Like Pickle Juice on a Cookie Read online

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the

  product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living

  or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Sternberg, Julie.

  Like pickle juice on a cookie / by Julie Sternberg; illustrated by Matthew Cordell.

  p. cm.

  Summary: When eight-year-old Eleanor’s beloved babysitter Bibi moves away to care for her ailing father,

  Eleanor must spend the summer adjusting to a new babysitter while mourning the loss of her old one.

  ISBN 978-0-8109-8424-0

  [1. Novels in verse. 2. Babysitters—Fiction. 3. Loss (Psychology)—Fiction. 4. Self-reliance—

  Fiction.] I. Cordell, Matthew, 1975- ill. II. Title.

  PZ7.5.S74My 2010

  [Fic]—dc22

  2009015975

  Text copyright © 2011 Julie Sternberg

  Illustrations copyright © 2011 Matthew Cordell

  Book design by Melissa Arnst

  Published in 2011 by Amulet Books, an imprint of ABRAMS. All rights reserved. No portion of

  this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means,

  mechanical, electronic, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the

  publisher. Amulet Books and Amulet Paperbacks are registered trademarks of Harry N. Abrams, Inc.

  Printed and bound in U.S.A.

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  I had a bad August.

  A very bad August.

  As bad as pickle juice on a cookie.

  As bad as a spiderweb on your leg.

  As bad as the black parts of a banana.

  I hope your August was better.

  I really do.

  My bad time started one morning

  when my parents sat down in my room.

  “We have some difficult news,” they said.

  I hate it when they say that.

  It means they have terrible news.

  Just rotten.

  The last time they had difficult news,

  they had lost my hamster.

  Her name was Dr. Biggles.

  My dad had left her cage open.

  We went from door to door

  in our Brooklyn apartment building.

  We asked all the neighbors,

  “Have you seen Dr. Biggles?”

  But we never found her.

  I tried to think what news could be as difficult as that.

  “Did Grandma Sadie die?” I asked.

  “Of course not!”

  said my mother.

  “Grandma Sadie is in excellent health,”

  said my father.

  “Why would you ask such a question?”

  said my mother.

  “She is the oldest person I know,” I said.

  “I thought she might have died.

  That would be difficult news.”

  My mother shivered.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “That would be very difficult news.”

  “Nobody died,”

  my father said.

  “So what is the news?” I asked.

  My father looked at my mother.

  My mother took a deep breath.

  “Bibi is moving away,” she said.

  I blinked at them.

  I could not speak.

  Bibi is my babysitter.

  She has been my babysitter my whole life.

  She is the best babysitter in the world.

  She makes me soup when I am sick.

  She holds my feet when I do handstands.

  She knows which of my teeth are loose

  and which ones I’ve lost

  and where I was when I lost them.

  She rubs my back when I am tired.

  She takes a needle and thread

  and sews up my pants

  to make them fit right.

  And she knows not to tickle me.

  Because I hate to be tickled.

  “Bibi cannot move away,” I said.

  “She is moving to Florida,” my father said.

  “To be with her father.

  He is sick.

  He needs her.”

  “I need her,” I said.

  “Bibi cannot move away,” I said again.

  “You are eight, Eleanor,” my mom said.

  “You are getting so big.

  You don’t need Bibi as much as you used to.

  Everything will be okay.”

  I started to cry.

  “I don’t want to get so big,” I said.

  “Everything will not be okay,” I said.

  “This is as bad as somebody dying,” I said.

  And it was.

  It was as bad as somebody dying.

  We had a going-away party for Bibi.

  All of her friends came.

  Angela and Connie and Blossom and Dee.

  Everyone gave her presents.

  Except for me.

  I could not make Bibi a good-bye present.

  Or pick one out.

  My mom gave Bibi a picture of me in a pretty frame.

  Bibi said she would keep it by her bed

  so she could see me when she woke up

  and when she went to sleep.

  Everybody at that party cried.

  My dad cried.

  My mom cried.

  Angela and Connie and Blossom and Dee cried.

  Bibi cried.

  And I cried.

  I cried a lot.

  It was not a fun party.

  I hope you never go to a party like that.

  I really do.

  At the end of the party,

  Bibi put her presents in big shopping bags.

  Then it was time for her to go.

  “Maybe we shouldn’t all go outside with Bibi,”

  my dad said.

  “It will be very sad outside.”

  “It’s sad inside,” I said.

  “I want to go,” I said.

  So we all went.

  My parents helped Bibi get a cab.

  Then we hugged her

  and she hugged us

  and she climbed into the cab

  and pulled the door shut

  and turned toward us

  and the cab drove off.

  And now I know the worst thing in the world.

  The worst thing in the world

  is a cab

  driving farther and farther away

  with Bibi in the backseat

  waving good-bye.

  The next morning I woke up

  and wrapped myself in my blanket

  and went in the living room

  and sat on the sofa

  and waited

  for the sound of Bibi’s key in the door.

  I knew I wouldn’t hear Bibi’s key in the door.

  But still

  I thought

  maybe.

  Maybe she forgot something.

  Maybe she changed her mind.

  Maybe her dad got well.

  So I waited

  and listened

  and waited

 
and waited

  until my mom came in

  and sat beside me

  and held me tight.

  “This feels just awful,” she said.

  We sat there together

  feeling awful.

  Then she said,

  “Should we have something special for breakfast?

  Some chocolate-chip pancakes?”

  “No,” I said.

  “With powdered sugar?”

  “No,” I said.

  “Cinnamon toast with extra cinnamon?”

  “No,” I said.

  “How about pickle juice on a cookie?” she said.

  “Would you like pickle juice on a cookie?”

  And then I had to smile.

  Because that was just ridiculous.

  After Bibi left, my mom took a little time off from work.

  “We’ll get through this together,” she said.

  But there were lots of things we could not do.

  We could not call Bibi,

  because she was away,

  at the hospital,

  taking care of her sick father.

  We could not call Grandma Sadie, either.

  Because Grandma Sadie

  would ask me about Bibi.

  We could not go to Roma Pizza.

  Because Bibi loved Roma Pizza.

  So Roma Pizza reminded me of Bibi.

  We could not ride my bike.

  Because Bibi helped pick out my bike.

  So my bike reminded me of Bibi.

  We could not go swimming at the gym.

  Because Bibi was scared of swimming.

  So swimming reminded me of Bibi.

  Sometimes

  after I told my mom what we could not do

  she would ask,

  “Is there anything that we can do?”

  So I would let her read to me.

  And bake cookies with me.

  And take me to the Flatbush Avenue diner.

  Because I didn’t want her to get too cranky.

  One day,

  after breakfast,

  my mom said,

  “I have to make a work call now.

  I’m very sorry.

  I wish I didn’t have to,

  but it’s an important call.

  I’m afraid you’ll have to be quiet.

  And you can’t interrupt.”

  Then she picked up the phone

  and started dialing.

  That call went on forever.

  Finally I pulled on her sleeve.

  “Will you ever be done?”

  I whispered.

  She frowned at me

  and shook her head at me

  and put her finger to her lips.

  That meant no.

  She would never be done.

  I left her there

  on her very important call

  and decided to look through her clothes.

  I like looking through her clothes.

  I tried on her long black dress

  with beads on the straps

  and her highest-heeled shoes.

  Then I opened a dresser drawer,

  my favorite dresser drawer,

  full of fancy scarves.

  Grandma Sadie sends my mom those scarves.

  I took them out one by one

  and unfolded them

  and set them down

  until I got to the navy one

  that’s covered with cherries.

  Bibi loves cherries.

  Before she moved away,

  we used to sit at the kitchen table

  with a bowl for me

  and a bowl for her

  and a bowl in the middle for the pits.

  We’d eat all those cherries

  and spit out the pits.

  Bibi would always remind me

  not to swallow the pit.

  And I never did.

  I never swallowed a single pit.

  I didn’t ask my mom if I could have her navy scarf

  that’s covered with cherries.

  I just took it

  and hid it under my pillow

  and decided to keep it there forever.

  After her very important call

  my mom sat on the couch with me

  and read five whole chapters of a book to me.

  She didn’t even stop when the phone rang.

  “We’ll let the machine get it,” she said.

  And when we got to the happy ending,

  my mom’s eyes got red

  and her cheeks got blotchy.

  “Are you crying?” I asked.

  She laughed and touched her eyes.

  “I guess I am,” she said.

  “I always do.”

  It’s true.

  My mom always cries at happy endings.

  All of a sudden,

  as I was watching her cry,

  I glanced at her neck,

  where she sometimes wears a fancy scarf.

  My own face got hot

  and my heart felt funny.

  I jumped up.

  “Wait right here,” I said.

  “I’ll be right back.”

  Then I ran to my room

  and threw aside my pillow

  and grabbed the cherry scarf,

  which looked a little crumpled.

  I smoothed it as best as I could

  against the top of my leg

  and ran to my mom’s room

  and pulled open the drawer

  and folded the scarf

  and slipped it in

  near the middle of the stack

  and closed the drawer fast

  but tried not to slam it

  and ran back to my mom.

  I was breathing fast.

  I tried to stop breathing fast.

  I tried to look perfectly normal.

  My mom raised her eyebrows at me.

  “What’s going on?” she asked.

  “Nothing,” I said.

  “Are you sure?” she asked.

  “I’m sure,” I said.

  Then,

  hoping to distract her,

  I said,

  “Can we make some grilled cheese?”

  It was the perfect distraction.

  “I love grilled cheese,” my mom said.

  We went into the kitchen.

  And as I watched her take the bread

  and the cheese

  and the butter

  out of the refrigerator

  I decided

  that I never wanted to see

  another fancy scarf

  again.

  The next Sunday,

  as my mom was leaving to visit her aunt,

  my dad came into my room.

  “Guess who I just saw in the lobby?” he asked.

  He looked very happy.

  I couldn’t think of a neighbor

  who would make him so happy.

  So I said,

  “Jorge Posada?”

  Jorge Posada is a New York Yankees baseball player.

  My dad loves Jorge Posada.

  My dad laughed.

  “It wasn’t Jorge,” he said.

  “Then who?” I asked.

  “Agnes,” he said.

  “From the apartment upstairs.

  She was there with her mom.

  I invited her to come play with you.

  And she’s coming!”

  My mouth dropped open

  and I sat straight up

  and I started shaking my hands at my dad.

  “I don’t like Agnes from upstairs!” I said.

  “You don’t?” he said.

  He didn’t look happy anymore.

  “No!” I said.

  “I don’t!”

  Agnes from upstairs is scary.

  She never talks to me.

  Or smiles.

  And one time,

  in the lobby,

  near the doorman’s desk,

  she jum
ped on her brother

  and they both fell on my feet

  and I tripped over them

  and landed hard on my arm.

  Bibi was there.

  She helped us up

  and fussed at them.

  “You see all these people,” she said,

  wagging her finger at them.

  “You can’t be so wild.”

  Then she brought Agnes and her brother to their dad

  and took me upstairs

  and put ice in a bag

  and laid a towel on my arm

  and held the ice

  on the towel

  on my arm

  for a good long time.

  I liked sitting there,

  with Bibi holding ice on my arm.

  So I never told her

  that before she even started

  my arm was feeling fine.

  I said to my dad,

  “I don’t want to play with Agnes.”

  “But your friend Pearl is away,”

  he said.

  “So many of your friends are away.

  And I want you to have fun.

  Summer is supposed to be fun.”

  “Agnes is not fun,” I said.

  “Oh dear,” my dad said. “I’m not sure what to do.”

  He looked worried.

  “Call her mom,” I said.

  “Tell them not to come.”

  “But Agnes might feel very hurt,” my dad said.

  I glared at him.

  He still looked worried.

  Finally I said,

  “If Agnes is coming over,

  you have to stay with me.

  The whole time.”

  “I will,” he said. “I promise.”

  A little while later the doorbell rang.

  Agnes was there with her mom.

  “We should do this all the time!”

  her mom said.

  Agnes didn’t say anything.

  I didn’t say anything.

  “Come in!”

  my dad said.

  “Come in!”

  So Agnes came in.

  “I’m right upstairs if you need me!”

  her mom said.

  Then she left.

  “Have a seat, you two!”

  my dad said.

  “Have a seat!”

  I pulled on his arm.

  “Stop saying everything twice,”

  I whispered.

  “Oh!”

  he whispered back.