Cookie monsters, p.14
Cookie Monsters, page 14
“With our new sales team, there’s a chance you just might beat Piper at Friday’s cookie tally,” Lyric hypes, running her fingernails over the shamrock, sea-foam, and parakeet greens. “And I couldn’t be prouder of our girl.”
“And there’s no way Piper overcomes losing the star players on her sales team,” Stella Rose says, showing me her laptop while I wait my turn. “Your YouTube page is blazing hot. And the vid on your IG has over five hundred views. It’s been shared a gazillion times.”
I pause the pampering and check my Insta, and I’m shocked to see that people are actually liking and commenting. They even left more than a dozen @WeAreGirlPower mentions.
“Is this even real?” I gawk at the computer screen.
“As real as it gets,” Lyric says, taking the laptop from Stella Rose. “And it’s only a matter of time before Girl Power notices. Then they’ll just have to respond!”
“And I’m getting all of this for my documentary,” Stella Rose says, now balancing her camera in her arms.
“For your what?!” I low-key freak out, surprised by this new info.
“If you can do it, then maybe I can, too.”
I wink at her and smile.
“This is going to be the big comeback we need,” Stella Rose explains. “Then, in two weeks, the story will be complete. Just think about it. The rise and fall and then the rise again of the Santa Monica cookie queen.”
“It does have a glorious ring to it,” Lyric says, scooting into the chair on the other side of me with a pistachio-green color in her hand. “I love this one.”
Stella Rose grabs a bottle from the bar and holds it next to her orange-and-black-checkered biker shorts. “I’m in a marmalade kind of mood today.”
Lyric holds the pistachio bottle up to the chandelier. Then she announces into the air, “B, let’s just call it. You’re totally going to win the week three Cookie Countdown!”
I settle into my seat and turn on the back massage as Ms. Nicky cuts my big toenail. I raise my tall, curvy glass in a toast, secretly unsure of how this whole thing is going to pan out. But I don’t dare let my girls know.
“To our cookie monster,” Lyric says, like one of those announcers at a boxing match. “The soon-to-be-undefeated champion of the Valentine Middle cookie race.”
I slurp my smoothie until my head is buzzy.
“Girls, you know what would’ve gone really good with those smoothies?” Ms. Nicky stops fiddling with my foot and looks at each of us. We’re all hanging on her last word, waiting for her to tell us, until…
Then I finally blurt out, “Cookies!”
“Yes, and I’m sure my customers would love some, too.”
Lyric nudges me from her chair and scratches at her throat. “Ask her,” she whisper-orders.
“Ms. Nicky, would you, uh, be interested in buying some cookies from me?”
“Why, Brooklyn Ace, I’m so glad you asked. As a matter of fact, I would.”
“And I bet the car wash would, too,” Stella Rose says.
“And the bowling alley would probably go nuts for some. And even the—”
“Businesses! Duh!” I scream, pounding my palm against my forehead. “How did I miss that?”
Lyric wriggles her finger in the air. “And we have a few new heavy hitters on our team who’d be perfect for this assignment.”
I shake my head. “We almost overlooked an entire market.”
“Don’t forget about the barbershops and the furniture stores, too,” Ms. Nicky says, smiling proudly at us.
My thoughts race down every block in town. “You know that shop that sells hot tubs on Main Street? The guy who works there always looks hungry.”
“But what if Piper Parker already hit up all of these shops?” Stella Rose’s eyes narrow.
“But what if she didn’t?” I say right back, determined to expand my sales territory.
I sit back and ponder the new strategy. Before I know it, my eyes are closed and I’m daydreaming about all the cookies I’m going to sell. Then my thoughts drift to seeing the look on Piper Parker’s face when I pummel her with my new numbers at Friday’s tally.
Lyric and Stella Rose slurp down the last of their smoothies. Then we all sigh into bliss.
“That was a rush. I wish I could feel this way every day,” Stella Rose says a few minutes later. She looks through the picture window that frames Second Avenue, squirming around in her chair.
“And why can’t you feel good every day?” Ms. Nicky asks her, applying the coconut-colored polish to my toes.
“It’s just that I finally have a prizeworthy story of B’s cookie comeback and it’s going to be purrr-fect. But I still have to do my part, and that’s where I get stuck. I’m still missing the first piece of the puzzle: my intro. And there’s this looming deadline that I have to meet if I’m going to—”
Lyric takes out her phone and shoves it under Stella Rose’s nose for her to see. “We can both be brave together.”
“What’s that?” I ask, fidgeting in my chair, trying to get a glimpse.
Lyric says over her shoulder, “It’s personal, so it can’t leave this room.”
“Ms. Nicky’s is a safe space, girls,” Ms. Nicky affirms, looking up from my tootsies. “You can always be sure of that.”
Lyric whisper-explains, “It’s a letter to my mom. I started it, but I can’t seem to finish it.”
“What does it say?” I ask.
“I started telling her how I feel, you know, that I need her just as much as she needs her career.”
“Wow,” Stella Rose and I say together, our tongues wagging, waiting to hear more.
“You actually started putting words on the page,” Stella Rose says, her eyes saucering.
“Yeah, in Reynolds’s class today. B said her therapist insists that releasing your feelings is one of the best ways to wellness. And I know I haven’t been taking the best care of my relationship with my mom lately. Our dynamic is actually kind of, well, the opposite of well.”
“I’m so proud of you,” I gush over my girl. “A month ago, you wouldn’t have even considered opening up to us about your feelings, and now you’re being all brave and courageous and sharing them with your mom.”
“And that’s the start of a real letter,” Stella Rose says, gawking at the tiny screen. “It’s not a text with a bunch of hearts and prayer emojis.”
In that moment, I don’t think I’ve ever been prouder of Lyric Darby, not when she won first place performing Beyoncé’s “Run the World” at the winter festival or even when she beat out all the boys to play Simba in The Lion King—which was downright epic!
“The words will come to you,” I say, offering her a bit of encouragement. I know more than anyone how hard it can be to express yourself when you’re hurting. Losing Mom has been the worst thing to ever happen to me, but if I’m being honest, writing to her has helped me declutter my brain so I can start learning how to understand all my jumbled feelings, especially the guilt and confusion.
Lyric glimpses the letter one last time before closing her email. “Brooklyn is my inspo, and I’m putting in the work just like her.”
Stella Rose scoots to the edge of her pedicure chair. “So, I guess your point is that I should try to put in the work, too, and record the big intro to my video?”
Lyric presses her phone to her chest. “You got it, sister.”
Since my toes are wet, I point to my backpack and Stella Rose hops up from her chair to grab it for me. When she brings it over, I dig around inside until I find what I’m looking for.
“This is for you,” I say, handing her the red notebook from Dr. Simone. “It’s really helped me out a lot. I just write down my thoughts and my feelings, and it makes me feel lighter somehow.”
She takes the notebook and stares at it. “You’re giving me your sacred notebook?”
“That’s what friends do. And it’s really been a lifesaver for me. Besides, you need it more than I do now. Write down your intro; that should really help, especially since your documentary deadline is around the corner.” I take a long sip of my smoothie and grab my forehead from the brain freeze takeover. I squint my eyes and suck in air until it eases. Then I look up at Stella Rose, who is still in shock. “As long as you promise to use it.”
She holds out her pinky and I hold up mine. Then we twist them together in the air.
“Write out your script, and if you start to feel nervous or have racing thoughts or feel like a big truck just parked on your chest, go ahead and write all that stuff down, too.”
“I never would’ve thought to do this,” she says, gripping the notebook.
“Me neither, to tell you the truth. But I think Dr. Simone gets me.” I grin at Lyric. “And she’s kind of good at her job, too.”
“And so are you,” Lyric says, winking at me.
I wriggle my freshly painted coconut toes in the air. “What’s my job?”
Lyric opens the email on her phone and continues writing. After a few seconds, she looks up and smiles while Stella Rose nods and says, “Being a really good friend.”
NINETEEN
Today was the longest Tuesday in the history of Tuesdays. I’d been waiting all day for the final bell to ring at school. I was geeked because Betty Jean arranged to have the afternoon off so we can hit the Santa Monica streets and score some cookie sales with the local businesses around town. After I emailed a few places yesterday, I heard back from the car wash and the bowling alley. They both said I could come in and present my cookie case. Of course, Betty Jean’s assistant gave me a block of time as well. She was the first to respond to my email, which didn’t surprise me, as I’m sure Betty Jean had a little something to do with the quick reply. It’s nice to have folks in high places.
“Brookie, meet me in the car,” Betty Jean says as I slip into my red Converses and check myself out in the mirror. Dad brought my uniform home from the cleaners last night for my big sales day. I hung it on the back of my door instead of in my closet because I hate that fresh-from-the-cleaners chemical smell that all my clothes end up having. I’m willing to look past that today. I grab my sash and bolt out the front door, hoping the stench will air out by the time we get to the big businesspeople in charge.
“Where’s the rest of your sales team?” Betty Jean asks as I hop over the side of the door and slide into the white leather seat. I fasten my seat belt as Lyric walks up to the car by herself, holding a piping-hot cup of Starbucks.
“Well. Let’s see,” I say, counting on my fingers. “Stella Rose has to babysit Ollie and work on her project for the doc competition. And Lucy had to go to an emergency tutoring sesh for math.” I open the door for Lyric, and she hops into the back seat.
“Hey, B.” Lyric greets us with a quick air-kiss. “Hey, Betty Jean.”
“Hi, rock star,” Betty Jean says, blowing an air-kiss back at her.
“I was just explaining Lucy’s life dilemma to Betty Jean.”
“Oh yeah, she’s in deep. Her parentals are one step away from sentencing her to a lifetime on punishment!”
I twirl my finger around. “The way they see it, she can’t exactly get into med school if she’s failing math.”
“Sounds harsh,” Betty Jean says, pulling out of the driveway.
“It is,” Lyric agrees, sipping from her venti cup. “She’s got her heart set on going to fashion school in New York City with us, Betty Jean. The plan is for me and B to be at Juilliard together and Stella Rose in film school at NYU and Lucy at FIT for fashion. See, we’ve got it all figured out.”
Betty Jean crinkles her nose and wriggles it from side to side like one of those genies in a bottle. “I’ll send some good juju her way.”
“Family expectations can be a beast,” Lyric gripes, staring into the distance. “But at least her mom is there.” I reach into the back seat and touch Lyric’s knee, dying to know the status of the letter to her mom. It can wait, I think, as I catch her losing herself in her own thoughts.
We ride in silence, letting the fresh air blow through our hair as we approach Pico Boulevard. My long braids flop around and Lyric’s blond ’fro dances in the wind.
“You ready for this, B?” Lyric asks, massaging my neck as we approach the first business on the list, BIG BOB’S BOWLING LANES.
“I guess so,” I answer. “But how hard can it be? Mom always made it look so easy. Just walk in, flash an adorable smile, and everyone in the place will come running.”
“That’s not at all how it works, Brookie.” Betty Jean glances over at me as she pulls into the bowling alley parking lot. “You know, I’ve been thinking that it’s a good time for Betty Jean’s Cookie Boot Camp. We can practice pitching and setting sales goals—plus a few other strategies that could really help pull this whole thing together.”
“Boot camp?” I shrug and grimace. “That sounds painful, Betty Jean. And unnecessary. Mom never made me attend boot camp.” I put on my sunnies and sit back in my seat. “I got this.”
Betty Jean’s eyes widen as she grips the steering wheel. “Well, tell me this: What’s your big ask? What’s your winning sales pitch?”
“My pitch? Why do I need a pitch? It’s not rocket science. Mom would always just say a few words and then everyone would gab about how cute they thought it was—how cute they thought I was. Then they’d make small talk with Mom for a bit, and before I knew it—voilà!—money was exchanged.” I blow a kiss in the air. “I remember it being simple. Straightforward. Easy-peasy.”
Betty Jean turns on her blinkers and scowls. It’s the look she always wears whenever she’s in doubt. “Are you sure you don’t want to work on a pitch before we go in? Just a quick dry run?”
I check out my crisp scout uniform and smooth the edges of my hair. I pull down the visor and study myself in the mirror. I was a smash hit last year, and nothing’s changed since then. Still the same sun-kissed brown skin. Same chin dimple that winks whenever I chew bubble gum. And still the same round, dark brown eyes with the thick, overlapping lashes. I shrug at Betty Jean. I don’t get what the big deal is or why Betty Jean is making this such a thing.
“Well, the way I have it worked out in my head,” I say to her, tapping my temple with my fingertip, “my big goal is five thousand boxes. With businesses, I should be able to cover at least three thousand boxes. So far, I have ten businesses lined up, which means I’ll need each business to buy at least three hundred boxes.”
“Whoa!” Lyric says, swallowing hard. “Do that many people even bowl?”
“I know, I know… it’s a lot. But I’m already so far behind.” I shrug. “The good thing is that the manager emailed me saying the bowling alley is having one of its annual tournaments. I’m just hoping they’re hungry.”
“We talked about setting realistic, quantifiable goals, Brookie. Now, I know you can measure your goal, so it’s definitely quantifiable, but do you think three hundred boxes is realistic?”
I plaster a smile across my face and point to it. “It can’t be that difficult. See how cute I am?”
“She’s definitely cute, Betty Jean,” Lyric cosigns.
“It’s ambitious, Brookie,” Betty Jean says, exhaling deeply. She digs her fingernail into the steering wheel. Then she shifts gears. “But then again, setting high goals can be a motivating part of the sales process. You shoot for the moon, but even if you miss, you’ll land among the stars.” She parks the car perfectly. “And you, my little Brookie, are a star.”
“You can say that again!” Lyric chimes.
“And you would know a thing or two about that,” Betty Jean says back to Lyric.
“Thanks, Betty Jean.” Lyric blushes. “I do what I can.”
I slide out of the car and wring my damp hands down the side of my uniform. Betty Jean and Lyric wait for me as I take a few long, deep breaths.
“You got this, B.”
“Thanks, Lyric. Just trying to get my head in the game.”
I stare at the big wooden double doors and realize that I’m feeling a little parched. I try to shake it off, telling myself that it’s all in my head. When I walk into the bowling alley, I see that the manager was right; the place is packed. I swallow hard when, one by one, the bowlers stop what they’re doing and turn to me—and stare. I feel their eyeballs checking me out. So, I do the only thing I can think to do and smile through the bundle of nerves that have set up shop in my belly.
“Seriously, B.” Lyric grabs my hand. “You got this. This is your world. Remember, you were made to make sales.”
“Now, what should we do next?” Betty Jean quizzes me as she checks out the scene.
I feel my stomach flip around from side to side. “Ask for the manager?” My insides are suddenly queasy, and I feel like I need to vomit, right there in the entryway next to the restrooms. I suck it up and walk up to the hipster in the shoe booth anyway.
“Hey, I’m Beckett,” he says, pushing his retro eyeglasses up his nose. An older man with a denim vest nods at us while Beckett changes out a pair of cowboy boots for cool-looking bowling shoes. “I’ve been expecting you.” He hands the hard brown shoes to denim-vest guy and then offers me his full attention. “The manager gave me a heads-up that you’d be stopping by. You think you might want to make your big announcement over the speaker?”
“My announcement?” My mouth has become abnormally dry. I smack my lips a few times to help, but there’s no use: I’m now completely parched. I look around for water. Where’s the water?!
“Yeah. Aren’t you the Valentine Middle scout selling those cookies?”
Everything is happening so fast. “Duh. Uh—yeah. Of course I am,” I stammer, trying to sound prepared and in control. But I’m not—not at all. I didn’t expect to present to the entire bowling alley filled with strangers who are solely focused on knocking down vulnerable pins with heavyweight balls. An older woman who could play a grandma in one of those hearing aid commercials crashes her bowling ball into a triangle of pins. She gets a strike and wickedly screams, “Gotcha, suckas!”
“You picked a good day,” Beckett says, completely unaware that the grandma is over there trying to knock the pins unconscious. “There’s a waiting list for the lanes. This Santa Monica Seniors Tournament is one of the biggest tourneys of the year.”
