Asking for Trouble: 1 (London Confidential) (17 page)

We kept walking. My mind was a jumble. What was I to do with this new information? Good reporters don’t hold back facts. But was this fact relevant to the story?

When we got to the house, Aunt Maude let me plug the telly back in. I sat there and watched
What Not to Wear
while she bumbled around in the kitchen. Finally, unable to take the racket any longer, I went in to see what she was doing.

My mother’s kitchen was completely rearranged! The shock must have registered on my face, because she said, “Just a bit of reorganizing to help your mum out.” Then she withdrew one of the cookie exchange invitations from her apron pocket. “What’s this?” she asked. “I found it in with the flour.”

“It’s a party invitation,” I said. “My mom was trying to get to know some women around here, so she thought she’d throw a little cookie exchange party.”

“A . . . what?”

“A cookie exchange.” Then I remembered that British people called cookies
biscuits
. “You know, each person bakes about two to three dozen Christmas biscuits and then brings them to the house. They all share what they’ve got, and each person takes home a nice assortment. And you get to make friends that way too.”

Aunt Maude nodded slowly. “And this to-do is next Friday?”

I shook my head. “No one ever RSVP’d. I don’t think there will be a party.”

Aunt Maude took off her apron and patted my shoulder. “Time for your nap, I’m sure. Why don’t you just toddle off upstairs and take a little lie-down and we’ll eat tea in a few hours.”

A nap? Toddle off?
How old did she think I was? I didn’t argue though. I just headed upstairs and closed my bedroom door.

I got out my history book and had started reading when I heard Aunt Maude’s voice outside. I crept to the window and peeked out the corner—just enough so I could see and hear but not be seen and heard.

I could hear Aunt Maude talking with Vivienne, but I couldn’t make out what either of them was saying. I lifted the window up just the tiniest amount, hoping it wouldn’t creak. It didn’t. I caught the end of the conversation.

“Well, it’d be a nice thing,” Aunt Maude said. “She’s a lovely woman, and she’s trying hard, I know.”

“I’ve grown a bit fond of her in spite of myself,” I heard Vivienne admit. “I had no idea whatsoever what a cookie exchange was, and I didn’t want to seem dull by asking.”

Well, what do you know? Aunt Maude was down there trying to hustle up some people for Mom’s cookie exchange. Maybe I’d misjudged the old girl after all. A certain unexpected fondness for toad in the hole and jam butties overcame me.

I watched as Aunt Maude handed the invitation from the flour jar to Vivienne. “See what you can do, will you?” she said.

“I’ll have a go at it,” Vivienne agreed. “But I don’t know how much I can do, especially at this late date.”

Sunday afternoon, before my parents got home, my phone rang. Only I couldn’t find it right away.

“Where is that phone?” I listened. My ring tone was a Taylor Swift song. I reached under my bed and grabbed it just in time.

I looked at the caller ID before answering. It was Jack.

“Hello?”

“Savvy? Jack here.”

“Hi, Jack. How’s it going?”

“I’m fine, thanks very much. Listen, I have a new question for the Asking for Trouble column.”

“Then it’s a success?” I held my breath.

“Um, well, it’s a start,” he answered. “More papers read last week, certainly. But nothing’s definite for now. Don’t worry . . . yet. And anyway, there’s always the paper delivery, right?”

“Right,” I said, trying to keep the gray out of my voice.

“So then, here’s the question. Got a pen?” I grabbed one from my desk. And a paper napkin that I’d used to wipe my fingers after eating a particularly tasty bag of prawn cocktail—that is, shrimp-flavored—crisps. “Ready.”

Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend

“Got it, Savvy?” Jack asked.

“Got it.”

“Good. Just e-mail your answer to me before deadline, okay?”

Lovely,
as the Brits would say. A column about whether or not to keep secrets. It just didn’t get any better than this.

The week was really busy, and actually I didn’t work on my column at all. I knew I had ten days before it was due and that the column would come out the week before the Christmas holidays. We had a lot of exams, though. People here took school very seriously, and everyone, not only Hazelle, was pretty competitive at the end of the term.

By the time Friday rolled around, I was ready for a break over the weekend—and then I’d write the column. But first, my dad and Louanne and I had plans to go out on Friday night.

Friday was Mom’s cookie party.

“I have no idea how many will come,” Mom said, flapping about the kitchen like a disoriented hen since Aunt Maude had “rearranged” things. “Vivienne said she’d talked with a few people, but some of them don’t bake and had never heard of a cookie exchange. I don’t know why I didn’t write more about that on the invitation.”

“Don’t worry, Mom. Lots of people will come,” I reassured her.
Please, God, let lots of people come,
I silently prayed.

Dad came waltzing into the room in his jeans, T-shirt, and socks. He slid across the floor. “Are you in the Christmas spirit, girls?” he asked.

Louanne and I looked at each other. Even Growl backed away.

“Yes . . . but I think someone’s had a little too much figgy pudding,” I said.

“Seven more days till Christmas Eve. I thought we’d drive out tonight and check out the location of a church I’d heard about.”

“Are there only old people?” I asked.

“Do they wave banners in the aisles?” Mom asked.

“Ha! I don’t know. But the girls and I will check it out while your party is on.”

“Wait . . . I thought we were going to Criminal Barbecue for dinner,” I protested. “Can we do both?”

“No can do,” Dad said. “That’s one restaurant that doesn’t allow dogs.”

“Dogs? Growl is coming?”

“His name is
Giggle
,” Louanne said firmly.

“Can’t leave him home while Mom has her party, can we? We’ll get some takeout sandwiches and eat in the car.”

Of course. Growl had ruined my nice carnivorous dinner.

Great, so we’ll drive around for two hours,
I thought. But I didn’t say it out loud because I didn’t want to hurt Mom’s feelings. She probably wouldn’t have heard me anyway. She was still nervously fluttering about, making coffee, getting the teakettle simmering, and preparing the decorated boxes for the cookies—biscuits—of the people she hoped would be there soon.

When we drove away a few minutes later, there were no cars pulling in to the street. It was five minutes till party time.

We drove to a Subway—yes, there was a Subway sandwich shop in Wexburg—–and then got back into the car. Louanne and Growl were in the back, and Dad and I were in the front. I saw Louanne pinch off pieces of her sandwich and give them to the dog.

“If that dog barfs in the car, I’m going to disinherit you as my sister,” I warned.

“You can’t do that,” she said sweetly. “I’m your sister for life.” With that, she pinched off another piece of her roll and gave it to Growl, who made a point of maintaining snooty eye contact with me while he finished it off.

“There it is,” Dad said about twenty minutes later. “I know it’s a little bit farther from home . . . but it seems like a lot of people travel here to go to church.”

It looked . . . nice! Big and pretty and new. Even on a Friday night there were a lot of cars in the parking lot. That was hopeful. It meant there were activities going on. I watched a group of normal-looking teenagers walk in through the side double doors, and there was another crowd playing casual soccer—I mean ‘football’—nearby.

“It looks hopeful,” I said quietly. Tears filled my eyes, and I rushed to wipe them away before Dad noticed.

He noticed. He reached over and took my hand. “It’s been hard starting everything over, hasn’t it?”

I nodded but didn’t trust myself to speak.

“We’ll try it on Christmas Eve,” Dad said quietly as we drove away.