Like Pickle Juice on a Cookie by Julie Sternberg

The next Sunday,
    as my mom was leaving to visit her aunt,
    my dad came into my room.
    â€œGuess 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,
    â€œJorge Posada?”
    Jorge Posada is a New York Yankees baseball player.
    My dad loves Jorge Posada.
    My dad laughed.
    â€œIt wasn’t Jorge,” he said.
    â€œThen who?” I asked.
    â€œAgnes,” he said.
    â€œFrom 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.
    â€œI don’t like Agnes from upstairs!” I said.
    â€œYou don’t?” he said.
    He didn’t look happy anymore.
    â€œNo!” I said.
    â€œI 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 jumped 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.

    â€œYou see all these people,” she said,
    wagging her finger at them.
    â€œYou 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,
    â€œI don’t want to play with Agnes.”
    â€œBut your friend Pearl is away,”
    he said.
    â€œSo many of your friends are away.
    And I want you to have fun.
    Summer is supposed to be fun.”
    â€œAgnes is not fun,” I said.
    â€œOh dear,” my dad said. “I’m not sure what to do.”
    He looked worried.
    â€œCall her mom,” I said.
    â€œTell them not to come.”
    â€œBut Agnes might feel very hurt,” my dad said.
    I glared at him.
    He still looked worried.
    Finally I said,
    â€œIf Agnes is coming over,
    you have to stay with me.
    The
whole
time.”
    â€œI will,” he said. “I promise.”

A little while later the doorbell rang.
    Agnes was there with her mom.
    â€œWe should do this all the time!”
    her mom said.
    Agnes didn’t say anything.
    I didn’t say anything.
    â€œCome in!”
    my dad said.
    â€œCome in!”
    So Agnes came in.
    â€œI’m right upstairs if you need me!”
    her mom said.
    Then she left.
    â€œHave a seat, you two!”

    my dad said.
    â€œHave a seat!”
    I pulled on his arm.
    â€œStop saying everything twice,”
    I whispered.
    â€œOh!”
    he whispered back.
    â€œSorry!”
    We all sat down on the couch.
    â€œAren’t you both eight?”
    my dad asked.
    â€œNo!” I said.
    Agnes still didn’t say anything.
    â€œShe’s nine,” I said.
    â€œSo you’ve already been through third grade!”
    my dad said.
    â€œHow perfect!
    Eleanor is starting third grade soon.
    You can tell us all about it.”
    He waited.
    We both waited.
    Finally Agnes said,
    â€œIt’s okay.”
    â€œDo you write any stories in third grade?
    I used to love to write stories,” my dad said.
    â€œYes,”
    Agnes said.
    â€œWe wrote stories.
    And letters.
    Other things, too, I guess.
    I can’t remember.”
    I can write stories and letters,
    I thought.
    We did that in second grade.
    And then I thought,
    Letters!
    I can write letters!
    And then I stood up.
    â€œI’m going to write a letter,” I said.
    â€œRight now?”
    my dad asked.
    â€œRight now,”
    I said.
    â€œWould you like to write a letter, too?”
    my dad asked Agnes.
    â€œNo thanks,” she said.
    Then she said,
    â€œCould I listen to some