PROLOGUE
THE DAY WE ME
JULIANA
Past: Juju, age 5, Camden, age 7
I held the plate with both hands, but it was still wobbly. So heavy. My fingers hurt a little, but I could see the stand Daddy helped me make, and I wasn’t far. I needed to get there before the tablecloth blew away. The paper sign that said “Cookies” was crooked, but it was okay. I thought I’d done a good job.
I took one slow step. And another.
Then…oh no, oh no.
The plate tilted and thencrashed. Cookies fell in the grass, and a couple even rolled under the bush.
I froze. My eyes watered and my nose burned. I wanted to cry really bad. I’d worked so hard on those cookies. I stirred the dough with the big wooden spoon all by myself. Mommy let me use the oven with the timer and her oven mitts and even let me take the cookies out of the oven. They were supposed to be perfect for my first cookie stand in our new neighborhood.
Now they were ruined.
Before I had time to be too upset, tires squeaked on the sidewalk. A boy on a blue bike hopped off and tossed his bike on the grass. He had dark hair, and his eyes were bluer than his bike. He crouched down next to me.
“Are those the cookies for that stand over there?” he asked.
I nodded.
He started picking up cookies, brushing the grass off with his fingers. I watched as he held one up.
“Thirty-second rule. It’s still good,” he said and popped it in his mouth.
“Hey!” I said, forgetting that I wanted to cry. “My mom says that’s not true.”
His eyes widened. “Well, that’s what we do at my house, and I’m not dead yet.”
He laughed and then chewed the cookie, his face turning serious, and then a slow smile spread across his face. “Wow. These are really good. Did your mom make them?”
I straightened. “No,Imade them. That’ll be fifty cents.”
His eyebrows lifted.
“I’m Camden,” he said, stacking the cookies back on the plate. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a quarter.
“Does this work? Since I saved the cookies and all.” He laughed.
“You can just keep it,” I said. “Thanks for saving them.”
“Thanks! And…you’re welcome.” He grinned.
He carried the plate to the stand and I followed, hurriedly dusting off a few strands of grass from the cookies.
“I’m seven,” he said. “I make pancakes and scrambled eggs. And Dad says my grilled hamburgers are better than his.”
I grin. “I’m Juju. I’m five.”
Camden blinked. “Oh. Five.”
My head tilted. “What?”
He scratched the back of his neck. “My little sister’s five. She still thinks unicorns are real, and she named her goldfish Ariel.”
