Smart Cookie Page 8
“No guests are in it now, and none were in it when I put my things in there. It’s been empty for months. I checked,” Gram says.
“The guests will come and the room will need to be ready. I need you to clean it out. Or I can empty it for you.”
Dad!
Gram’s voice slices the air. “You can’t throw out my stuff. You have no right. If Meg was here, she wouldn’t let you do this. She wouldn’t.”
At the sound of Mom’s name, a big lump wedges into the back of my throat.
I guess Dad feels the same way.
The only thing I hear now is the sound of his boots walking out the front door.
I dress quickly and knock on Gram’s door before I head to school. I have time. It’s a late-start day. Some kind of teacher workshop.
I hear footsteps, then the click-clack of her unlocking the door. “Good morning,” she says as she lets me in her room. A unique privilege. I’m the only one allowed in here. Not alone. But with Gram. She douses her hair with Take Hold—a hairspray created for those living in a wind tunnel or a cyclone.
“I have a plan,” I say. “I was trying to make a list of ways to help you, but since that turned into a picture of a bunny, I thought I’d just tell you.”
She smiles and gently pushes the hair out of my eyes. “Help me with what?” She stands, looks in the mirror, and puts on the earrings that were Mom’s. Silver with a spot of turquoise. She says they’re mine when she dies. I told her to stay alive and keep the earrings.
“You know, that thing with Dad. I thought I could, um, help you clean up.” I point to her couch and floor and bed, which look more like piles of stuff than furniture. The couch is flooded with stacks of receipts and papers and unopened mail. The bed overflows with heaps of clothes—some clean, some not. I have no idea how she tells the difference. And, the floor’s covered with stacks of newspapers. When I was little, I thought she was journalist.
Gram looks around. “I was just about to put my things away.”
I stare at my grandmother, then at the piles.
“Honestly, Frankie, don’t you worry about your dad and me. We’re fine.”
“Didn’t sound fine last night.”
She sits next to me and grabs my hand. Her skin’s soft like butter. “Honest, your dad’s just a bit of a stickler. And, well, I’m not. But, there’s nothing to fret about. I promise.” She stands and grabs a brush from the pile on her vanity.
I sigh and edge over to her bedside table to read the framed letter that lives there.
Dear Meg,
I know that you and Brad are moving to Boston tomorrow.
No matter the miles or space between us, I will always be with you. And you, with me. Tucked in that place in my heart that remains yours forever.
I love you, sweet girl.
xoxo
Mom
When Mom died, Dad gave the letter to Gram. He said Mom had always kept it by her bed. So now that’s where Gram keeps it.
Next to the note sitting on a stack of books on the nightstand is a photograph of Mom. “Where was this taken?” I don’t remember ever seeing it before.
Gram hands me the photo, rolls on her coral lipstick, rubs her lips together, blots with a tissue, and then puckers. She doesn’t look tired today. “Found it yesterday. Isn’t it lovely?”
It really is. Mom looks like a princess in her long, flowing yellow dress with her hair braided down her back.
“That was taken at her thirtieth birthday celebration. She always loved chocolate cake with chocolate icing.”
“I bet if I help you put some stuff away, we’ll find even more pictures of Mom. Like a treasure hunt.”
“Thanks, Frankie. But, I’m all set. I plan to straighten up a bit in here, I moved my things out of the hallway, and other than that, everything else is exactly where it needs to be.”
“Was Mom neat?”
She laughs. “Yes. My stuff drove her crazy, too.”
I laugh.
“I love you, Gram.”
“Love you, too, Frankie.”
Then I give her a double-fisted-like-I-mean-it hug.
I head downstairs for breakfast. Dad’s waiting with blueberry pancakes.
“I’m sorry about last night,” he says, sliding a plate in my direction. “I knocked on your door when I was done fixing the water leak in the kitchen, but you were already sleeping.”
I pour the best-maple-syrup-ever all over my pancakes. The steam rises as I cut into them.
“Everything’s fine, Francine.”
Why do grown-ups always say that? No kid really believes them.
I shove a forkful of hot pancake into my mouth. “Then why does it matter so much?”
“What?”
“Gram’s stuff? I mean why do you care?”
“I promised Mom that I’d take care of you and Gram. I can’t do that if they shut us down because of a fire hazard.”
“But that doesn’t mean you have to throw her things in the garbage.”
“Francine, it’s junk.”
I shake my head. “You’re wrong. I was in her room, and she has this picture of Mom she just found. If you’d tossed out her overflow, then we wouldn’t have that photo.”
His face melts. “Which one is it?”
“She’s in a long yellow dress.”
He smiles. “Her thirtieth. She looked beautiful.”
Pancake sticks in my throat. I stop talking about Mom and Gram. It doesn’t go down well with breakfast.
Dad disappears to fix the tub in the Chess Room. Hot is cold and cold is cold. So basically, no hot water. I open the cupboard and decide to make one of Dad’s and Gram’s favorites—my potato pancakes. I grate potatoes, dice onions, and then blend them together with some eggs. The loud whir of the blender is somehow relaxing. I fill a large bowl with the batter then cover the top with matzah meal. Gram showed me this trick. No measuring needed. I pop in my headphones, open the playlist I made when I wasn’t sleeping last night, and spend the next hour frying potato pancakes. When they’re done and cooling, I put them on a large plate in the middle of the island next to a note.
Love you both! Noseless smiley face.
After school, I text Dad that I’m going to visit Gram at the senior center. She said she was playing cards with Mabel, but I wonder if Mr. Caldwell will be there, too. She doesn’t wear lipstick for Mabel.
I know I should be doing something about the English project, especially since Jessica was out today, but my brain can’t share space with Shakespeare right now. I keep thinking about Operation Mom, Gram’s stuff, and what else of Mom’s might be tucked under all Gram’s piles.
Don’t feel like walking, so I take my bike. It’s orange and black and was my Hanukkah present last year—all eight days’ worth in one slightly used ten-speed. I ride down Main Street. The smell of coffee and bacon seeps out from Mel’s Breakfast-All-Day Diner, flooding the air as I pass Mr. Coleman, who’s sitting on a bench holding hands with Mrs. Coleman. I wave and weave around the bend, head left at the pond, and pass Stone Family Antiques, where Dad got that lamp that looks like a giant frog’s head. I turn at the edge of the Reillys’ yard. Pedal fast but not fast enough to avoid the squawk of his backyard chickens.
Then, up ahead, I see a familiar blond braid sticking out the back of a bright yellow helmet. What’s she doing here? She’s supposed to be sick. She’s supposed to be home. She’s supposed to be anywhere else.
At that moment, Jessica turns around. I stop pedaling, stare at the ground, and try to blend in with the brood of hens that have come over to peck at my tires. When she spins back around and takes a right at the corner, I begin pedaling again. My breath comes out as white puffs in the cold air. Mills is just up the hill. I reach the parking lot but don’t turn in, don’t slow down. I keep pedaling. I tilt my head just enough to see her bike climb Lantern Lane. I follow. Don’t know why it even matters. Why do I care what she’s doing? But I can’t shake the feeling that something is very wrong.
Then Jessica heads west on Dudley Lane toward Vine Street. We never went this way. The cold feels sharp against my cheeks.
Jessica slows down in front of a ranch house ahead and stops behind a thick row of bushes, hidden from the front door. The house has black shutters, red brick, and a freshly mowed lawn. Why would she ride all the way out here just to hide? I tuck my body and my bike out of sight. There’s a baby boy in a stroller next to a woman sitting on the front steps. Then I see what Jessica sees. A prickly feeling crawls down my neck and snatches my breath. The man who made the best piled-high burgers in the whole world is holding a book, standing just off to the side.
With his new family.
Jessica doesn’t move.
My heart twists and aches for her. How is her dad here, just a few miles away? And how does he have a whole new family? Gram told me that she heard he lived in Florida.
Out of nowhere, my phone rings. Loudly. It startles me. As I fumble to find it and tell it to shut up, my bike falls over and the chocolate lab across the street starts barking.
I don’t look up.
I can’t.
Head down, I hop on my bike and bolt back down the dirt path past the dairy farm, toward Mills.
Did she see me? My chest heaves with what-ifs and worries. A murder of crows follows me down the gravel and around the cows. Not sure whether to be grateful for the company or scared I’m in one of those movies that doesn’t end well for the friend.
What if she catches up to me? What’ll I say? “Oh hi, Jessica! I was in a neighborhood that’s nowhere near anywhere I’d normally go and just happened to see you hiding behind the bushes, staring at your dad who’s hanging out with his new family”?
I turn the corner, glance back, and see nothing. The crows go east as I turn into the senior center parking lot. I exhale, relieved that I don’t have to say anything at all. I slide off my bike and see a woman flossing her teeth in her parked car. Can’t deal with dental hygiene right now, so I hurry to put down my kickstand and check my phone. No screaming messages from Jessica. Maybe she didn’t see me. A sense of relief washes over me as I head into Mills.
Gram has news. “I beat Mabel just for you, Frankie.”
“You have to tell me your secret. Seriously, I have no idea how you do that.”
Gram smiles, showing off her lipstick. “I have no secrets.”
“Really? Then what’s up with the lipstick? And the perfume?”
She says, “Grab the deck.”
I look around the room and see Mr. Caldwell playing hearts with Mrs. Rudabaker at the back table. Not sure, but I think he may have just winked at Gram. She looks pretty today. She’s wearing the super-soft green sweater we gave her for her birthday last year, which always makes her eyes look like kiwi.
I hand Gram the cards. “So what’s going on with you and Mr. Caldwell?” He’s still grinning at her.
She smiles, splits the deck, and says, “He writes the op-ed.”
“What else?” I ask as I shuffle the cards.
She ignores me and deals us each six. Then she dives into the rules for a new game called continental while barely taking a breath. I know this means I’m not getting any more information about Mr. Caldwell. Continental is like gin, but with seven rounds and more variations. I lose the first two rounds but win on the third and earn bonus points. While she deals the cards for round four, she says, “I know.”
I freeze a little bit.
“I know what you did.”
Unfortunately, this isn’t helping me thaw. My mind catalogs all the secrets I’ve been keeping. Operation Mom. Operation Ghost. Operation Follow Jessica. Which could she possibly know about? I take the queen of hearts, hoping to distract her.
She puts her cards on the table. Facedown, so I know she doesn’t have the two sets and one run she needs to win. Which is a good thing since I only have a pair of queens. “Frankie, I know you spoke to your dad about me.”
I lay my cards down across from hers.
“You don’t have to worry. First, I’m fine. Dad’s fine. We’re fine. This is a hiccup. Second, I don’t need defending. I promise. I’m stronger than I look.”
I know she’s right. Despite being four foot ten, she’s always been fierce. One time Mabel told me that Gram took on the school board because they refused to allow kids to read Are You There, God? It’s Me, Margaret. and Blubber by Judy Blume. The following year, both were in the Dennisville School Library.
“But Dad had no right to say what he did. Besides, I wanted him to know about the picture.”
“What picture?”
“The one you found of Mom.”
A tear sneaks down her cheek and lands right on top of the queen of hearts.
On Monday, I tell Elliot to walk to school without me. I promise to meet him at our lockers with breakfast. Dad got another message, and “he” needs to respond.
Love hiking, sleeping late, unicorns, and puzzles. I also really like beagles and am excited to meet a hedgehog. How fun! Would love to make time to connect with you. Are you free next week? My mom and I could come by for coffee. She loves B&Bs, too.
This is not a bring-your-mom offer. I send a polite no-thanks, move her name to the list of Impossibles and head out to school alone. The wind blows my hair so its usual wildness transforms into full-on Medusa by the time I get to Annie.
“Good morning, Frankie. Not used to seeing you alone,” she says, a five-year-old with no front teeth glued to her side. “Where’s your partner in crime?”
Given the upcoming break-in, she has no idea how close to reality she actually is.
“I decided to go it alone today.”
She cocks her head to the side like she’s decoding what’s behind my solo mission. Then she swallows me in one of her big hugs. I feel like I could stay tucked in her arms for a while, but Toothless gives me an I-need-my-teacher-back look and I let go.
Annie hands me a stone. It’s cream colored and smooth and shaped like an egg.
I roll the stone between my palms. “It’s a wishing stone that Larz, a boy from Lazos, gave to Fly and Fitzgerald on their last visit. Legend says the stone has magical powers, but it can only be used to grant one wish.”
I squeeze the rock, shut my eyes tight, and wish for things between Gram and Dad to be okay. They both said everything’s fine, but the tingling feeling behind my big toes says something else. I think about asking to find a mom and not find a ghost. But if I really only get one wish, I need to fix the people who are actually in my life. I stuff the rock in my backpack and walk into school.
When I get to my locker, I hand Elliot one potato pancake and two cinnamon oatmeal cookies. He finishes them before he even closes his locker and then hands me a diagram. “This is the inside of the building where Reggie works. His packages are usually delivered around four p.m. So the plan is we arrive around four like we’ve got something to deliver.”
“Then what?”
“You go into his office and look for incriminating evidence.”
“Me? Why me? Do I look like spy material to you?” I step back. I’m wearing a red long-sleeve waffle tee, jeans, mismatched socks, and Converse. “What about this says sleuth?”
“I’m going to be the lookout.”
I lean against my locker. “So I’m just going to walk into Reggie’s office and ask him nicely if he knows anything about a ghost, what’s going on at the B&B, or the whereabouts of his cousin Mickey?”
Elliot’s shaking his head. “Reggie’s out of the office all that day.”
I stare at him. “How do you know that?” I pause. “You didn’t bug his phone did you?”
“No,” he says, like that’s clear. “He’s got a meeting about the permitting for some new building he wants to put up around the corner from Sam’s General Store. My dad has to be there, too.”
“So we’re not really breaking in? We’re just walking in?”
“Exactly.”
“And this should make me feel better?”
He nods.
Somehow, it doesn’t.
When we pass the float idea bulletin board, it’s filled with index cards tacked to the board. New England Patriots. Broadway Musicals. The ’60s. Ice Cream. Cartoons. Video Games. Pets. Monopoly. Dr. Seuss. Wedding Bells.
“That last one has to be Sarah’s.” I try not to puke all over my Converse thinking about an all-white float with flowers, a bride, and a groom.
“Mine’s the one to the left. Ghosts, Goblins, and Other Creatures of the Night. I thought the float could be a cemetery with tomb stones.”
“And dead people?”
Elliot smiles. “Zombies.”
I know I need to come up with an idea soon. Mr. Bearson’s already told the class he wants 100 percent participation.
My float thoughts are interrupted by the snap, crackle, and pop of Jessica’s voice. “So you show up at my house and then ignore my calls?”
“I … um … had some stuff going on.”
Like my gram and dad had this argument, and then I was spying.
On you.
And then I was hiding.
From you.
She waits for me to elaborate, but I don’t. Instead I pull my wild mane into a lumpy ponytail.
Elliot chimes in. “Morning.”
“You smell like beef jerky,” Jessica spews.
“Why, thank you, it’s actually teriyaki flavored,” Elliot says.
I try to see the girl I felt badly for, but she’s hidden under a toxic shell.
For the next thirty minutes, we’re paired off to work on our Shakespeare projects.
“You shouldn’t have come by,” she says.