“Meet me at the Orange Julius” was the mantra of our junior high years. Before Dijon O’Reilly got a job at Juice Stop and Kiera Moore became a vegan, the three of us would come from our different middle schools—Dijon in his mom’s car, Kiera on the bus, and me walking the few blocks—and meet in the mall. All three of us would order Orange Juliuses from one of a rotation of bored teenagers behind the register, and then help ourselves to a cookie from the Auntie Em’s, the local Auntie Anne’s knock off run by two old lesbians and their grandnieces and -nephews.

One of these grandnephews, a boy named Joey who was two years older than us, was the object of Kiera’s desire. She’d had a crush on him since sixth grade, and she flirted with him every opportunity she got, but Joey never seemed to pick up on it. He always had a to-go cup of coffee in his hand and never got my pronouns wrong.

On one particular day, as we were sucking our sugary orange drinks through straws with the reckless abandon of twelve-year-olds who don’t need to “savor” to enjoy, we walked over to Auntie Em’s, waving at the friendly kiosk vendors—the three embroiderers, henna tattoo girl, probably-pirated video games guys—and ignoring the pushy ones—cell phone guy, caricature portrait couple, perfume lady. There was a new kiosk that day, and it was my turn to wave at the face of the new business; some of the kiosk locations constantly rotated ownership, and we took turns testing the waters. Dijon was the one who discovered the video game guys were friendly, and Kiera had alienated perfume lady by coughing as we walked by.

One side of the new kiosk was full of candy dispensers all requiring a quarter in exchange for a handful of Mike & Ike’s or jawbreakers or barely-unmistakable-from-jawbreakers gum. The two other sides unoccupied by the small checkout spot housed a bunch of random toys that you could get as prizes at an arcade or Dave & Buster’s.  

At the new kiosk was a goth girl—jet black but curly hair, black lipstick, intimidating boots. Between her shorts and tall socks, only a stretch of leg was showing, but she looked about 6-feet-tall. She was chewing gum and texting on a bright blue phone and it was at this point I realized she’d looked up and noticed me staring. I quickly formed that awkward, close-lipped Midwestern smile everyone did in greeting. In response, she offered a smile and a wink before returning to her phone.

Both of my friends stared at me, and at first I thought they could tell I was flustered, but they were just waiting for my verdict. I gave them a confirmation nod, but only Dijon intercepted it, because Kiera was suddenly distracted by something behind me.

The sound of shoes rapidly slapping the ground got louder until someone grabbed my arm and spun me around. “Did you see them?”

Joey from Auntie Em’s was panting heavily and pointing toward the JC Penney. “Who?” I asked, eyes darting around the clothes racks and checkout counters.

With a sigh of defeat, Joey let go of my arm and put his hands behind his head to catch his breath. “Someone has been stealing cookies from us and I finally caught them at it. But I was too slow.”

“That’s horrible,” Kiera piped up, wedging herself in between us to join the conversation. She tightened her already inhumanly shiny and tight ponytail. Joey took a small step back to avoid her elbow.

“What about security cameras?” Dijon asked.

Joey shook his head. “No good. We’re in a blind spot.”  

“Sorry,” I said out of habit, glancing back at the JC Penney one more time. Dijon rolled his eyes in disgust at the store. He’d been followed around and asked to leave there more than once, mostly when he had braids. It made a sort of cosmic sense that someone who would steal cookies from old lesbians would hide in the racist JC Penney.

A gaggle of alternative teens with piercings and dyed hair and ripped clothing loudly made their way over to the candy-and-toys kiosk and started a conversation with the goth girl. The one wearing red plaid pants picked up a monkey toy and draped its long arms around the girl’s neck while the one in pigtails knelt down for a handful of hot tamales.

The three of us trailed after Joey back to Auntie Em’s. We passed the kiosks, Claire’s, a couple boutiques, and one of those random hair salons pretending to be spas in every mall. As we passed the bathroom hallway, I noticed some black scuffs on the floor and wall, almost like the ones on the sidewalk from skidding bikes.

“So what’s the scoop on the new kiosk girl?” Dijon asked Joey through a mouthful of sugary orange slush.

“Who? Jessica? I don’t really know her. She goes to my school. She hangs out with the skaters but takes a bunch of AP classes.” Joey shook his head at his aunt when we got to the booth-like storefront. The clatter and noise of the nearby food court leaked into the hallways along with the smell of hotdogs. For some reason, that was the predominant smell—beating out pizza and Americanized Mexican food and Subway sandwiches.

Aunt Em smiled at the three of us. “Hello, dears. I’m afraid we have a limited menu today.”

“The guy got away with two whole trays’ worth today. Usually they only grab a few,” Joey explained, already reaching for Kiera’s usual (white chocolate macadamia nut). His hand brushed Kiera’s and she giggled, smiling at her cookie like a lunatic. Dijon nudged her in the side to get her to step aside. It was his turn to pay. He’d chosen a classic frosted sugar cookie. Dijon never cared when his mouth turned blue or green, but today the frosting on his cookie was yellow.

The display case had smudges all over it and grease stains on the wax paper of the empty trays from which the cookies must have been stolen. There were pale cookie crumbs and little bits of chocolate and nuts and even some cinnamon powder. The snickerdoodles were gone, along with half of the chocolate chip cookies. All of the double chocolate, the sugar cookies, and the white chocolate macadamias had been left alone.

“Addy, what do you want?” Joey asked me.

I pointed to the double chocolate cookies. “Does the thief always steal the same cookies?” I asked as Joey handed me the cookie in its little striped paper sack.

“Yeah,” he said, taking Dijon’s money. “They’re the easiest to grab.”

“Did you try switching around the display?” I bit into the cookie, the chocolate flavor taking over the Orange Julius taste. I let out an “mmmm” and shoved more into my mouth.  

Aunt Em and Joey stared at me like I’d suggested putting charcoal into the stolen cookies and finding the person who was throwing up. An unthinkable idea that would ruin the whole Auntie Em’s enterprise no matter if the thief were caught or not.

We began to wander through the mall without any real purpose, just to do something. A couple of kids in the play area were eating cookies, too, even though the sign said No Food in Play Area. I couldn’t tell what kind of cookies they were because half of them had become crumbs on the ground and the other half were stuck to the kids’ faces. I doubted any made it into the kids’ mouths.

“I bet it’s one of those weird people at the new kiosk,” Kiera said, taking a gentle bite of cookie so as not to hurt her teeth. She’d just gotten her braces tightened.

“Maybe it’s a JC Penney employee,” Dijon suggested. “They did run there after all.”

I nodded. “Or another food place.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The next day, Kiera had to meet with her social studies tutor at the Panera on the bottom floor, so Dijon and I met alone until she could join us. We stopped at Auntie Em’s to ask Joey about the thievery, but no one had burgled the cookie stand yet that day. “Thank God I don’t have to take a pay cut,” Joey had said, revealing to us that the money lost to the stolen cookies was taken out of his paycheck. He’d insisted, so that his aunts and cousins didn’t have to suffer for his own negligence. Even though it wasn’t his fault.

Then, as usual, Dijon and I made our way to the Orange Julius on the edge of the food court. The cashier, who was there almost every day of the week—but not the day before—was a tall girl near the same age as Joey. When she turned to get our drinks, she bumped into the machine, slamming her foot on the corner with a clunk and a muttered swear word. She recovered with just a small stumble and hop.

I noticed that Orange Julius had some cheap one-dollar cookies in a basket on the counter. The basket label said that the sales from the cookies went straight into the cashier’s tips. I asked the cashier, “Do you know anything about the cookies being stolen from Auntie Em’s?”

The cashier, whose nametag read Petra, looked around furtively and then leaned forward. “Well, you didn’t hear it from me, but I’m friends with Em’s niece and she filed a complaint against the hotdog guy.”

“Why?”

“For the smell. Duh. All of us want to do it. What kind of hotdog smells stronger than Indian food?” Petra gestured toward Naan of Your Business, which always had at least two people in line no matter what time of day.

“Did NYB file a complaint too?” Dijon asked, rubbing his hand over his newly shaved head. It was almost summer, and he said he wanted to go one summer without a sweaty head.

Petra shrugged—“I dunno”—and turned toward the person behind us in line.

“Should we go ask around at JC Penney?” Dijon said. “I would love it if one of those jerks got in trouble.”

Pointing out that not everyone who worked at JC Penney was horrible wouldn’t get me anywhere, so I just steered Dijon in a different direction. “I don’t think they actually escaped through JC Penney. We didn’t see anyone pass us before Joey came over.”

“Where else could they have gone?”

“Into a crowd?”

“It was a Tuesday.”

“Okay, then into another store?”

Dijon considered this idea and then led the way as we popped into every store between Auntie Em’s and JC Penney. After we struck out with those, we were about to actually try the JC Penney when we heard Kiera call our names from a few yards away. Her ponytail swung back and forth furiously as she power-walked over to us.

“You’ll never guess what I learned,” she said, taking the cookie I held out to her. Without waiting for us to respond, she launched right in. “So my tutor goes to school with Joey, right? And they both go to school with that goth Jessica chick at the toy kiosk. Apparently Jessica wants to open a bakery at some point. She’s always making food, and guess what her specialty is?”

“Cookies?” I guessed.

“Cookies!” she agreed, waving her own cookie in the air. “And not just any cookies. Snickerdoodles. I bet she’s trying to pass them off as her own, or steal the recipe!”

“Isn’t that kind of a stretch?” Dijon said, but I thought about those scuff marks near the bathroom that could have been made by black shoes. And how she’d noticed me watching her, like she’d been looking out. But Jessica had been sitting at the kiosk already, not out of breath or sweaty, and there was nowhere for her to have stashed the cookies. Unless she hid them beneath her moneybox and then gave them to her friends.

All three of us spun around to stare at Jessica, who was letting a little girl admire her spiky bracelet. Jessica’s teeth looked extra white against her black lipstick as she smiled.

While I continued to watch Jessica interact with the little girl—using one of her own quarters to give the girl a free handful of Runts—Dijon explained our findings to Kiera. A kid slid between me and the kiosk on his bright blue Heelies, and I thought again about those scuff marks by the bathroom.

“Well, did you guys talk to the hotdog guy?” Kiera asked, one arm crossed over her chest and the other bringing the cookie to her mouth.

Dijon and I exchanged a glance. The people who worked at the hotdog stand weren’t exactly… inclusive. Being that Dijon is Black and I am nonbinary, neither of us had really considered talking to anyone over there. Kiera looked between us, expecting some sort of answer, before rolling her eyes and declaring, “Fine. I’ll do it.”

We returned to the food court and watched while twisting our fingers nervously as Kiera marched over to the hotdog place and began speaking with the man there. I readjusted my Green Bay baseball cap three times before Kiera turned and came back.

According to Kiera, the hotdog place had gotten a surprise inspection because of several complaints, not just about the smell, but about the food making people sick. They’d passed the inspection but were already about to leave the mall food court because the rent was going up. Unless they were extremely petty, the revenge angle didn’t seem to hold water anymore.

Out of ideas, we made our way to one of those benches near the massage chairs that no one ever sat in.

“Okay,” I said, taking a seat on the edge of a giant planter holding a fake tree so I could face my friends. I took my English notebook out of my backpack and flipped to the last page. “Let’s write a list of suspects.”

“Suspects?” Dijon laughed.

Kiera laughed along even as she handed over a sparkly purple pen for me to use. “They’re nonbinary Nancy Drew.”

“Addy Kraz,” Dijon said dramatically, shortening my full name to something catchier. I smiled, remembering the collection of original Nancy Drew novels in my grandma’s library. I wished I knew where the books had gone; Nancy Drew taught me to put effort into helping the people who needed it. She was why I’d invited Kiera over when her parents were getting divorced, and why I’d helped Dijon with his English homework, and why I’d stopped hiding who I was just to make other people happy. Sometimes, I was the person who needed the help. Today, it was Joey.

“And the Case of the Stolen Cookies,” Kiera finished for him.

I clapped my hands twice. “Suspects, guys. Hotdog Man, Jessica and her friends, who else?”

“Hungry JC Penney employees?”

I added Dijon’s suggestion to the list.

Kiera snapped her fingers. “Anywhere else that sells cookies.”

I added Cinnabon, Panera, and the original Auntie Anne’s that still had a booth on the other side of the food court. Though Auntie Anne’s was more of a pretzel place. In the same vein, I added Dippin’ Dots. Maybe any dessert place should be suspect. Which meant Jessica’s kiosk had two reasons to be on the list.

As we all stared at the sparkly purple list, a mall security guard walked up to throw something away in the trashcan next to me. “Excuse me, young lady, you can’t sit on the planters,” he said, tapping the side of the fake tree twice with his hand. I cringed at the “young lady” but still stood up.

Just as the security guard was about to walk away, I spoke up. “Wait, sir, can I ask you a question?”

“Yes, young lady?”

Double attack. I almost didn’t ask what I wanted to ask. But then I remembered Joey out of breath and Aunt Em’s disappointed look when he came back empty-handed. Dijon had followed me around half the mall and Kiera had talked to the grumpy hotdog man. She still smelled a little like hotdog grease.

“Do you know anything about who’s stealing cookies from Auntie Em’s?”

The security guard frowned. “I thought they sold pretzels.”

“No, that’s Auntie Anne’s,” Kiera piped up. But the security guard’s confusion answered my question.

“Do you know what’s replacing the hotdog place?” I asked instead.

“Ah, everyone’s been asking,” the security guard said, proud to be the keeper of this hidden information. “The Orange Julius is moving over here. They’ve been trying to get this spot near the hallway for years.”

“Who’s replacing Orange Julius?” I asked.

The security guard tapped his nose like some adults did to signal that you were on the right path. “Nathan’s Famous.”

Before we could interrogate him further, the security guard was distracted by a couple old ladies wearing shape-ups who asked him where the restrooms were.

I scribbled down Nathan’s Famous on our suspect list; a new, less smelly hotdog place. But why would they steal cookies when Auntie Em’s had filed a complaint against a rival?

“The bathroom!” I said, jumping up from my new spot on the bench.

“You have to pee?” Dijon asked.

“No, there were some weird marks on the floor and wall near the bathrooms yesterday. Maybe the thief hid in the bathrooms.”

My friends jumped out of their seats with as much enthusiasm as I had and we rushed after the old ladies to the nearby bathrooms. The scuff marks were still there, not even a little faded.

Kiera went into the girls, Dijon into the boys, and I into the single-stall family restroom. I always felt bad taking this bathroom from babies with dirty diapers or disabled people who needed the extra space. But no one else was waiting, and this seemed like the most likely bathroom for a thief to hide in.

Holding paper towels to keep my hands clean, I checked in the garbage can, even though it had probably been taken out since the day before. I pulled open the Koala changing table, but there was nothing out of the ordinary besides a couple of grease smudges. Similar to the ones on the cookie display case.

A surge of pride bubbled up in my chest. I was right. I was nonbinary Nancy Drew.

As I continued to look around the bathroom, I began imagining what the cover of Addie Kraz and the Case of the Stolen Cookies might look like. Me in the Green Bay cap I always wore that year, peering into the partially empty display case with a magnifying glass. Auntie Em behind the counter—because she would make a better cover character than Joey—in an old-fashioned stripey apron.

Oh! My eye snagged on the toilet paper holder, one of those fancy metal ones in lots of public bathrooms that held two rolls at a time. On top was something flat and rectangular. A smartphone. It was the same silvery color as the TP holder, easy to miss if you were just there to take out the trash. I picked it up and clicked the home button to light up the screen. Four missed calls, some text messages, the time of day, and the background photo. A selfie. Of course.

I burst out of the bathroom, startling a man pushing a double-wide stroller. I apologized and glanced around for my friends. Dijon was leaning against a wall and waved me over. Practically buzzing, I showed him the phone. He had the same reaction I did. And when Kiera came out from the girls bathroom a couple of minutes later, wiping her hands on her pants because she hadn’t dried them all the way, we practically pounced on her. She smacked her forehead with her newly dried hands. “Duh!”

I linked arms with my two best friends. “Let’s get an Orange Julius, shall we?”

We stepped up to the Orange Julius counter for the second time that afternoon and greeted Petra. “Back for round two?” she asked with a smile.

I shook my head and held out the phone. “We found this.”

“Oh, geez, thanks!” she said, taking the smartphone and pocketing it. “I lost this yesterday. Where was it?”

“The bathroom,” I answered.

When we didn’t walk away, Petra frowned in confusion. “Do you need something else?”

Mindful of the fact that her manager was somewhere in the back, I stepped forward to speak quietly. “We know you were stealing from Auntie Em’s.”

Her eyes widened. “What? Why would you—How did—where’s your proof?”

I pointed down at her feet. She wore thick black combat boots similar to the ones Jessica was wearing the day before except shinier and less scuffed up. “Are those new?”

“What does that prove?”

Again, I pointed down, this time at the bottom corner of the machine where Petra had to go get the premade Orange Juliuses into the orange and green paper cups. Near the floor were scuff marks similar to those by the bathroom hallway. The bathroom hallway between the food court and Auntie Em’s.

“You left some marks like that near the bathrooms when you hid.”

Petra opened her mouth to argue, again, that we couldn’t prove this. But then she glanced into the back room where her manager was tinkering with something. She sighed and rubbed her heavily mascaraed eyes somehow without smudging anything. I took this as a sign of defeat.

“You should apologize to Aunt Em. Or at least to Joey. He’s the one who takes the loss from the stolen cookies.”

Petra nodded. “I’m off in a couple minutes. Let me count my tips.”

Soon, Petra met us at a table. She wore a thick hoodie, had her hair pulled back into a bun, and towered over the three of us middle schoolers who hadn’t hit their growth spurts yet. Even if we had, she would have probably been a head taller than us.  

When we approached Auntie Em’s with Petra, Joey looked up and waved, seeming surprised to see us together. Jessica from the new kiosk was leaning against the counter with her legs crossed and an index card in her hand. She looked up from the words and seemed to recognize Petra, too. I forgot they all went to school together.

Kiera bounced over to Joey, practically bursting. “We solved it!” she told him, gesturing for us to go faster.

“Really?”

She nodded vigorously and turned to me. Instead of explaining, I made eye contact with Petra, widening my eyes to urge her forward. Always more direct than I was, Dijon pushed her forward a little. Joey looked at Petra expectantly, though he didn’t seem to suspect her at all. They were nearly the same height.

Petra hung her head. “I’ve been stealing cookies from you guys.”

“You?” Joey asked, finally shocked.

She nodded, fiddling with something in her sweatshirt pocket. Her finger poked through a hole in the pocket. “I’m sorry. I know you’re taking pay cuts so your aunts don’t have to lose money. I won’t do it anymore.”

There was an awkward pause during which Petra looked even more nervous and Joey nodded his head slowly. Then he made eye contact with Petra and said, “It’s okay. Thanks for telling me.”

“I still want to—” Petra started to say.

“What?” Kiera exploded, indignant in the face of the person who had wronged her longtime crush. Joey had forgiven Petra too fast for Kiera’s liking. “That’s all?”

“Yeah,” Joey said casually. “We’re cool.”

Kiera scoffed. Dijon watched it all with a knowing smile. To keep Kiera from saying something stupid, he butted in and asked, “Why’d you do it?”

Petra tugged on her hoodie strings, lengthening one side and shortening the other, then switching. Her face was flushed. Her shoulders hunched as if she was trying to make herself smaller.

Then it clicked. She’d just bought new shoes, but her sweatshirt was old and torn. She was working almost every day. She needed the tips. If the Orange Julius moved to the spot near Auntie Em’s, no one would want the cheap, factory-made cookies over the homemade, locally sourced ones. If Kiera knew this side of the story, she wouldn’t be so upset. She knew what it was like to have to squirrel away money if she wanted anything nice in a world of hand-me-downs and boring meals and crowded rooms. But saying any of this out loud wouldn’t help anyone, so I pressed my lips together and said nothing.

Instead of answering, Petra held out what she’d been fiddling with in her pocket. A wad of cash. “These are my tips from today. It won’t pay for all of them, but…”

Joey looked down at the money and made eye contact with me as a consequence. I shook my head a little, hoping to tug on the part of Joey that called me the right pronouns and was nice to Kiera even when she annoyed him and let Dijon hang out until his mom came out of the JC Penney where he’d been followed around. Joey nodded so slightly that I was almost sure I imagined it.

Then Joey turned back to Petra and held up his hand to refuse the offer. “No, it’s okay. Like I said, we’re cool.”

“I need to do something to pay you back,” Petra insisted, just like Kiera would have.

Joey thought for a moment. Then he said, “Give these guys free Orange Juliuses tomorrow. Then we’re even.”

Dijon, Kiera, and I widened our eyes, Dijon already opening his mouth to protest, but Petra was nodding and returning the cash to her pocket, so I grabbed his arm to silence him. I made a mental note to tip the amount of money the OJs would have cost.

“Nice kicks,” Jessica said, nodding toward Petra’s boots, reminding us all that she was there witnessing the whole thing.

“Thanks,” Petra said, looking at me to see if I was judging her for the compliment. I smiled in a way that I hoped was nonjudgmental, encouraging even. Everyone deserved a pair of nice shoes every now and then, even if they made a mistake.

“Listen, if you want a steadier paycheck, I’m only at the kiosk because my mom couldn’t find anyone else. I wanted to use the summertime to work on my baking.” Jessica waved the index card she was holding, which I could now see had a recipe written on it. A cookie recipe. “Maybe by the time school starts again I can have something new ready for my Baking Club friends.”

Again, I linked arms with my two best friends and steered them away from Auntie Em’s. It was rare that we walked away without cookies, but I felt better than if I’d had sugar. I was Addy Kraz, I’d solved a mall mystery, I could tackle any problem that came my way and have fun doing it with my two best friends.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“Addy! I’ve been looking for you. My friend Parker needs your help.” Jessica waved us over to her kiosk a few weeks later. We had just stopped by to see Petra on her last day as an Orange Julius employee and were slurping our sugary orange slush with relish. It was already gearing up to be a typical Nebraska summer—hot and humid. Kiera chugged hers with particular aplomb; her school’s AC was broken. Dijon was happy for his buzzcut, and I was just glad to be out of the sun. We were talking about our respective last days of school and the soccer team we’d all joined for the summer.  

“My help?” I asked, walking over.

She nodded and waved wildly to her group of friends hanging out at one of the massage chairs. The one who was always wearing the same red plaid pants saw Jessica pointing at me. He playfully jogged over, chains jangling loudly. “Hey, you’re the famous Addy Kraz?”

I nodded, still confused.

“I hear you can solve mysteries.”

“Only once,” I said, embarrassed.

“Well, it’s more than I’ve solved,” Parker pointed out. “Anyway, someone did this to my board earlier while I got some water from the drinking fountain outside.” He held up two parts of a skateboard that was snapped in half, splintered down the middle like someone had stomped on it. “This was next to it.” He set the skateboard pieces down and took a keychain from his pocket that depicted a cartoonish monkey eating a banana. It looked like a logo, but for what I couldn’t be sure. “Can you help?”

Dijon took the keychain from Parker and held it up in front of me. I nodded in agreement, and Kiera clapped excitedly, checking over her shoulder to see if Joey was listening to us.

“Addy Kraz is on the case!”

-Ryn Baginski

Thanks to my mom, Susan Baginski, for reading this before I posted it!

Sources:

• History of the Orange Julius
• Mall food court nostalgia
• Inspired by Ivy Tran, Food Court Detective, a fake middle grade series by Diane Nguyen from Bojack Horseman