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.
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,
“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.