We all took a couple of days to rest and to get over the shock of the bear scare and the trip to the hospital. The grown-ups spent lots of time reading and napping on lounge chairs in the sun, and the little kids ran around and played ball — except for Sunday, who was allowed to come outside, but had to stay still and warm. Rusty and I did what most girls our age do. We talked, styled each other’s hair, watched movies, and snacked on goodies from the kitchen.
“So, what are you gonna do the rest of the summer?” I asked Rusty. We had just put a batch of double-chocolate, chocolate chip cookies in the oven. Rusty invented the recipe with some ingredients we found in the pantry.
Rusty licked the spatula and shook her head. “No idea. I guess help Dad keep the house clean and learn to cook.”
“You seem to know what you’re doing with these cookies.”
“I bake fine, but I burn everything else. Not sure why. What about you? What are you going to do when you get back to Fresno?”
“I dunno. Seems like Swiftriver gets to choose what I do now. I can’t believe I begged my parents to sign that contract.”
“You think if you didn’t have the contract you’d be playing on TJ’s All-Star team?”
I thought about that for a minute. The answer was “probably,” but I said, “Nah.” I don’t know why, but I thought that would make Rusty feel better.
“Well, there’s no way we could afford for me to play on that team even if I had been invited.” Rusty scraped some more batter from the bowl and slurped it up. “Mmm . . . these are going to be good.”
“Well, I don’t know why they didn’t invite you to play. You’re a really good athlete. And you run so fast! You should be the Riley Mae shoe-girl.”
“Except my name’s Shari Olivia.”
We both looked at each other and laughed.
I had forgotten that Rusty had a real name. “Your initials are S.O.?” That would look cool on the bottom of the shoes. Let’s see . . . the Shari Olivia Sport Collection, because every girl wants to be S.O. good!”
“Ooh, I like that,” Rusty said. “But there can only be one shoe-girl.”
Just then the oven timer went off. I grabbed a hot pad to take the first batch of cookies out of the oven. “Okay, how about you start a cookie company? You could call it S.O. Good.”
My dad barged into the kitchen and stood over the pan of cookies. “Are these all for me?”
“You may have one,” I said.
Dad took a bite. He pretended to collapse and leaned into the counter. “These cookies are the best I’ve had in a long time.” He took another bite.
I giggled. “That’s because of Shari Olivia.”
“Who?”
“That’s my real name,” Rusty said. “But nobody calls me that, ever since that softball practice when the ball went through my legs and the coach said I looked a little ‘rusty.’”
“I always wondered where you got that nickname,” I said. “I thought maybe it was because of the color of your hair.”
Before I could stop him, Dad grabbed three more cookies.
“Dad! Save some for the rest of us!”
“Sorry. I can’t help myself!” He took his cookies and ran.
I shook my head. “Sorry about my weird dad.”
“It’s no trouble.” Rusty stepped into the pantry and brought out some new ingredients. “Maybe we can invent some more yummy cookies with this stuff.”
For the rest of the afternoon, we experimented with cookies. Some (like the sticky S’more cookies) turned out strange, so we gave them to Flip, who loved them. We ended up making way too many delicious ones (like the oatmeal peanut butter cup cookies), so my mom suggested we box some up to take to church. We decided to make a special gift plate for Diane, with a label on it that said, “Made S.O. good — just for you!”