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.”

I stare at the menacing grandma. “Uh-huh.”

And before I can utter another word, Beckett turns on the speaker and walks out of the booth with a microphone. He bends down to hand it to me and walks away. “It’s all yours,” he says over his shoulder as he sidles up to the concession stand.

I fumble with the microphone, causing it to make a loud screeching sound. That can’t be good, I think as everyone cuffs their ears and turns around to find the source of the annoyance. And yep, it’s me. All me!

“Just pitch your little heart out, Brookie,” Betty Jean encourages me.

My eyes shift to Lyric, who is watching me fumble the ball big-time. “Are you having those same feelings you did back in the gym at cookie cookoff?”

I nod, scanning the room.

Everyone is watching.

Lyric doesn’t experience any degree of stage fright when she’s onstage. In fact, she morphs into a whole other person, singing to the heavens, shaking her Hollywood hair so it blows in the imaginary fan. I’m the opposite of that person right now. Nevertheless, Lyric does her best to encourage me anyway.

“You got this. Just picture them in their undies,” she says, shrugging, unaware that Mom would’ve told me to do the exact same thing.

“Hi, uh, hi.” The mic flips and flops around in my hand until I’m finally able to fumble through a few more words. “I’m, uh, Brooklyn Ace. And I’m a seventh grader at Valentine Middle School.” My voice cracks and I sound like a toad falling off a lumpy log. “I’m, uh, here today selling… uh—uh—uh—”

“Cookies!” Lyric yelps, nudging my belly, hitting me somewhere around my large intestine.

“Right. World Scouts cookies.”

“Cookie queen,” Lyric says as Betty Jean shakes her head and clears her throat. “Tell ’em you’re the reigning cookie queen!”

“Yes, I was,” I say, bobbing my head up and down, not repeating the most necessary part of the pitch at all.

“What’s your goal, Brookie?” Betty Jean whispers to me.

I give up when my thoughts escape me and the bowlers go back to, well, bowling.

“I’m, uh, working to be the top seller in all of America—I mean, Santa Monica, this year.”

Beckett shrugs when the last few people who were paying attention completely lose interest. And I know this episode of the cookie chronicles is over when the mean grandma turns to me and snarls. It’s at that exact moment that I start to feel dizzy and the walls get ready to swallow me. I know what to do, I think as I dig into my tool belt and try on a few strategies.

I reach for my ears and press into them.

Then I press harder.

But nothing happens.

I try clutching my sweaty hands together and pressing into them while I count down from five.

“Five, four, three-two-one—five, four, three-two-one.” I shut my eyes and motor through the numbers a lot faster than Dr. Simone demonstrated. But when I don’t feel any relief, I throw in the towel and race back to the front door, trying to outrun my embarrassment. I can feel Lyric on my heels as I bolt out of Big Bob’s Bowling Lanes as fast as I can.

This definitely isn’t going to be as easy as I thought.

I hear Betty Jean’s words sizzle through the air behind me. “Let me know when you’re ready for Betty Jean’s Cookie Boot Camp, Brookie.”

I roll my eyes, fighting back the overwhelming feelings of defeat, and run faster toward the car.