Wish You Were Eyre

by Heather Vogel Frederick

  We’re all excited in the morning, and after breakfast and announcements—there’s a dance coming up with Essex Academy, a food drive for a local homeless shelter, and a reminder that next week is School Spirit Week and we all need to be thinking of ways we can show it—Savannah and Adele and I race over to the Arts Center. There’s a crowd in front of the bulletin board already by the time we get there, and people start congratulating me before I even see the list. I make my way to the front and see that it’s true: I earned a solo spot at our competition!

  I’m going to Nationals!

  I call my parents and text Emma—BFBB—then finally I share the good news with Darcy.

  TOLD YOU SO! he texts back. YOU’RE A ROCK STAR!

  Two seconds later another text comes through: CORRECTION: YOU’RE MY ROCK STAR! ♥

  The bell for first period rings, and we all scatter to our classes. I race from the Arts Center to my calculus class, not caring if I’m late again. I’m going to Nationals!

  Mrs. Adler doesn’t say anything to me this time as I take my seat. In fact, she doesn’t even look at me at all. Instead, she shuffles down the aisles, silently handing back our tests. When she reaches my desk, she pauses. I look at her expectantly. The test was difficult, but I’m pretty sure I got at least a B, and maybe even squeaked out a B-plus. Not my usual standard for myself, but calculus is really hard.

  She places the piece of paper on my desk, tapping a finger against the red letter in the top corner.

  At first I don’t think I’m seeing it correctly. I blink, but the letter doesn’t go away.

  It’s an F.

  A big red F.

  I failed?

  I look up at Mrs. Adler, aghast. I’ve never failed a test before in my life!

  She purses her thin, whiskery lips and regards me sourly. “This is what happens to cheaters.”

  Emma

  “‘What awful event has taken place?’ said she. ‘Speak! let us know the worst at once!’”

  —Jane Eyre

  Halfway through world history, my backpack starts to buzz.

  Uh-oh, I think. I forgot to turn my cell phone off before class started. Mr. Turner is merciless when it comes to cell phones. If he hears one, he’ll confiscate it for twenty-four hours. I grab my jacket off the back of my chair and throw it down over the bag, hoping the thick insulation will smother the sound. It does, almost.

  But not completely. A faint but persistent buzzing is still audible. Mr. Turner spins around and starts walking in my direction, still droning on about something called the Maginot Line.

  Thinking quickly, I shove my textbook off my desk. It falls to the floor with a thud, and as I bend over to pick it up, I reach into my backpack with my other hand and fumble for the power button on the phone.

  As I switch it off, I see my teacher’s shoes appear. The toe of one of them starts to tap impatiently. “Perhaps you can enlighten us, Miss Hawthorne?” Mr. Turner says.

  “Uh,” I reply, straightening up so fast I bang my head on the underside of my desk. I reach up to rub the sore spot and realize too late that I’m still clutching my phone.

  With a sigh, Mr. Turner holds out his hand. I give him the cell phone, and he flips it open. I hold my breath. Please don’t let it be from Stewart! Mr. Turner’s other punishment, in addition to confiscating phones, is reading aloud whatever text messages he intercepts. Sometimes this can be hilarious. But not when it happens to you.

  “It’s from Jess!” he says, his voice going all high and squeaky, like he’s an excited teenage girl. Mr. Turner has a secret life in amateur theater here in Concord. I’ve seen him in a couple of plays with Jess’s mom. He’s actually pretty good.

  I brace myself, hoping that Jess didn’t text me anything super personal.

  “Call me right away!” Mr. Turner squeals. “Emergency!” He levels a skeptical glance at me, then adds in his usual voice, “I doubt that very much.” Snapping the phone shut again, he dangles it just out of reach. “Since this is your first offense, Miss Hawthorne, I’m going to make you a deal. If you can define the Maginot Line for us, I’ll let you keep your phone. But just this once, mind you.”

  I close my eyes, trying very hard to recall what he was telling us just before my cell phone went off. “Um, France built the Maginot Line between its borders with Germany and Italy,” I reply haltingly.

  “When?” he asks.

  “After World War I, maybe? Before World War II, I think.”

  “Correct. And it is?”

  “A fortification system of, uh, concrete bunkers and machine gun posts and, uh, other stuff.”

  “Close enough,” he says, setting the phone on my desk. “Don’t let it happen again.”

  I shake my head vigorously and shove the phone into the pocket of my jeans.

  As the rest of the hour ticks by, I keep thinking about Jess’s message. I can’t imagine her saying something was an emergency for no good reason. By the time class is over, I’ve worked myself into quite a state, imagining what might be wrong. What if Half Moon Farm burned down? Or what if something happened to her parents, or to one of her brothers? Could she and my brother have broken up?

  I practically fly out of the classroom when the bell rings. Making a beeline for the girls’ room, I lock myself in one of the stalls for privacy.

  WHAT’S UP? I text Jess.

  THE BATTLEAXE GAVE ME AN F! she texts back almost immediately. AN F!!!!!!!!! SHE SAYS I CHEATED!

  I stare dumbly at the screen on my phone. Jess, cheating? No way. I tap speed dial. “What’s going on?”

  Jess is practically hysterical.

  “I can’t understand you,” I tell her after a few seconds. “Take a deep breath and start over.”

  “I could lose my scholarship, Emma!” she finally manages to wail. “I have to go see the headmistress after school today and everything!”

  “But it’s not true,” I tell her. “You didn’t cheat—you’d never do that! Can’t you just explain?”

  “You haven’t met Mrs. Adler.”

  “Mr. Crandall will stick up for you, won’t he?”

  She gulps back a sob. “I don’t know. He wasn’t there when I took the test. How’s he supposed to help? This is a nightmare!”

  “So what happened, exactly?”

  “I have no idea—all I can think is that there was this one point right at the beginning of class when I dropped my pencil, and she saw me and gave me this weird look. But that’s it, I swear.”

  “I wish I could come right over,” I tell her. “But I can’t—I have a newspaper editorial meeting at lunchtime I can’t get out of, and a dentist appointment right after school and then my skating lesson.”

  I’ve finally started taking lessons again. I didn’t for a while after Mrs. Bergson died. She just seemed so irreplaceable. But the rink hired a new instructor, and she’s good. Totally different, too—she’s in her twenties, for one thing—so it’s not like I’m constantly comparing her to, or being reminded of, Mrs. Bergson.

  “That’s okay,” says Jess in a small voice.

  “I can come over tonight, though,” I assure her.

  “If I’m still here,” she replies miserably. “What if I get expelled?”

  I snort. “Jess, they’re not going to expel you. Didn’t you tell me that Colonial has some sort of justice system? That thing Savannah got elected to?”

  “The Community Justice Board?”

  “Yeah, that’s it.”

  She’s quiet for a minute. “I guess.”

  “See? You’re going to have a chance to explain, and then everything will be fine.”

  I hear her suck in her breath sharply, and my heart nearly stops. What now?

  “I completely forgot—what about MadriGals?”

  “What about it?”

  “If I get expelled, or if I’m failing a class, I’m automatically disqualified from extracurricular activities!”

  I can hear her starting to get worked up again. “See if you
can hold it together until this afternoon,” I tell her. “I’ll meet you in your dorm around four.”

  “What about your skating lesson?”

  “I can reschedule. Have you told your parents?”

  “Uh-huh,” she says, sniffling. “They’re coming over in a little while for my meeting with the headmistress. Don’t say anything to Darcy, though. He’s got a hockey game tonight and I don’t want him to worry.”

  I promise her I won’t, and we hang up. I stand there for a moment, staring at my phone.

  “Poor Jess,” says Stewart, when I tell him about it at lunch. We’re the first ones to arrive in the small conference room off the cafeteria where we have our newspaper meetings. I don’t have time to do more than fill him in on the bare bones before the others come in and our conversation quickly turns to the upcoming issue.

  At one point in our discussion I look over to see Stewart gazing through the conference room window with a dazed grin on his face. My stomach drops. It’s a look I’ve seen a little too much of this week. Sure enough, when I check to see what’s caught his attention, it’s Sophie Fairfax. She’s carrying a tray of food, trailing a long line of boys behind her. Including Kevin Mullins, which is pathetic and hilarious at the same time.

  I watch them for a minute, shaking my head in disgust. It’s like she has footmen or something. They should be holding up her train.

  I almost want to laugh, except that it’s been like this all week, and it’s beyond annoying at this point. Sophie Fairfax has been a huge hit at Alcott High School. Well, with the boys, anyway. The girls are a little wary, and understandably so. It’s as if the entire male population has fallen under her spell. All she has to do is bat her eyes and trot out that little French accent, and students and teachers alike pretty much roll over and play dead.

  Stewart seems to have been bitten by the bug as well, but what’s worse is that it may be mutual. Megan told me she caught Sophie looking at a pile of her old Flashlite magazines the other night, checking out pictures of Stewart. He hasn’t done much modeling this year, what with all the school stuff he’s involved in, but he was in a lot of issues last year. It’s nothing he takes seriously—just college fund money, he always says, laughing it off—but it seems like Sophie does.

  Why can’t Stewart take a cue from my brother? Darcy’s really polite with Sophie, but in a distant kind of way that lets her know he’s not interested. Stewart is definitely not distant. He’s friendly. Too friendly, in my opinion. I should probably talk to him about it, but I’m afraid he’ll think I’m being petty.

  Stewart turns around just then and sees me watching him. He smiles, and I smile back automatically. Maybe it’s all just my imagination.

  I text Jess after lunch, but there’s no response, so I figure she must be in her meeting with the headmistress. It’s so unfair! This whole thing gives me that same indignant feeling I get every time I read the part in Jane Eyre when her horrible aunt calls her deceitful. Or when Mr. Brocklehurst makes Jane stand on a stool in front of the whole school and tells them she’s a liar who should be shunned. It makes my blood boil!

  To have something like this happen to Jess is bad enough, but to have it happen right after she got the good news about MadriGals is awful. She didn’t even have time to enjoy her triumph before the wind was completely taken out of her sails.

  And there’s nothing I can do, unfortunately. It’s not like I can rally the mother-daughter book club behind her, or hold a fundraiser or something. All I can do is give her my moral support and hope for the best.

  It makes me feel really helpless.

  My afternoon classes drag by. I can’t concentrate in Spanish, and chemistry is enough to make me want to tear my hair out. It’s probably the hardest class I’ve ever had. The math and science gene in our family seems to have skipped me entirely in favor of Darcy. But then, Darcy has the whole package. He’s super smart, he’s good at sports, and he knows how to be a good boyfriend to boot.

  Maybe I should have him tutor Stewart in that department.

  After school I take the bus home and drop off my backpack, then walk downtown to my dentist appointment. I’m done shortly before four, and since the dentist’s office is right across the street from Pies & Prejudice, I decide to stop in on my way to Colonial Academy and get something to bring to Jess. A little chocolate can help cheer anybody up.

  “Emma!” says Mrs. Wong as I walk through the front door. She’s sitting at a table with Mrs. Chadwick and Megan and Sophie. Stewart is with them too. “Just the person I wanted to see.”

  I head over to the table cautiously, my raised eyebrows sending a what’s going on? signal to Stewart. In response, he shrugs his shoulders, striking a classic who knows? pose.

  Is it my imagination again, or is he looking a little sheepish?

  Megan flashes me the V sign and I smile at her. Cassidy’s “Mademoiselle Velcro” nickname for Sophie has stuck like, well, Velcro.

  “Have a cookie,” says Gigi, coming over with a plate of them. “And a seat. Lily has an announcement to make.”

  “Thanks.” The cookies are ginger molasses, my favorite next to chocolate chip. I take one, and so does Megan.

  “I’ve decided I’m going to run for mayor!” Mrs. Wong announces.

  Megan’s gingersnap hangs in the air. Her mouth, which was about to take a bite, forms a surprised O.

  “Isn’t this wonderful news?” says Gigi, her dark almond eyes sparkling with excitement. “Just think, my daughter, the mayor of Concord!”

  Mrs. Wong laughs. “I haven’t been elected yet, Mother.”

  Gigi flaps a hand. “Details, details.”

  “I must say I’m surprised,” says Mrs. Chadwick. “This is quite a step, Lily. When did you decide?”

  “It’s something I’ve been thinking about for a while now,” Mrs. Wong replies. “Running for office, I mean. Now that Megan’s in high school and doesn’t need quite so much supervision—”

  Megan makes a face at this.

  “—I thought perhaps I could take on something meatier beyond just volunteering. When I heard about Mayor Perkins being forced to resign, and the special election to replace him, well, it just seemed like the right time.”

  Megan looks stunned, and decidedly less than thrilled. I can understand—the last time her mother was in the public eye in a major way, she was wearing handcuffs.

  It was when we were still in middle school. Jess’s family almost lost Half Moon Farm because of some back taxes. Hoping to help publicize their plight, Mrs. Wong handcuffed herself to a tree and alerted the media. It backfired big-time when Becca slipped her picture into the school newspaper with a caption calling her “Handcuffs Wong.” She and Megan’s friendship blew up for a while over that.

  Mrs. Wong looks over at me. “I was wondering if you and Stewart would consider running my campaign.”

  Now it’s my turn to look stunned. “Excuse me?”

  “I need a campaign manager, and I thought who better for the job than our local high school newspaper’s coeditors?” Megan’s mother smiles at me. “I keep up with the Alcott Avenger, you know, and you two are fine writers. I just thought it would be great experience for you both and something for you to put on your college applications in a couple of years, Emma.”

  “Uh—”

  “I’ve already spoken to Sophie about it, and she said she’d be willing to help out as our official photographer. She’s very talented, you know.” She puts her arm around Sophie. “And what a wonderful opportunity for our guest to learn about the American democratic process!”

  My heart sinks. The last thing I want to do is support something that throws Stewart and Sophie together.

  “Sounds like fun to me,” says Stewart. “I’d vote for you any day of the week, Mrs. Wong.”

  Thank you very much, Stewart, I think. The thing is, though, so would I. Megan’s mother can be a little intense about things and, sure, she has her quirks, but she cares deeply about our town, she
has a good heart, and she’s an incredibly hard worker. Plus, George Underhill, the guy who’s already announced he’s running for mayor, is the kind of person it would be fun to help someone campaign against. He goes to our church, and he thinks because he donates a lot of money that gives him the right to boss everyone around. My father calls him “that pompous twit,” and he’s right.

  On the other hand, a project like this could be a real minefield. What if we mess up and Mrs. Wong loses the election because of it? She might never speak to us again.

  I look over at Megan, who’s scowling. So far, her mother hasn’t mentioned a thing about needing her help.

  If I get involved and help her mother win, Megan might never speak to me again.

  Either way, if I sign on for this job, it’s going to mean I’ll be spending a heck of a lot more time with Sophie Fairfax. And worse, so will Stewart.

  I think this is what you’d call a lose-lose situation.

  CASSIDY

  “I have not much pride under such circumstances: I would always rather be happy than dignified; and I ran after him . . .”

  —Jane Eyre

  I feel someone’s eyes on me and I look up to see my mother standing in my bedroom doorway, shaking her head in disbelief. “I never thought I’d have to say these words to you, Cassidy, but it’s time to put the book away.”

  “I’m almost done with this chapter,” I plead. “Five more minutes?”

  She smiles at me. “How can I resist? But don’t forget, Coach Larson is picking you up early tomorrow.”

  I nod, and she blows me a kiss and shuts the door and I dive back into Jane Eyre. I can’t get enough of it.

  I know I’ve bellyached a lot about the stuff our book club has read over the years, and how most of the books are old-fashioned and everything, but I have to admit I’ve ended up liking most of them. Jane Eyre, though, Jane Eyre I absolutely love.

  Jane is—well, she’s awesome. She says what’s on her mind, and sometimes gets in trouble for it. I can totally relate. It’s great the way she doesn’t suck up to Mr. Rochester when they first meet either, but just bursts out and tells him right off that he’s ugly. Maybe not ugly, but definitely not handsome.