Dear Pen Pal

by Heather Vogel Frederick

“I didn’t know we were expecting more guests!” Winky exclaims.

  The helicopter settles onto the middle of the grassy lawn. As its propeller blades slowly whine to a stop, the door on its side opens and a tall, silver-haired man in a suit climbs out, followed by a blond woman in a white sundress.

  “Oh, no!” I whisper, my heart sinking like a stone as the man turns and reaches his hand out to the chestnut-haired girl behind him. “What the heck is Savannah Sinclair doing here?”

  Megan

  “I am beginning to feel at home in the world—as though I really belonged in it.”

  —Daddy-Long-Legs

  “Poppy!” shouts Mrs. Chadwick, catapulting off her cabin porch. She charges across the lawn toward the helicopter, her bathrobe flapping behind her and her arms flung wide.

  “Calliope!” the blond woman in the white sundress shouts back, and they throw their arms around each other in a big bear hug.

  I turn to Becca, who’s standing beside me in her pajamas. “Does your mom know the Sinclairs?” I ask, astounded.

  “Um,” she replies, looking uncomfortable. “She made me promise not to say anything.”

  “What? Why?”

  Becca shrugs. “I dunno. She made it sound like it had something to do with national security. Don’t tell anybody, okay?”

  Puzzled, I nod, and follow her back inside to get dressed.

  “Poppy and I were roommates a zillion years ago at Colonial Academy,” Mrs. Chadwick explains to us all a short while later at the breakfast table.

  I arch an eyebrow at Becca and whisper “national security?” She presses her lips together and shrugs, as if to say How was I supposed to know?

  Mrs. Chadwick and Mrs. Sinclair beam at each other. “When I found out we were coming here, I just had to give her a call,” Becca’s mother continues. “The Senator is an avid fisherman, and I thought it might be fun if they could join us, especially since our girls already know their lovely daughter, Savannah.”

  The Sinclair’s lovely daughter regards us warily over her waffles.

  Summer Williams leans over toward me. “Isn’t she the one you guys call ‘Julia’?” she murmurs, and I nod.

  “We’re delighted to have you here at Gopher Creek Ranch,” says Mrs. Parker graciously. “And I’m sure our girls will enjoy getting to know Savannah, too.”

  Don’t count on it, I think, looking around at my Wyoming friends.

  “So you both went to Colonial Academy?” says Mrs. Hawthorne. “How come we never knew this about you, Calliope?”

  Mrs. Chadwick bats her pale robin’s-egg-blue eyes, which this summer are residing behind a pair of giant black glasses frames that I guess are in style but that make her look a little like Kevin Mullins. “Everyone is entitled to their secrets,” she says coyly.

  “Still trying to cover up your wicked past, I see,” drawls Poppy Sinclair.

  “We knew you went there,” says Cassidy. “We saw your field hockey picture on the wall in Witherspoon.”

  “Is that so?” Mrs. Chadwick crunches on a piece of bacon. “Savannah’s mother was on the team too.”

  Poppy Sinclair gives a mock shudder. “Weren’t those uniforms an absolute horror?”

  She and Mrs. Chadwick pick up their knives and simultaneously thump them on the table, then clank them together three times and cheer, “Goooooooo, Colonial!”

  A smile creeps across Savannah’s lips, and her eyes flick over to Jess. Something tells me she’s heard this cheer before. The smile fades, though, when she sees that Jess is pointedly ignoring her.

  Mrs. Chadwick and Mrs. Sinclair continue to reminisce throughout breakfast, laughing and joking with each other while the rest of us listen to their stories.

  “And I just love what you’ve done to yourself,” Savannah’s mother tells her.

  Pleased, Mrs. Chadwick runs her fingers through her prickly hair. I’ve actually gotten used to her new style since she got it cut last fall, and I even think it’s kind of cute. Becca still doesn’t, though. “It’s a whole new me, right?”

  “Not that there was anything wrong with the old you,” Mrs. Sinclair says loyally. “But this is a bit more, I don’t know—”

  “Fun?” says Mrs. Chadwick, batting her eyes again.

  “Exactly.”

  I look over at my mother. If somebody like Mrs. Chadwick can have fun, why is it so hard for her? Even my mother’s breakfast plate screams “NOT HAVING FUN!” The food here at the Parkers’ ranch is great, and there’s lots of it. Which is a good thing, because all this fresh air makes a person hungry. Most people, that is. Like everybody else at our table, Gigi and I have piled our plates high with waffles and scrambled eggs and bacon and fruit salad, but all my mother took was half a banana, some yogurt, and a single slice of whole wheat toast. I sigh. I sure hope she can figure out how to cut loose a little while we’re here.

  “So,” says Mrs. Parker, “on the docket for this morning for our group: one trail ride. Owen, Sam, you boys help Dad with the rest of the guests, okay? He’s planning on taking several of the families fishing, so they’ll need to be outfitted, and if one of you could help me with cowboy camp for the smaller kids this afternoon when I get back, that would be great.”

  Jess leans over to me. “Man, I wish my little brothers could have come,” she says. “They’d have loved it here.”

  A familiar pang of envy stirs in me. The Delaney twins are a total pain, but I would still give anything for a little brother or two. Or a sister, I think, looking over to where Chloe is snuggled in Mr. Sloane-Kinkaid’s arms.

  Our pen pals all have brothers and sisters too—including Summer, who has so many I can’t keep them all straight. Nobody at this table is an only child, not even my own mother! She has a brother back in Hong Kong, and my dad has two sisters. I don’t understand why my parents wouldn’t want me to have what they have. It’s so not fair. Not one bit. All I’ve got is Mirror Megan, and a mother and grandmother who can’t seem to get along.

  “We’ll rendezvous in the barn in half an hour, okay?” Mrs. Parker continues. “Winky and Pete will get you all set up with horses, and we have plenty of extra boots and hats if you didn’t bring them with you.”

  We clear away our dishes when we’re done and scatter to get ready. Crossing the lawn—which is now minus the helicopter—I feel a tug on my sleeve. It’s Summer.

  “Hey, Megan, do you have a minute?”

  So you can bore me to death with another quilting lecture? I think, but I don’t say it out loud, of course. “Sure,” I chirp, mimicking her relentlessly cheerful tone.

  “I’ve got something for you.”

  I follow her to the bunkhouse’s empty living room. “Wait here,” she tells me, and disappears down the hall, reappearing a moment later with a large, soft package. “I made it for you,” she says, handing it to me.

  My heart sinks as I instantly guess what’s inside. “Gee, thanks, Summer, you shouldn’t have,” I reply without enthusiasm.

  “Open it!” she urges, hardly able to contain her excitement.

  Reluctantly, I remove the wrapping paper. It’s a quilt, all right, but not at all what I was expecting. “Wait a minute, is this your story quilt?”

  Summer nods. “Uh-huh.”

  “But you can’t give this away—this is your prize-winning quilt!” All Summer’s talked about in her letters since the Fourth of July is how excited and thrilled she was to win first prize in the state fair’s junior division, and how she got a blue ribbon and a check for a hundred dollars, which she put into her college fund.

  “Sure I can. I checked with my mom and everything. We agreed that you’re part of my story now, so it’s perfect, don’t you see? I’ve had so much fun writing to you this year, Megan! I’m really glad we’re friends.”

  I stare down at Summer’s unexpectedly generous gift, feeling really awful all of a sudden for the things I’ve thought and said about her these past months. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “
How about ‘thank you’?” says Gigi, poking her head in the door. “Sorry, girls, I didn’t mean to eavesdrop. I’m looking for Lily and thought maybe she was over here.”

  She crosses to the sofa and sits down beside me, running her small hands—practically the only part of my grandmother that’s wrinkled—over the quilt. “I told Megan you deserved to win first prize when you sent her that picture last winter. It’s just lovely. You did a beautiful job, Summer. Just look at that feather-stitching!”

  I feel another stab of guilt. My grandmother is right. The quilt is exquisite.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Chen,” Summer replies modestly.

  “Call me Gigi.”

  “Okay.”

  “I wish I had something to give you,” I tell Summer, feeling worse by the minute. It never even crossed my mind to bring her a present.

  Summer smiles at me. “You don’t give a gift to get one back. You give a gift because you want to. At least that’s what my mom always tells me.”

  Gigi nods approvingly. “Your mother sounds like a very wise woman.”

  Summer sits down cross-legged on the floor in front of us and launches into an explanation of the history of Victorian crazy quilts. As she shows us the different top stitches—feather, herringbone, chain, and fly—I find to my surprise that I’m actually interested, especially when she starts telling us the stories behind each piece of fabric. The green velvet is from her first holiday dress, and there’s some bright yellow calico from one of her mom’s old aprons, blue and white ticking stripe from a pillowcase that used to belong to her grandfather, and even some denim from her favorite overalls.

  “Like a family,” says Gigi, giving me a sidelong glance. “Different fabric, different people. All with different tastes and interests, but stitched together with love.”

  “That’s exactly what my mother says!” Summer exclaims.

  Gigi smiles at her. “I can see I’m going to have to get to know your mother better.”

  “So she doesn’t mind you cutting all this stuff up?” I ask.

  Summer shakes her head. “She says she can’t think of a better way to preserve a memory.”

  I finger a piece of plaid flannel. “Who did this belong to?”

  “That’s from an old shirt of my dad’s,” she replies softly. “After he left, I found it hanging in the back of his closet, so I took it and kept it in mine. It smelled like him for the longest time.”

  There’s sadness in my grandmother’s eyes as she listens to this. I haven’t thought much about how Summer feels about her parents’ divorce. It must be really tough, not getting to see her dad very often. I’d really miss my father if he moved to a different city.

  Summer shrugs. “That part of the story isn’t such a happy one.”

  “How about this piece here?” Gigi asks, moving to what I hope is a cheerier square. It’s a patch of faded ivory silk right in the center of the quilt.

  Summer brightens. “There’s an awesome story behind that one! I took it from the hem of my great-great-grandmother’s wedding dress. She came to Laramie in a covered wagon.”

  “No kidding?” I slide my fingertip across the silk. It’s cool to the touch, and just like with Mrs. Bergson’s Daddy-Long-Legs doll, I feel like I’m touching a piece of history.

  “She was heading for Utah with her parents,” Summer continues, “but when the wagon train stopped here, she went into the post office to buy some stamps and fell head over heels in love with a handsome young rancher who was picking up his mail. The next morning when the wagon train left, she stayed behind and married him.”

  Gigi sighs. “What a romantic story!”

  Summer’s quilt is like some kind of a rare treasure map of her family. I push it back toward her. “You can’t give this away.”

  She places it firmly in my lap again. “There’s plenty more fabric up in that old trunk,” she tells me, then grins. “Besides, you know me. I’ll have another one whipped up before your plane even touches the ground back in Boston.”

  My conscience prickles again. Did she guess that we made fun of her?

  “Oh, there’s one more thing.” Summer turns the quilt over and points to the bottom right-hand corner. Something is embroidered on it. I look more closely and read: To Megan from her pen pal, Summer. Friendship is where the best stories begin.

  “Thanks,” I whisper, and this time I really mean it.

  Chattering about feather stitching and wedding dresses, the three of us head down to the barn where the rest of our friends are getting ready for the trail ride. Winky steers Summer and me to a pile of cowboy boots and tells us to find some that fit. Gigi’s already wearing hers—designer, of course, purchased especially for the occasion—along with impeccably tailored jodhpurs, a white silk blouse, and her diamond earrings. Pete’s bushy white eyebrows shoot up appreciatively when he spots her and he quickly makes his way across the barn.

  “Ma’am?” he says, offering his arm. “May I escort you to your steed?”

  My grandmother doesn’t miss a beat. “You bet, pardner,” she replies, tucking her hand under his elbow.

  Mrs. Delaney and Professor Daniels are already mounted on Tango and Dazzle, and Pete and Winky’s brothers quickly get the rest of our moms settled too, including Mrs. Sloane-Kinkaid, who’s practically giddy about being “off duty,” as she calls it, since Stanley offered to stay behind at the ranch with Chloe today.

  I’ve been paired with a big creamy golden mare named Siren, who Winky tells me is a Palomino. Not that I’d know the difference. I try unsuccessfully to hop up into the saddle, and finally give up to wait for a boost from Pete or one of the Parker boys.

  Looking like an ad for Equestrian Monthly or something, Savannah Sinclair strides into the barn. She’s riding Sheba this week, and she swings herself up expertly into the saddle. Jess has told us what a good rider Savannah is, and there’s something about the confident way she sits on the coal-black mare’s back that tells me Jess is right.

  “So what’s with the chicken?” Savannah asks, nodding at Lefty.

  “Rooster,” I correct her.

  “Whatever.”

  From the looks of it, Lefty is not too thrilled with all the attention that Pete is paying to Gigi and Mrs. Bergson. Across the barn, he’s flapping his lone wing and hopping up and down frantically, and every few seconds he makes a dive for Pete’s boots.

  “I think he’s just being protective,” I reply, briefly explaining Lefty’s history.

  “Like the McGurk,” adds Cassidy, maneuvering Jitterbug over next to us.

  “Like the what?” says Savannah.

  “Never mind,” I tell her. “Just somebody in a book.”

  Savannah grunts. “Y’all and your stupid book club.” She looks over at Lefty and narrows her eyes. “A rooster’s kind of a silly pet, don’t you think?”

  Cassidy mouths the word “Julia.” I nod back. Still, I don’t get it. Savannah’s not even bothering to make an effort to be nice. Back when we were all taking care of Emma’s puppy, she seemed almost, well, human.

  Something must have happened around that time, because things between Jess and her soured again, fast. I glance across the barn to where Jess is seated on Anthem. She’s been very carefully giving Savannah a wide berth since she got here, and I decide to do the same.

  Trailing a still-flustered Lefty, Pete finally gets to me and gives me a boost up onto Siren’s back. I must look a little nervous because he pats me on the leg. “Her name is a lot wilder than she is,” he tells me with a wink. “Don’t you fret, cowgirl, she’ll get you there and back just fine.”

  “There” turns out to be plateau at the top of what feels like a mountain but I’m told is just a hill. It’s about an hour and a half’s ride from the ranch, and I can barely move by the time I slide out of the saddle. Rubbing my sore rear end, I limp toward one of the blankets that Pete and Winky have spread out for us in the shade. I collapse in a heap next to Becca, who it turns out is having even less fun this
morning than I am.

  “What is it with your mother?” mutters Zoe, staring at Mrs. Chadwick. “Was there a sale at the clown store?”

  Becca’s mother has really flung herself wholeheartedly into the whole Wild West theme today. She’s decked out in jeans and red accessories—red cowboy boots, a red bandana, red piping and red buttons on her white Western-style shirt, and even a red cowboy hat.

  “At least my mother isn’t trying to suck up to some Washington bigwig,” Becca retorts.

  Zoe reddens. Over on the other blanket, Mrs. Winchester is busy giving Senator Sinclair a long, loud explanation of every single one of her important duties as mayor of Gopher Hole, including making sure that the flag is flying properly over the post office every day.

  “Well, at least my mother—” Zoe begins.

  “Girls!” calls Mrs. Hawthorne suspiciously. I swear Emma’s mother has supersonic hearing. Actually, most mothers do. “What’s going on over there?”

  “Nothing,” Zoe replies sullenly.

  The ride back is uncomfortable in more ways than one.

  We were supposed to have our big book club meeting this afternoon, but our mothers decide it would be rude to ditch the Sinclairs on their first day here, so instead we all end up going for a swim after lunch. Dressed in bathing suits and shorts and carrying our towels, we follow Winky along a path by the creek to a deep pool she calls the “swimming hole.” The water is cold and refreshing after our hot, dusty ride, and it’s actually fun until Savannah manages to catch a minnow and put it down Cassidy’s bathing suit.

  Cassidy calls her a “fivehead” and chases her up the creek bank, and Zoe uses the commotion to get back at Becca for her remark about her mother by plopping a handful of mud in her hair. Our mothers have to step in and separate everybody, and we all end up getting sent back to our cabins to cool off.

  After dinner, our moms continue to keep a wary eye on us, and instead of playing board games back in the bunkhouse living room like we’d originally planned, they make us sit by the fire in the dining room and listen to Pete read his cowboy poetry—which is funny enough but a little goes a long way—and to Mr. Parker tell stories about the ranch’s history. I fall asleep at one point, and finally excuse myself to head off to bed.