One Smart Cookie Read online

  Cover

  Title Page

  One Smart Cookie

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  Kym Brunner

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  Omnific Publishing

  Los Angeles

  Copyright Information

  One Smart Cookie, Copyright © 2014 by Kym Brunner

  All Rights Reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the publisher.

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  Omnific Publishing

  1901 Avenue of the Stars, 2nd Floor

  Los Angeles, California 90067

  www.omnificpublishing.com

  ...

  First Omnific eBook edition, July 2014

  First Omnific trade paperback edition, July 2014

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  The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

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  Library of Congress Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

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  Brunner, Kym.

  One Smart Cookie / Kym Brunner – 1st ed

  ISBN: 978-1-623421-24-3

  1. First Love—Fiction. 2. Family—Fiction. 3. Young Adult—Romance. 4. Polish—Fiction. I. Title

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  Cover Design by Micha Stone and Amy Brokaw

  Interior Book Design by Coreen Montagna

  Dedication

  To the most important man in my life.

  I was made to love and be loved by You.

  Chapter 1

  WHILE HIDING OUT IN THE BACK ROOM of our family-owned Polish bakery, I spy my mother’s therapist—the June issue of Cosmo—lying on a shelf next to the flour. I flip through it, searching for my favorite feature, the relationship quiz.

  My mother’s voice terminates my bliss. “Sophie! Come here. It’s getting busy now.” Her Polish accent isn’t nearly as thick as my grandma’s, but it’s still undeniable.

  “Be right there!” It can’t be that big of a rush, so I’m staying put until I finish this month’s quiz, which is titled “What’s Your Guy-Q?” Given that I’ve only gone on three dates in my sixteen years—one with a moron, one with a liar, and one with a perv—I’m pretty sure my knowledge of guys will rank somewhere between dumbass and totally clueless.

  Too bad my best friend, Teegan, isn’t here now, because she’s had a smorgasbord of boyfriends. She’d ace this quiz for sure. Luckily, she tells me everything. I concentrate on what she’s confided to me in the past, zipping through the first eleven questions. I can’t believe how easy it is to figure out which answers will give me the highest points. If school were this easy, I’d have straight Bs.

  Five minutes later, Mom’s slacker alarm goes off. “Sophie, let’s go!”

  “One second!” I answer the last question and tally up my points. Hmm…weird. A thirteen. Must be one of those quizzes where a low score is better. I scan the ratings on the bottom and see that a thirteen puts me into Category D: In Desperate Need of Help. Thanks, Cosmo. I know that’s just another way of saying shitty. How can I expect to snag a decent date when my Guy-Q is the pits?

  Guess I shouldn’t be too shocked. “Shitty” pretty much sums up my life, period. We live in a shitty apartment above our Polish bakery; my job is shitty; school is shitty except for off-campus lunch and my friends; my shitty father left when I was a bun in the oven; and the icing on the shit cake is that today is the first day of summer vacation and Cosmo says I won’t be changing my social media profile to In a Relationship anytime soon.

  I fling the magazine back onto the shelf. Screw Cosmo. I’m going to meet the perfect guy this summer, and my Guy-Q will skyrocket to Category A: Professor of Loveology. Maybe even today, who’s to say? This morning at nine thirty—okay, probably more like ten if we’re on Teegan-time—Teegan is going to pick me up in her kinda-old-but-still-gorgeous black convertible. We’re going to cruise to Oak Street Beach, find two boys who are also best friends, and double date all summer. And while I know that the likelihood of that happening is roughly equivalent to my mother randomly handing me fifty bucks, Teegan and I are determined to try. We’ve made double-dating our top priority this summer.

  All we need are a pair of normal guys—one who wants a cute, sarcastic, medium-chested, five-foot-seven-inch blonde with an average body, like me, while his friend is hoping for a petite, stunning, D-cup, perky brunette like Teegan. What’ll undoubtedly happen is that the tanned, gorgeous star of the baseball team with minty breath will fall for Teegan, while I’ll be stuck with his awkward, smelly buddy with Cheetos scum between his teeth.

  What can I expect as a card-carrying member of Category D?

  “Sophie! What are you doing?” Mom snaps from somewhere behind me.

  Without a glance back, I leap off my stool and whip a few cookies onto the display platter in front of me. “I’m loading up these peach kolaczkis, geez!” I fill the tray and bring it to the front, the dutiful daughter.

  After being in the artificially lit, stainless-steel world of the back room, coming into the bakery is like entering Wonderland. Sunlight streams into our two front picture windows, filters through the white eyelet curtains, and lights up the eight wooden tables that make up our seating area. Personally, I’d ditch the fake flowers on each table, but Mom refuses. The Polish radio station adds an authentic touch, making it feel homey in here. I smile when I see that all the customers have already been served and are busy eating their breakfasts.

  Taking my sweet time to walk to the front is Customer Avoidance Tactic Number Thirty-Three.

  As I make my way to the display case to my left, my grandmother’s short, stocky body blocks the narrow aisle. She’s bent at the waist, straightening the paper goods. “Excuse me, Busia,” I say sweetly, gently patting her butt, which is held in place by her granny Spanx.

  “One second.” Busia balls up a few loose napkins and stands up, letting me pass.

  “Djienkuje,” I say, “thank you” being one of the probably one hundred Polish phrases I know. I scooch around her and see my auburn-haired mother standing in front of me at the register, counting bills.

  That’s when I freak.

  She must have snuck upstairs to change when I wasn’t looking, because now she’s sporting a pink vinyl skirt, a floral pink-and-green top with a Niagara Falls plunging neckline, and four-inch heels the shade of eggplant. Her fake ruby ring is obnoxiously large. Pillsbury Prostitute all the way. “What are you wearing, Mom? We talked about this last night!”

  “You talked about it. I didn’t agree with you.” She shoves the cash register drawer shut with a clang.

  I had explained to her that, although she was relatively attractive for someone her age, she dressed too provocatively for a bakery owner. And that the only customers who’ll come to see a scantily dressed older woman are a bunch of sickos, old men, and convicted sex offenders. I had hoped that our little talk would have made her change. Literally. Anything frumpy and mother-y would be fine.

  She looks down at her outfit, trying to remedy the puckering of the blouse between her breasts by pulling down on the fabric. It’s obvious to everyone, except to her, I guess, that this shirt is a size too small to accommodate the cantaloupe-sized boobs she sports. She clears her throat. “A successful businessman once told me that the sexier a woman dresses, the more business she’s going to bring in, so I’m going to keep dressing nice.”

  I lift the remaining three peach kolaczkis in the display case and add them to my tray of cookies. “Maybe you should stop taking advice from pimps, Mother.” I slide the old tray out and replace it with the
fully loaded one.

  She tsks. “You see how you talk? That is why you don’t have a boyfriend. Boys don’t like girls who talk mean to their mother.” She loads a stack of Styrofoam cups into the holder.

  I laugh. “How would you know what boys like? You only date gross old men.”

  She shakes her head, frowning at me. “Cheez Whiz, Sophie. I only date older men that have a lot of money so that you can have more things.”

  “It’s so you can have more things,” I correct her.

  She shrugs, smiling sheepishly. “Okay, me too.” She sets a small stack of flat cardboard boxes in front of me. “Put ten or twelve of them together.” She gathers the plastic wrap from the cups and tosses it into the trash. “Since we’re talking about dating, I do have one question. But I need you to tell me the truth. I promise I won’t get mad.”

  I start assembling the first white box, sliding a side panel into the slit on the opposite side. I can tell by her tone that this is a topic about which she’s given some serious thought. I’m curious what part of my life she’s been dwelling on this week. I groan. “Okay, shoot.”

  Busia bustles toward the coffee machine carrying a carafe filled with water. She pours the water into the top, and the stainless steel machine sizzles to life.

  “Well…” Mom starts, biting her bright-red lip, “I only see you with Teegan, so I just want to make sure. You do like boys, yes?”

  “Geez, Mom! Yes, I like boys. I just have horrible luck meeting them, that’s all.”

  “That is because you spend too much time hiding in the back room! You need to laugh and wiggle your hips, sexy-like, when boys come in. Then they’ll notice you.” She sways from side to side dramatically, demonstrating a move that looks as if she’s trying to dislocate her hips.

  I grimace, hoping none of the customers saw that. “A mating dance? Gross.”

  My grandma rushes past us, digging out a crystal rosary from her pocket, and kisses the cross. “O moj Boze.” It’s sweet how Busia consults God whenever the conversation becomes even slightly PG-rated. She grabs her forehead as if she has a headache. “Please no fighting. Bad for business, bad for family.” She picks up several empty trays, handing two of them to me. “Come, help me, Zosia,” she says, calling me by my Polish name.

  I don’t know why she doesn’t just stack all the trays on top of each other, but I’m not complaining. A trip to the back room is a guaranteed three-minute break. I set the trays down on the back counter when Busia hustles up next to me—right next to me.

  She glances over her shoulder conspiratorially and then whispers, “I hear you tell Matka you have bad luck. Not meet nice boy. You want I ask Dola to help?”

  I didn’t think my grandma even thought I was old enough to date. My birthday gift from her this year was a cloth coin purse embroidered with the words “My Sweet Granddaughter” on it with two bucks inside. “Dola? Is that a friend of yours?” I might be eager to have a boyfriend, but not desperate. Getting set up on a blind date by my grandma would be humiliating.

  Her wrinkles crowd together on her forehead as she shakes her head vigorously. “Nie! No, Zosia. Dola is Polish spirit of love. She help to figure out your romance. Come.”

  Oh God. Not that again.

  She waves for me to follow her as she heads toward the supply closet, located in the farthest corner of our back room. When we’re out of sight of the bakery, she leans in and whispers, “Dola can help, but you need to make promise first, okay?” She raises her eyebrows, waiting for my answer.

  “What sort of promise?” As long as I don’t have to agree to marry the next guy that walks through the door or something weird like that, I can play along to make Busia happy.

  She studies me, a worried expression on her face. “You must promise to not fight with Matka.”

  “Good one, Boosh.” I laugh, patting her on the shoulder. For an old lady, she’s quite the kidder. “No really, what is it? No kissing on the first date? No holding hands in public?”

  “I not smiling.” She continues to stare at me, waiting.

  I wriggle inside my skin. Busia does so much for me and never asks for anything in return. I can tell by her expression that she really wants to do this for me. “All right, sure. I can try not arguing with Mom if that’ll make Dola happy. Thanks, Busia!” I start to walk away when she grabs my arm.

  “Nie! No, not try, do. If you fight with Matka, Dola give you curse instead. That be very bad.” Busia shudders to make her point before letting go of my arm.

  A curse would be scary—if I believed in any of this fortune-telling junk. Tarot cards, crystal balls, palm reading, horoscopes—it’s all a bunch of crap, created by clever businessmen to make money by peddling hopes and dreams. I open my mouth to say “thanks, but no thanks,” when I see her face. She’s biting her lip and staring at me with such hopefulness that I can tell it’d crush her if I said no. “I get it. I promise not to fight with Mom. Go ahead and talk to Dola for me.”

  “And you not tell Matka I make bargain for you, right?” Her eyebrows pinch together, and she nervously glances toward the connecting doorway.

  Busia doesn’t have to tell me to stay quiet about this topic. She and Mom got into a huge fight over something similar to this when I was in seventh grade. One night during dinner, I complained how this mean girl, Sabrina Hamilton, kept knocking my books out of my hands. That evening at bedtime, Busia called me into her room and lit a candle. Hidden way in the back of her Polish Bible, she had handwritten pages filled with spells and remedies that she said she’d gotten from her grandmother. It all felt very spooky and authentic.

  After carefully sorting through crinkled pages and a baggie filled with index cards, all ratty-eared and yellowed with age, Busia pulled out one and nodded her approval. Then she made me do a bunch of weird things. First, I had to jump over a rusty horseshoe three times to symbolize running away from bad luck. Then I had to spit over my left shoulder, directly into the devil’s eye. Busia said that the devil always stays on the left side, because he is wrong, never right. After that, she asked a spirit named Oona or Pogo or something to make Sabrina “be nice to Sophie or leave town.”

  Right then, Mom walked by. She saw us doing the ritual and completely flipped out. She screamed at Busia in Polish and sent me to my room. I could hear them arguing for a long time before I heard Mom’s bedroom door slam. Later that night, I asked Mom why she got so mad, but all she’d say was that “Busia’s spirits were a bunch of hoo-ha” and told me that if I ever listened to Busia’s spirit nonsense again, I’d be grounded for a month. It weirded me out at the time, but I chalked it up to another episode of Mom Gone Crazy and let it go.

  I vaguely recall Sabrina’s family having to move shortly after that. I called it a lucky coincidence, but Teegan was convinced that it was Busia’s ritual that had caused Sabrina’s dad to lose his job. Of course, Teegan also saves every fortune from every fortune cookie she’s ever gotten and once paid twenty bucks at a carnival to have a slimy fortune-teller reveal that she “has someone who loves her whose name starts with J.” Which is stupid because everyone knows someone whose name starts with the letter J. Despite her insistence that this stuff is one-hundred-percent real, I love that Teegan is always on my side, no matter what.

  I look at Busia’s pleading eyes in the dim light and smile. “Don’t worry. I won’t say a word to Mom.” I twist an imaginary key to my lips and toss it over my shoulder. “See how I threw it over my right shoulder, Busia? So the devil can’t catch it, because he’s always wrong, never right.”

  Busia nods, looking pleased that I remembered. “Yes, yes. That is good.”

  I open my arms to give her a hug, but the bell over the door jingles, and she practically knocks me down with an exuberant push. “Help customer,” she tells me. “I will set everything up and then call you. Go!”

  Mom waits on the latest customer—a guy wearing painter’s whites—so I clear the tables instead. I make three trips to the garbage and star
t wiping down the tables when Busia calls out to me frantically from the doorway. “Zosia! Come quick! I need your help!”

  I sprint toward her, worried she’s hurt herself, until I see her peek around the corner to check out what my mom is doing. When it’s clear that mom is busy flirting with the painter, Busia frantically beckons me over.

  Guess it’s time to chat with Busia’s ghost buddy. “Mom, I’m going to help Busia move some stuff. Be right back.”

  Mom waves me off. She is talking to a man, after all.

  I follow Busia through the back room like before, but this time, we head into the supply closet. A narrow aisle down the center separates ten feet of shelving units on both sides. They’re crammed full of baking supplies—large bags of flour and sugar, tubs of baking soda, gallons of vanilla extract.

  “Wait here.” She waddles to the far end of the storage room and lifts a box of wooden matches. She ignites one, lights the wick on a red jar candle, and places it on a stool in front of her. “Okay, turn off light and close door.”

  I do as she asks, carefully stepping toward her as my eyes adjust to the dark. When I reach her side, she puts her hand on top of mine and waits until I look at her. The candlelight dances across her wrinkles, lighting up her neck, and her eyes are as alive and bright as mine.

  Speaking softly, she says, “Okay, let’s start. We not have much time. Since summer is here, we do Sobótka ritual. It make girl look pretty to boy. You need fire to make love heat up.” She uses her hands to shoo some of the heat off the candle in my direction.

  I playfully start fanning more heat my way, chuckling at the idea of my grandmother trying to make me hotter by literally making me hot. With my shitty luck with guys, I need a bonfire, not candlelight.

  “Not laugh, Zosia!” she admonishes.

  I stifle a smirk. “Sorry.”

  She places a small, stainless-steel mixing bowl and a pitcher of water onto the stool. As she pours the water into the bowl, she says, “Fire also need water to cool it down. Too much fire make things get out of control, yes?”