FINALLY SAL PULLS UP TO MY stop on Cherry Tree Lane, which used to be Amanda’s stop, too.
Grandma’s waiting for me. She has black hair and red lips and a powdery white face. She looks JUST like Snow White, only old. She’s from Brooklyn. She calls Connecticut “Alien Territory.” I don’t know what she means. There’s no one here from outer space.
I hop down the bus steps—one, two, three.
“DARLING! Oh, my DARLING LOLA!” Grandma calls out.
Bang! Bang! I look back and see Harvey pounding on the bus window. “Darling Lola!” he mouths.
Great.
Grandma plants a red lipstick kiss on my head and wraps me up in a perfume hug. It smells like roses in there.
“Hi, Grandma,” I say into her arm.
When she finally lets me up for air, I look around. “Where’s Patches?” I ask.
“Oh, he’s at home, bubelah,” Grandma says.
We click-click up Cherry Tree Lane. Grandma swings my arm and sings, “I got apples. I got cherries. I got ice cream. I got my granddaughter. Who could ask for anything more?”
“You could ask for Jack.” I point to my brother. He’s shooting hoops in the driveway.
“Guess what?” I say. “I’m going on a field trip.”
“Oh, how splendid!” Grandma says. “How perfectly divine!”
Jack throws the ball to me but it flies past and rolls down the driveway.
He runs after it. “Where?” he hollers.
“To Kookamut Farm.”
“Can I go to Kooky Butt Farm, too?” Jack says, jogging back, jumping up, and tossing the ball into the hoop. Grandma catches it, flings it toward the basket, and it goes right in. She and Jack high-five.
“KOO-KA-MUT,” I say. “And no. Only if you’re in Mrs. D.’s class.”
“Come along, bubelahs,” Grandma says. She tucks one arm around me and one around Jack and heads us to the kitchen door.
“I remember that field trip,” Jack says. “The teacher brings a big bag of chicken poop to class.”
Grandma purses her red lips tight.
I shake my head. “I don’t believe you.”
“It’s true. So that you can get used to the stinky farm smell. Phlooooo …” Jack makes his mouth fart.
“Jack,” Grandma says as she ushers us into the kitchen. “That’s hardly the behavior of a gentleman.”
“I agree,” Jack says.
“Now, Jack, don’t give me any guff,” Grandma says. “Down, Patches!”
“Grandma, that’s how Patches says hello.” I give him an extra hug so there’s no hard feelings while Grandma pulls something out of the fridge. I can smell it before it even gets here. Maybe it’s chilled dog food.
“There you go!” Grandma says. “It’s a wonderful whitefish pâté on these simply marvelous onion crackers. A healthy snack for my bubelahs. And you—” Grandma grabs Patches by the collar and sticks him out on the patio.
“Thanks, Grandma,” we say in wet-paper-towel voices.
“I’ll be right back,” Grandma says. “I need to record Call of the Humpback Whale on PBS. Your clever daddy taught me how.”
As soon as Grandma’s gone, I whisper, “It’s weird without Mom and Dad.”
“Yeah.” Jack looks at the whitefish pâté on onion crackers. “I’ll give you Double Pillow Force when we play Blanket of Doom if you eat this.”
“Let me see your hands,” I say. Last time he gave me Double Pillow Force, he canceled it with Crossies.
He holds up his hands. “No Crossies.”
“Fine,” I say. I pop two of his whitefish pâté on onion crackers into my mouth and chew them. BLECH. Then one more. GACK.
Grandma comes clattering back. “Why, Jack. What a WON-derful appetite. Would you like some more, my boychik?”
“Oh, no, I’m full, Grandma,” Jack says.
“Say, why don’t we harvest those vegetables you and Grandmother Coogan planted?” Grandma says. “Then I can make all kinds of good food for my grandchildren.”
I look at Jack.
Jack looks at me.
Grandma’s cooking is creative. Mom taught me that word for it. Also: “If you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything.”
I don’t have anything nice to say about her Beef Boogy in a Wine Sauce.
I do have something nice to say about the roasted chicken and matzo ball soup Grandma orders from Gottlieb’s Restaurant. And about Mom’s homemade spaghetti and meatballs even with green flecks.
But I’m not getting any of Mom’s good food until Friday.
