Dear Pen Pal

by Heather Vogel Frederick

  “Ah,” says Becca’s mother, flashing Jess a curious glance. “How do you like it?”

  Jess stares down at her soup. “Fine,” she replies softly.

  “I always wanted to go to boarding school,” Mrs. Hawthorne says, smiling at her. “Ever since I read The Secret Language—are you familiar with that book?”

  Jess shakes her head. Emma nods, of course. I swear she’s read every book ever written. In fact, her family probably owns every book ever written. They have bookshelves everywhere—even right here in the dining room.

  “Oh, wow! I haven’t thought of that story in years!” exclaims Mrs. Delaney. “Remember ‘ick-en-spick’?

  “And ‘lee-bossa’?” adds Mrs. Hawthorne.

  “Sounds like fun,” says Mrs. Wong. “Maybe we should read it this year for book club.”

  “No way,” says Emma. “Sorry, Mrs. Wong, but it’s for, like, third graders. But it’s still a great book. You can borrow it if you want, Jess.”

  “So are you having fun staying in the dorm?” asks Mrs. Chadwick. I guess Becca hasn’t brought her up to speed yet on Savannah Sinclair.

  “Well,” says Jess, with a cautious glance at her mother, who is beaming proudly, “I haven’t had much time for fun yet. Mostly I just go to classes and do homework.”

  “Tell us about your classes,” Mrs. Hawthorne prods.

  Jess musters a little more enthusiasm. “They’re really good. I like all my teachers so far, especially Mr. Crandall, my math teacher. I’m taking Algebra II—”

  “I’ll bet you miss Kevin Mullins,” I say, teasing her a little. “He sure misses you.”

  At Walden, Jess and Kevin used to take the bus up to Alcott High every day together for advanced math and science classes.

  Jess turns bright red, and Emma kicks me under the table.

  “What?” I demand.

  Emma shakes her head at me and frowns, like I’m supposed to know what she’s all worked up about. I shrug and stuff another piece of sourdough bread into my mouth.

  “You were saying, Jess?” Mrs. Hawthorne says smoothly.

  “Besides Algebra II, I’m taking Environmental Studies, and Civics and Honors English. Oh, and Latin and Chorus too.”

  Mrs. Chadwick is looking at Becca with the same wistful expression that Megan’s mom had on her face a few minutes ago. It occurs to me that maybe Mrs. Chadwick wanted Becca to go to Colonial Academy too. But Becca couldn’t get into Colonial Academy in a million years. School is not Becca Chadwick’s number one priority. That would be boys, with clothes a close second.

  “How about extracurricular activities?” asks my mother.

  “I’m taking voice lessons, and they make everybody do sports of some kind.” Jess wrinkles her nose.

  I can’t believe there are people who don’t like sports—I play baseball and ice hockey and just about everything else—but there are and Jess is one of them.

  “I’m learning how to ride English-style,” she continues.

  “The Academy has its own stable,” explains Mrs. Delaney.

  “Wow,” says Mrs. Wong. “That’s great, Jess!”

  After dinner, we all go into the living room and my mother brings out an album of pictures from her honeymoon. She and Stanley Kinkaid—my new stepfather, but I’m still getting used to thinking of him as that—went on a cruise to Canada.

  “I want to go to Prince Edward Island someday too,” says Emma, as everyone crowds around the sofa for a look.

  “Is that you and Stanley?” Jess asks my mother, pointing to one of the photos.

  As if it could be anybody else. How many other six-foot-tall former models are married to short, bald accountants?

  My mother nods. “It was so romantic on the ship,” she says, and everybody sighs. Everybody but me, of course. I don’t particularly want to think about romance when it comes to my mom and Stanley Kinkaid. Not that I don’t like him—he’s a good guy and everything—but I’m still not comfortable having him around all the time.

  Everyone oohs and aahs at the pictures of the farmhouse that was the inspiration for Green Gables, the home of Matthew and Marilla Cuthbert and Anne Shirley in the Anne of Green Gables books we read last year. They were okay books, I guess. Actually, they were pretty good. But I’m still hoping we read something a little different this year. More action, and that kind of stuff.

  “So, shall we get down to business?” Mrs. Hawthorne asks, after everyone has seen the album. “We got to talking after yoga class—”

  Beside me, Emma groans quietly. I slouch down in my chair and pick at the scab on my knee. Our moms do not have a good track record with ideas sparked at yoga class.

  “We know we promised that this year you’d get to choose the books we read, but after I heard about Jess going to Colonial Academy I told Shannon and Clementine and Lily and Calliope that we just have to read Daddy-Long-Legs!”

  Our moms all nod in agreement.

  “Now we’re talking!” I exclaim, sitting up straighter. “Finally, something besides all this girl stuff. So is it about other kinds of spiders too? Or just daddy longlegs?”

  On the sofa beside me, Becca shudders. “I hate spiders.”

  “Me too,” says Megan.

  Jess looks wary, and Emma starts to giggle.

  “Um, actually, Cassidy, I hate to disappoint you, but the book has nothing to do with spiders,” says Mrs. Hawthorne.

  I slump back in my seat again. Of course it doesn’t. I should have known better.

  “Come on, honey, you’ve got to give it a chance,” says my mother. “Phoebe promises we’re all going to love it.”

  “It was one of my absolute favorites when I was your age,” Mrs. Hawthorne tells us. “It’s about an orphan girl who goes to college thanks to a secret benefactor—”

  “Kind of like Jess, at Colonial Academy?” says Megan.

  “Exactly,” Mrs. Hawthorne replies. “That’s what made me think of it. The whole story unfolds through the orphan’s letters to this mystery man, whom she calls ‘Daddy-Long-Legs.’” She rummages in the canvas bag propped next to her chair. “We’ve come up with another idea too,” she continues. “I got an e-mail from an old college friend over the summer, and it turns out Melanie and her daughter are also in a mother-daughter book club. I called her up and we agreed that it might be fun to team up this year and read the same books together, then write one another about what we’re reading. You can all be pen pals!”

  Megan gives her a blank look. “Pen pals?”

  “You know,” says Emma, “someone you write to and they write you back.”

  Megan still looks puzzled. “You mean like texting them or something?”

  Her mother shakes her head. “Nope. Just good old-fashioned snail mail.”

  “With envelopes and stamps?” I blurt out, horrified.

  “Exactly,” says Mrs. Hawthorne.

  I turn to my mother. “Mom!” I protest. “No way! That’s like homework! I have enough to do between sports and school without having to write letters to someone I don’t even know.”

  “We’re only asking you to write each other once a month,” my mother explains. “We know how busy you all are.”

  “Can’t we just use IM or something?” Becca pleads. “Letters are lame.”

  “Nonsense,” her mother retorts. “We talked it over and agreed. We want you girls to learn the art of writing real live pen-and-ink letters.”

  “But that’s so old-fashioned!” wails Becca. “Nobody writes letters anymore!”

  “Well, you all are going to,” says Mrs. Hawthorne in her no-nonsense librarian voice that means quit whining. My mother has a voice like that too, only I call it her Queen Clementine voice. “Every civilized person on this planet should be able to write a real letter.” She pulls a stack of envelopes out of the canvas bag on the floor by her chair. “And I have your first letters from your new pen pals right here. We’ll start with you, Becca. We’ve paired you up with Zoe Winchester.”

&nbs
p; She passes a pink envelope to Becca, who reluctantly opens it and takes out the picture that’s tucked inside. Mrs. Chadwick leans over her shoulder, peering through her leopard-print glasses at a girl with shoulder-length brown hair and a lot of lip gloss. “She’s really pretty, don’t you think?” she says encouragingly. “Her mother is the mayor, too.”

  “Mayor of what?” says Becca sullenly.

  “The town where she and the other girls all live,” Mrs. Hawthorne explains. “Gopher Hole, Wyoming.”

  I start to laugh. I laugh so hard I fall off my chair. “Gopher Hole?” I finally manage to wheeze. “Are you kidding me?”

  Mrs. Wong whips out a map. Megan’s mother loves maps. “See for yourself,” she tells us, pointing to a minuscule black dot. “Gopher Hole—halfway between Laramie and Cheyenne.”

  Emma and Jess and Megan and Becca and I all stare at the dot.

  “The Wild West!” says Mrs. Wong. “Won’t this be fun?”

  Megan flashes her mother a you have got to be kidding me look, which is exactly how I’m feeling.

  Mrs. Hawthorne holds up another letter. “Cassidy, your pen pal is Winky Parker.”

  “Winky?” I frown. “What kind of a stupid name is that?”

  My mother nudges me with her foot. “Manners!” she whispers.

  “Apparently her real name is Wilhemina,” Mrs. Hawthorne explains.

  “Cute nickname,” says Mrs. Delaney.

  I snort. Cute? I guess if my name were Wilhemina, I’d want a nickname too, but what human being would want to be called Winky? It’s like something you’d name a kitten, not an actual live person.

  “Her parents own a dude ranch,” Mrs. Hawthorne continues, passing me an envelope. “See the return address? Gopher Creek Guest Ranch.”

  I take the letter grudgingly. At least the envelope’s not pink. The photo inside reveals a girl with short dark hair and a big grin. She’s perched on a black horse with a white smudge on its nose and she’s wearing jeans, a red gingham shirt, and an actual cowboy hat. I flip it over. Winky riding Bingo is written on the back. Great. Her horse’s name is just as stupid as hers. Possibly even more stupid.

  “Winky’s an athlete like you, Cassidy,” Mrs. Hawthorne continues. “She’s a rodeo princess, and her mother tells me she’s won all sorts of ribbons and prizes.”

  “Athlete” and “princess” are not two words that I would ever put together in the same sentence. That would be like calling me a “hockey princess.” I shake my head in disgust.

  Mrs. Hawthorne distributes the other letters. Jess’s pen pal is Madison Daniels, the daughter of an art history professor at the University of Wyoming. Her picture shows a girl with molasses-brown skin and a round, friendly face. Her hair is braided in rows and she’s playing what looks like an electric guitar.

  “See, Jess?” says her mother. “You two have something in common—music.”

  Emma is paired up with Bailey Jacobs, the daughter of Mrs. Hawthorne’s college friend. The photo shows the two of them standing in front of a bookstore. They’re both wearing pony tails and identical smiles.

  “Hey, Bailey’s mom’s bookstore is called ‘Shelf Life,’” says Emma. “That’s really clever!” She’s the only one of us who’s sounding the least bit excited about this whole pen pal thing. Figures.

  Mrs. Hawthorne hands the last envelope to Megan. “Yours is from Summer Williams,” she tells her. “We picked her for you because she likes to sew.”

  “Isn’t that perfect, honey?” says Mrs. Wong. “You two will have tons to write about.”

  “Perfect,” mutters Megan. She opens the envelope and stares glumly at the enclosed picture of a tall, sturdy girl in overalls. She has waist-length blond hair and is standing next to a quilt with a blue ribbon on it. Megan and Becca exchange a glance. The expressions on their faces echo what I’m feeling, which is not thrilled. Really, really not thrilled.

  “Can we trade pen pals with someone else, Mrs. H?” asks Megan.

  “Megan!” exclaims her mother, shocked. “That is incredibly rude! Summer’s already written you a letter!”

  “We tried our best to match you girls up with a pen pal you’d have something in common with,” says Mrs. Hawthorne, looking a little disappointed that we’re not all more excited about her scheme. “I know they may not be perfect matches, but let’s give it a try here, okay?”

  The living room is quiet as the five of us read over our letters and look at the photos of our pen pals. Emma is the only one smiling.

  “What’s for dessert?” I ask finally, breaking the silence.

  “Kimball Farm,” Mrs. Hawthorne replies. “My treat.”

  This announcement cheers us up a little. Ice cream at Kimball Farm is a tradition for our book club’s kickoff meeting.

  As we head out the door, I shove the envelope from Winky of Gopher Hole into my back pocket.

  Final score? Cassidy—0. Winky Parker—0. It’s totally a tie for last place.

  Emma

  “It’s awfully hard for me not to tell everything I know. I’m a very confiding soul by nature, if I didn’t have you to tell things to, I’d burst.”

  —Daddy-Long-Legs

  “Emma!”

  Way off in the distance, I hear my mother’s voice. It doesn’t really register, though, because I’m reading. My mother always says that when I’ve got my nose in a book, the house could burn down around me and I wouldn’t notice. She’s right, mostly. My ears actually do hear her words, but my eyes and most of the rest of me stays glued to the words on the pages. I hate tearing myself away from a good story, and Daddy-Long-Legs, which is what I’m reading now, is definitely a good story.

  “Emma! Telephone!” This time her voice gets through to me, especially when she adds, “It’s Stewart!”

  “Okay!” I close the book reluctantly and uncurl myself from my favorite armchair.

  “It’s Stewart!” mocks Darcy in a high, syrupy voice.

  I aim a swat at him as I pass the sofa, but he’s expecting it and holds up his history book like a shield, so I smack my hand against its hard cover instead.

  “Ouch!”

  “Serves you right,” he says smugly.

  I glare at him. Brothers can be so lame sometimes. Usually I don’t mind being related to Darcy, but lately he’s really been bugging me. For some reason he can’t resist teasing me about Stewart, and it’s useless to try and tease him back—girls have liked Darcy since he was practically in diapers, so it’s no big deal to him.

  I pad across the front hall to my dad’s office and pick up the receiver. “Hey.”

  “Hey,” says Stewart. There’s a click as my mom hangs up the extension in the kitchen. “What’s up?”

  “Not much,” I tell him. “I’m just reading.”

  “Anything good?”

  “Yeah. You probably wouldn’t like it, though.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, it’s for book club, for starters.”

  “Oh,” he says. “Another girl book?”

  “Yup. It’s pretty funny, though. It’s called Daddy-Long-Legs and it’s about this orphan girl named Jerusha—”

  “Jerusha?”

  “The lady who runs the orphanage picked her name off a tombstone.”

  “Sheesh.”

  “No kidding. Anyway, Jerusha changes her name to Judy when she gets to college.” I explain to Stewart how one of the trustees pays for her education, in exchange for her writing to him each month. “Her letters are really funny, and she illustrates them with these hilarious drawings.”

  “Sounds kind of good,” Stewart says.

  “You can read it when I’m done, if you want.”

  “I might.”

  We talk for a while, mostly about books and school and skating. I take figure skating lessons at the same rink where Stewart practices hockey. We’re both pretty terrible, but we keep trying anyway. Stewart calls us “gluttons for punishment.”

  “Do you want to hear my latest poem
?” I ask him.

  “Sure.”

  “It’s about how I feel when I’m skating.” I read it to him, and when I’m done, he’s quiet. I’ve learned not to panic when he does that and assume that he doesn’t like something. He’s just thinking it over. Stewart can be really serious when something’s important, which is one of the things I like about him so much, and the reason that he’s one of the few people I share my poetry with these days.

  “It’s really good, Emma,” he says finally. “I especially like that line about ‘flying on frozen dreams.’”

  “Yeah, that’s my favorite bit too.”

  “Hey, I almost forgot! Congratulations on getting elected editor of the Walden Woodsman. I knew you would. You’re the best writer at your school by far.”

  “Thanks,” I reply shyly. I was pretty surprised when Ms. Nielson, the faculty advisor for our middle school newspaper, made the announcement. I’d assumed it would be Becca Chadwick, because she’s so popular.

  “So I guess I’ll see you tomorrow then.” Stewart gets community service credit at Alcott High for being a student advisor for the Woodsman, and tomorrow’s our regular weekly meeting. “Maybe we can take the bus home together.”

  “Okay.” I feel my face getting warm, and I’m glad Darcy’s not here to notice. Stewart lives just down the street from me, and when we take the after-school bus home from our meetings, he always holds my hand.

  I guess Stewart is my boyfriend. He’s a boy, after all, and he’s my friend. But we haven’t kissed or anything like that, so maybe that disqualifies us. We’re both kind of shy in that department. Mostly we just talk, and sometimes we go for walks, and sometimes we go to the movies or the rink together. Everybody at school teases me about him, though, and some of the other girls are even jealous. Which is kind of hilarious, actually, since absolutely nobody liked Stewart last year at all. Except me.

  Last year, Stewart was just part of the wallpaper—Becca Chadwick’s dorky older brother, in his highwater pants and scratched-up glasses. But then, the ugly duckling morphed into a swan, as my mother puts it. Now that he’s done some modeling for Flashlite, it’s like Stewart’s a celebrity or something. Last week two sixth graders hung around after school and waited until our editorial meeting was finished, then took pictures of him with their cell phones. Poor Stewart was mortified.