Want to Know a Secret? (5)

“Absolutely!” Maria offers me a smile, which makes me want to hug her. This woman found my baby. God knows where he would have ended up if he didn’t come here. “And he had such a good time with Owen. Poor Owen doesn’t have any friends in the neighborhood yet. I would be happy to have Bobby over again, with your permission, of course.”

I’m not sure about that. After this, I may have to duct tape Bobby to my right leg. It might be challenging to do my show, but viewers would understand. April’s Sweet Secrets—now with a screaming second-grader in every episode!

“That would be nice,” I finally say. And I mean it. “By the way, I’m so sorry we haven’t managed to connect yet. I was meaning to stop by in the next day or two.”

Maria waves a hand. “No worries! It’s so busy with school starting soon...”

“Yes, us too! It’s been crazy, hasn’t it?”

“Well,” Maria says, “now that you’re here, would you like to have some coffee while the boys play? Get off your feet?”

I shift in my flats. My right foot is throbbing. “That would be nice. Thanks.”

I feel a rush of relief that Bobby is safe and sound in this woman’s living room. He was never in any danger after all. Except I can’t ignore the fact that somebody did send me a text message about him.

Of course, maybe the text wasn’t as ominous as it sounded. Maybe whoever sent it saw Bobby leaving the backyard and wanted to warn me he was gone. Maybe the person was a good Samaritan.

But if that was the case, why did the text come from a blocked number?

I’m making too much of this. Bobby was never missing. He’s fine. And lots of people in our town have blocked numbers. I’m not going to panic over a text message. It’s not like I haven’t gotten my share of disturbing comments on my YouTube videos over the last several years. I need to just put it out of my head.

So I follow Maria into the kitchen for coffee.





Chapter 3


Maria’s kitchen is small but incredibly cozy. It’s about half the size of our kitchen. Maybe even less. But that makes sense, since Maria’s house is about half the size of ours or maybe even less. But the kitchen suits her. It’s small, no-frills, and everything seems very well organized. I appreciate a well-organized kitchen. I even have a show on the secrets to a well-organized kitchen.

“How do you take your coffee?” Maria asks as she gets the coffee machine going. “I’ve got cream and sugar.”

Maria’s coffee machine looks like the one my mother had when I was a little kid. It’s old-school. She pours coffee grounds into a little filter and flips a switch to turn it on. I have to admit, I’m very particular about my coffee. A year ago, I bought a machine that makes espressos and cappuccinos right in the comfort of my own kitchen. It was not cheap, but I justified it as a business expense by doing an episode of Sweet Secrets about the secret to making the perfect cappuccino.

The secret, in case you were wondering, is using ice-cold milk right out of the refrigerator to make the perfect foam. (And also, purchasing a five-hundred-dollar cappuccino machine.)

“Cream and sugar would be great, thanks,” I say. I glance out the window at our own house, clearly visible across the way. I left the lights on in the kitchen. “Actually, I made some brownies for you guys. I’ll bring them by later.”

I’ll give her the brownies from my show today. I’ll make something else for Carrie tomorrow.

Maria’s eyes light up. “Owen would love that. I am hopeless in the kitchen, especially when it comes to baking.”

“I’ve always been pretty good at baking,” I say. “I have a little YouTube show about it.”

“Oh, I know!” When I look at her in surprise, Maria’s cheeks flush. “Sorry, a few people mentioned to me that you’ve got the show and I watched it the other day. You’re sort of a celebrity around here, you know!”

Now it’s my turn to blush. “Am I?”

She nods eagerly. “The show is great. I tried to make your homemade chocolate chip cookies, but I’m so hopeless, they came out terrible.”

She rifles around in the refrigerator, looking for the milk. I can’t help but crane my neck to look over her shoulder. I know it sounds crazy, but I am very curious about other people’s refrigerators. Maybe it’s because I love to cook so much. I feel like the inside of a person’s refrigerator tells you a lot about them.

For example, Maria’s refrigerator is just like the rest of her house. It’s small and neat, without much inside, but very well organized. I spy a few pieces of fruit in the crisper, a container of milk, orange juice, a loaf of bread, and some cold cuts. I suppose they’re the sort of family that gets takeout a lot.

“So what brought you out here?” I ask, as Maria removes the container of milk from her fridge. I quickly peek at the expiration date—she’s got two more days.

She glances at the coffee machine. It’s still churning. “Our last apartment was in a terrible school district. There was a lot of bullying at the school and nobody seemed to care. We wanted something better for Owen.”

I nod eagerly. “The schools are amazing here. Owen will love it. What grade is he in?”

“Second grade.”

I do my best to hide my surprise—based on his size, I thought for sure Owen was in first grade or maybe even kindergarten. “Same as Bobby! Who is his teacher?”