One Smart Cookie Read online

  “Yeah, sure,” I whisper, wondering if she thinks I’ll have trouble keeping my pants on. While I’m looking forward to giving up my membership to the V-club sometime in the near future, I’m waiting for a real boyfriend, not just some random hookup like my mother.

  Busia unscrews the lid of an industrial-size plastic jug of cinnamon, hugging it tight to her waist. Or maybe those are her boobs, I can’t tell. “You need spice to make your boy exciting.” She points into the jug. “Take some and toss into water.”

  I reach into of the brown dust, take a smidgeon, and drop it into the water as directed. The cinnamon quickly disperses across the surface. “Okay. Now what?”

  Busia clucks her tongue. “Nie! You not like spicy romance? Don’t be so little baby.” She purses her lips and imitates me delicately taking a teensy bit and placing it into the water. My seventy-two-year-old grandma is dissing me for being a wimp. How sad is that? She says, “Try again and do like this.” She demonstrates flicking cinnamon into the water with gusto, her eyes wide and flabby upper arms jiggling like a sheet of raw dough.

  I take a big pinch and flamboyantly toss it into the water. “Bang Zooma!”

  “Świętuje!” Busia calls out, her dentured smile reflecting the candlelight. “Celebrate!”

  I’m totally up for more parties, so I go for a second pinch. Busia slams the lid on top of the container and lightly slaps my hand. “Too much spice not good either. We want fun boy, not crazy one.” She sticks out her tongue and waggles her head to imitate a psychotic boy. I have to bite my lip to keep from busting out into a full-blown laugh attack—the kind Teegan and I had two weeks ago when we each drank a glass of my mom’s wine after she went to bed.

  Busia hands me the candle. “In Poland, girl send candle down river and wait for boy to find it. When he find her, they get married.” She taps the side of the bowl. “This be our river. Drip wax into water, and we see who Dola pick for you.” She makes the motion of tipping the candle and then looks at me.

  I have no interest in a husband, but I tilt the candle anyway, letting all the melted wax drip into the bowl. As the red blobs of wax cool, they float on the surface.

  Busia stares at them for several long seconds, nodding. “Ah, yes. It look like rose. Here is flower and here is stem. Two leaves on stem. You see it?” She points to a long squiggle with a blob at the end.

  “Uh-huh,” I lie, seeing only an alien head with a snake body, but if Busia sees a rose, that’s good enough for me.

  “Dola is saying that flower is good luck. Maybe wear flower in your hair or nice perfume that smell like roses.” She smiles broadly at me, pushing my bangs off to the side before patting my cheek gently. “Such pretty girl.” I bask in the glow of her love for only a moment when her face turns hard and she shakes a finger at me. “But remember: Rose has thorn that can stick in your heart.” She pokes my chest with a finger gnarled from arthritis. “You be nice to Matka, or your love turn into thorns, not pretty like flower.” She holds the candle up. “Now blow.”

  “But it’ll be dark,” I protest. “You might trip!”

  “Blow!” she commands, and I do.

  From the darkness, Busia says, “Good girl. Your deal with Dola has now started.”

  “Yay!” I tell her, feigning enthusiasm.

  “What you waiting for?” She pushes me gently. “Turn on light and go. Close door.”

  “Thanks, Busia.” I go to kiss her on the cheek but land one somewhere on the top of her head instead. “Love you!”

  “Yes, yes,” she says. “Kocham cię. Love you, too.”

  As I hurry into the bakery to finish off my last hour of work, I feel bad that Busia thinks I believe in this whole Dola thing. I take a deep breath and let my worries go. In a couple of hours, Teegan and I will be at the beach, surrounded by boys.

  I’m planning to make some magic happen all on my own.

  Chapter 2

  WITH ONLY THIRTY MINUTES TO GO until I’m off the clock, Murphy, our number-one most loyal customer, waltzes into the bakery. He’s a white-haired old man who is perpetually in a good mood. Mom says he came in the very first day she opened fourteen years ago and he hasn’t missed a day since. He grabs a copy of the Chicago Tribune off the news rack and strides toward us. “Good morning, my fair lady!”

  Mom’s already at the coffee machine, filling a large Styrofoam cup. “Good morning, Murphy! How are you today?”

  “Fan-tabulous!” he replies with gusto. “You’re looking as bee-u-tiful as ever, my dear.”

  I discreetly stick out my tongue and roll my eyes, wishing he hadn’t said that. Mom’s ego doesn’t need any help. Of course, Murphy is an old man—which qualifies him as one of the three groups that I told her would approve of her colorblind-porn-star attire.

  “Thank you. Tell my daughter that.” She pours a dollop of cream into his cup.

  “Princess is here?” He scans the space behind the counter, and when he sees me, he breaks into a huge grin. “There you are, all grown up! Out for the summer already?” He folds the newspaper under his arm and gazes at me. Even though Murphy comes in every morning, I haven’t seen him in a while because of school.

  “Yep.” I smile. “Today’s my first day off.”

  He makes a face. “And you’re stuck in here? Shouldn’t a gorgeous girl like you be out with your boyfriend sailing on Lake Michigan or something?”

  I now officially love Murphy. If he were my dad, I wouldn’t have to lift a finger.

  My mom shakes her head, chuckling. “She’s no princess. She thinks that money sprinkles down from the sky like raindrops.” She punctuates her point by wiggling her fingers in a downward motion, like rain.

  I squinch up my face. “No, I don’t! You act like I’m some—”

  She holds up her hand like a stop sign. “Is that all today, Murphy?”

  My face heats with embarrassment. And she wonders why I “talk mean” to her? If she showed me some respect, I’d show her some. Well, in theory, anyway. My mom respecting my opinion is about as likely as her choosing to become a nun.

  “I’ll have a slice of that sweet cheese bread too.” Murphy opens the flap on his coffee lid, and a spout of steam escapes from the small hole. He takes a tentative sip, looking around. “Where’s Stella this morning?”

  Busia bustles in with a huge tray of paczkis—homemade jelly-filled donuts that come in seven flavors. Strawberry’s my favorite. “Here I am. Hello, Murpee.”

  I hurry over to slide open the display case window for her. As Busia places the paczkis inside, Murphy says, “Those sure look good.” He pats his tiny paunch of a stomach. “Eh, what the heck? I’ll take one of those too.”

  “You smart man,” Busia says, grinning. “These right from oven. You like ’em.” She wraps a piece of waxed paper around one and hands it to him.

  “If you made them, I’m sure I will, Stella.” Murphy grabs the donut and heads toward the register.

  “Four dollars and forty-two cents for today,” Mom announces.

  Murphy digs out his wallet and hands her a five. “Keep the change.”

  While Mom’s busy attending to Murphy, Busia wipes her hands on her apron and turns to me. “What kind of boy you wanting?”

  As I assemble another white cardboard box, I give her question some thought. While I’m not picky, I don’t like guys who are shorter than me or have body odor. Or guys who smoke cigarettes. Yellow teeth are gross. Oh, and no open-mouthed chewing.

  Okay, so I’m a little picky.

  “I guess I’d like to meet a tall, nice-smelling boy who has good manners.” I slide the display window closed.

  “And Polish, right?” Busia says defiantly. “Tall not important. Good heart is.” She makes a fist and thumps her chest. “Polish boys know how to treat girls good. Don’t forget.” She pats me on the shoulder before bringing the empty tray back to the kitchen.

  Yikes. I’m glad this deal is all in Busia’s imagination, because I know who she’d pick out for me
—Stanley Kowalski, the Polish deli owner’s son. He’s four inches shorter than I am, with teeth the shade of butter and ruddy skin that reminds me of bologna. No thanks.

  Murphy sits at his regular table nearest the serving counter, his coffee and pastries set out in front of him. “I can’t believe the new place down the block is opening this Saturday.”

  “It is?” I look out our front window toward the old appliance store that’s been under construction for months on the opposite end of our ten-store strip mall. “I wish I knew what it was going to be.”

  Murphy lifts his coffee cup. “Didn’t you see the sign they erected out front the other day? The place will be called International Gourmet. Has a picture of a chubby chef holding a spoon. A cooking school is my guess.”

  I frown. “Darn. I was hoping it would be a cool clothing store or a mega-Starbucks.”

  He crosses his legs and takes a sip of coffee. “All I know is that they’ve spent a fortune redoing the place.”

  “Did you say an international cooking school?” Mom cranes her neck to look down to the opposite end of our L-shaped mall. “As long as they don’t teach them how to make Polish food, I’m okay with it.” She snorts and giggles, holding a hand to her chest to catch her breath. Or maybe to prevent her breasts from popping out from her shirt—I can’t tell.

  Murphy chuckles. “Even if they do, you’ve got nothing to worry about. No one can compete with Dumbrowski’s.”

  As if to prove it, the bell jingles as the door opens and several people amble up to the counter. Since I still have eight more minutes on the clock, I’ve got no choice but to pitch in. I wait on two of the six people, but when I check the time on my phone, I see it’s nine a.m. Finally!

  I discreetly interrupt Mom in the middle of an order and nod toward our wall clock. A Polish pope from a million years ago smiles at me from the center, letting me know it’s time to collect my cash and hopefully improve my Guy-Q, courtesy of Dola. “My shift’s up. Can you pay me for today? I need cash for the beach.”

  “Not now.” She glances toward the burgeoning line and then back at me. “Customers come first.”

  “Not if you don’t want me to quit, they don’t,” I joke. I know I might be pushing it, but hey, it is the first day of summer vacation. The way I see it, she’s lucky I worked at all today. While I did agree to put in way more hours at the bakery now that I’m not in school, I didn’t think she’d make me start doing it this week.

  “Quit?” Mom gets that same worried expression on her face like when we’re in church and Father Kristof mentions the second collection. But as quickly as it appeared, her anxious expression is gone. She smiles at the old woman. “One minute. I’ll be right back.”

  “It’ll just take a sec,” I reassure the woman. She nods politely.

  Mom’s heels rattle like machine gun fire as she hustles into the back room. I’m glad she understands my need to get my cash and go because I swear sometimes she forgets what it’s like to be a teenager. She walks to her old wooden desk where she does all her bookkeeping and pulls open the bottom drawer, making a big show of plunking her ten-ton purse loudly on top. “You are the worst worker ever! I can’t believe you are leaving when we are busy!”

  Typical Mom. Always treating me like her daughter instead of an employee. “Come on, Mom. Be serious. I was scheduled to work until nine. It’s nine. That’s how things work in real life, Mother. When your time’s up, you leave.”

  Mom has her wallet halfway out of her purse when she stops. “You know what? In real life, bosses fire lazy workers. I need someone who works hard, not like a lump on a dog.”

  “Bump on a log,” I correct. “And I do work hard.” I smile, but she doesn’t smile back. Talk about being in a bad mood. Maybe if I’m nice, she’ll give me a little extra cash. “How about this? I’ll stay later tomorrow to make up for today, okay?”

  She stares at me for a long moment. “No, it’s not okay. This is the kind of thing you always do, and I’m not liking it anymore. I’m glad you quit.” She opens her wallet and thumbs through it.

  “Quit?” I shake my head. “I didn’t quit, Mom. I only said I would quit if you wouldn’t let me leave. But don’t worry—” I smile, patting her on the shoulder “—I was only kidding.”

  She steps out from under my hand. “I’m not laughing.” She holds out a few bills. “Here you go. Good luck getting a new job.”

  Sirens of panic wail in my ears. A new job means being on time and learning new stuff and being nice to fellow employees. I don’t grab the money from her hand because I’m afraid it means the end of the discussion. “No, Mom! I don’t want another job. I only said the part about quitting because today is the first day of summer vacation and I have plans.”

  “I have plans too. To run a successful business. Have fun at the beach.”

  “Seriously? Could you just stop being so—” I want to say bitchy, but I can’t, so I blurt out the first alternative I think of “—witchy toward me all the time?”

  Busia appears in the doorway and hisses, “Zosia! Not fight with Matka!” She lingers a moment, glaring at me, a grimace frozen on her face. “Good Polish girls not fight.”

  Mom nods. “You see? Busia knows.”

  That’s when I recall that bit about not arguing with my mom. I told Busia this would be impossible. But it’s obvious Busia didn’t hear Mom wigging out, or she’d be on my side. I try to explain it to her. “I don’t want to fight with her, Busia, but she’s acting crazy!”

  Mom replies calmly, “I’m not acting crazy. I’m acting like a smart businesswoman. You lollipop around and take so many breaks that I made the decision that your first day of summer work is also your last one. Here you go.” She places the money on the desk and walks away.

  My mouth dries up. I call out weakly, “Wait! So, you’re, like, firing me?”

  She stops, and my hope soars. Here’s where she’ll issue a final ultimatum, wherein she gives me one more chance, just like she always does. She stops and spins around. “Firing bad workers is what witches do.” She smiles for a second before continuing on her way.

  I want to slap her cheeks together with brass cymbals and make that smirk disappear. I snatch the cash and hold it up in the air. “You’re going to regret this, Mom. No one else is going to want this job!”

  “We will see.” She steps through the doorway, and I can hear her say, “Thank you for waiting. What else would you like?”

  “You know what?” I shout, tears starting to well up in my eyes. “I can’t wait until I go away to college in two years so I can get away from you!” I start toward the stairs, hoping I hurt her feelings as much as she hurt mine.

  Mom lets out a loud cackle. “College? Who does she think will be paying for that?”

  I storm toward the stairs that lead up to our apartment, my flip-flops flapping loudly in my wake, when someone grabs my arm from behind with a lobster-claw grip. Busia’s standing there, her face as pale as our pastry boxes.

  “You break promise! You argue with Matka!” She shakes her head, looking down at her tan, orthopedic shoes. “Now you have bad, bad luck!”

  “You mean like Mom not paying for college?” I lean in close. “She’s kidding about that, right?”

  Busia licks her lips, her face a broiling mess of worry. “I not know! Maybe this is part of curse I warn you about.” She leans on the doorway and holds her forehead.

  I wince, needing to calm her down before she has a heart attack or passes out. “Busia, it’s okay! I’m sure Dola didn’t curse me. Mom argued with me, not the other way around. I’m fine. Really.”

  Busia’s eyes glaze over. “It not matter who start the fight! The deal was no fighting at all.” Her eyes widen. “Wait, I know! You go tell Matka you are sorry right now. Maybe Dola not be mad. Hurry!” She pulls my arm in the direction of my mother.

  I plant my feet. “No, Busia! She was acting crazy! I’m not apologizing to her.”

  “It only take one second. Com
e! Please!”

  Every once in a while, a girl has to stand up for what’s right. This is one of those times. “I did nothing I need to apologize for. Sorry, Busia, but no. I’m not doing it.”

  She puts a hand over her heart and takes a deep breath. “Then I sorry too. Sorry about what will happen now. I try.” She shakes her head, loosening a wisp of hair from her bun.

  A lump the size of a sideways Dorito wedges in my throat. The last thing I want to do is make Busia sad. “What if you just cancel the old bargain and start fresh. Tell Dola I’ll pay attention in church from now on, or that I’ll try to speak Polish more often to the customers. Anything except not fighting with Mom. I should never have agreed to that.”

  “Nie. Can’t take back. Too late.” She hobbles back into the bakery, still shaking her head.

  Frustrated, I race up the thirteen wooden steps that lead up to our apartment. Nothing more I can do or say to Busia to make her happy. Hopefully I’ll meet someone I like at the beach today, so I can tell her it’s all thanks to her deal with Dola. That’ll cheer her up.

  I need to call Teegan to make sure she’s on her way. The sooner I get out of here, the better. I scan the kitchen for my cell phone, but it’s probably camouflaged amidst all of Mom’s mismatched décor. She’s got homemade curtains with black Polish hens roosting above the sink, Harley Davidson hand towels, a Marilyn Monroe cookie jar, and a collection of celebrity salt and pepper shakers on the window ledge.

  I’m all for getting a bargain, but she thinks Goodwill equals good taste.

  I use the house phone to call my cell. My favorite ringtone blasts out between salty Elvis and peppery Frank Sinatra. I send Teegan a quick text:

  I’m off work!

  Come over quick

  before I kill my mom.

  Grrr!!

  I grab a Dollar Dynamo diet cola from the fridge and flip on the little kitchen TV to wait for Teegan’s answer. Knowing Teegan, it could be a while. I zip through the stations, stumbling upon one of my favorite reality shows, Bodily Harm. It’s this program where twelve hot guys with enormous muscles and even bigger egos do physical challenges to win a date with a pretty model. I bet that girl’s Guy-Q is off the charts. This episode is the one where a bodybuilder calls this wrestler dude a pussy, triggering a massive brawl.