with fresh wildflowers, and immediately digs through the repair binder in the top drawer of the welcome desk.

  “Help out with the Winter Family Festival Parade,” she says.

  Dad looks up. “Oh.” Followed by a very loud but familiar silence. This is the part where I wish he’d say, “I’ll do it. When’s the next meeting?” But he doesn’t. He doesn’t say anything. Then, after an awkwardly long time of nothingness during which Lucy pees on the floor, Dad says, “I’d love to help, but I’m not sure I can swing it right now. I’ve already promised the guys at Harry’s Hardware I’d volunteer at their annual tool-a-thon, and I told Annie that I’d fix her roof before the snow and ice get here. I’m really sorry, Francine.”

  Dad’s the only one who calls me Francine. Well, he says Mom did, too. But who remembers forever ago?

  I nod. I know he would if he could but he can’t, so that’s it. I get it. My watch beeps. It’s my reminder—thirty minutes until Georgia shows up, and I still have no list of questions for the Possibles, which means I have no scoring system and absolutely no way of knowing if she is the right one. I stuff my Dad disappointment into that spot behind my big toe. Figure it’s the best place to hide it since my brain is busy, my heart is full, and my back pocket is filled with gum wrappers. I pop on a smile. “I get it, Dad. No worries.” He gives me a thank-you look. “So what needs fixing now?” I ask.

  “The Wi-Fi in Connect 4 isn’t working. Again.”

  “Try connecting it.” I laugh.

  Dad laughs, too, then grabs his tool box and heads upstairs.

  Gram gives me a suspicious glance.

  “What?” I ask in my I’m-not-hiding-anything voice.

  “You tell
me, Smart Cookie,” she says. Gram first called me this after I accidentally dyed all the B&B sheets and towels purple. Well, it was a purposeful experiment involving red and blue food coloring, but an accidental outcome. She loved the lavender flair. Said it gave the B&B a warm, homey feel. Sadly, Dad didn’t agree. He spent the next week bleaching away the flair.

  “There’s nothing to tell.” Then I smile and purposefully dive in and eat the last cookie. The Browns are due here soon. That gives Gram one hour and fifteen minutes to refill the plate. It’s Gram’s cookie day.

  “Frankie May Greene, I hope you’re not getting yourself into a pickle.”

  “No pickle here, Gram. I promise.” I lean over, kiss her cheek, and grab my bag. I don’t have long to clear the welcome area of everyone related to me.

  I take the stairs two at a time to my room and dump my bag on my bed. Then I grab my count-down-to-the-parade calendar from the back of my closet. It’s tucked behind a valentine from Mateo Fernández from fifth grade, an emergency bag of Nacho Cheese Doritos, and a gold star charm that was Mom’s. I slide onto my closet floor, shut the door, grab my butterfly book and my green-white-and-blue-striped flashlight.

  Dear Mom,

  Elliot says I should have a scoring system for the Possibles. Don’t be mad. I think it’s a good plan. Here goes.

  Love you,

  Francine

  My list of potential mom questions:

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

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

  Do you want to live in Dennisville, Vermont?

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

  Can you bake? (Figure I might as well see if we can add her into the cookie rotation just in case a gin tournament and pre-algebra test happen on the same day.)

  Do you know how to draw a unicorn horn?

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

  Do you like the rain?

  Are you afraid of lightning?

  What’s your favorite game?

  Do you like puzzles?

  Are you free the day of the Winter Family Festival Parade?