Wish You Were Eyre

by Heather Vogel Frederick

  I flip back through the book to find that part and reread it:

  “You examine me, Miss Eyre,” said he: “do you think me handsome?”

  I should, if I had deliberated, have replied to this question by something conventionally vague and polite; but the answer somehow slipped from my tongue before I was aware—“No, sir.”

  I love that! Things “slip from my tongue” all the time—and I end up in hot water just like Jane does.

  The thing is, when you have a boyfriend—which I sort of do now, I guess—you always have to be thinking about how they’re going to react to stuff that you say. I feel like I’m walking on eggshells sometimes. Like, if I mess around in class or at lunch with some of my other guy friends, Zach gets a little jealous, which is so stupid. I told him he’s totally spoiled, because he’s used to girls being head over heels about him, and I’m just not that way. I’m not going to sit around and flap my eyelashes at him like stupid Sophie Fairfax and act all silly and stuff. I just like to have fun, you know?

  I think Jane would totally get that. Maybe not the fun part—she doesn’t have much of that in her life, at least not in what I’ve read so far—but the part about not wanting to act like something you’re not.

  I especially like how she thinks about guys. She wants love, but she wants it on her own terms. She’s not going to turn herself inside out for it, the way I see so many girls doing at school.

  I reluctantly turn off the light when I finish the chapter. My mother is right, I’ve got an early start tomorrow. We’re caravanning up to Portland, Maine, for our game, and I’m driving with Coach because Stanley’s away on business. He’s at some accounting convention in Chicago, “which is going to be just as boring as it sounds,” he told us when we dropped him at the airport. “I’d much rather stay home with my girls.” He gave me a hug and a high five and told me to call him the minute the tournament was over.

  My mother had planned to leave Chloe with a babysitter and drive me instead, but her TV show taping yesterday was a disaster. Our dog Murphy managed to escape from the garage and knock over a table with a bunch of cakes and flower arrangements displayed on it. They’re going to have to spend most of Saturday reshooting.

  I lie in the dark, trying to put Jane Eyre out of my mind and focus instead on the game ahead. The Lady Shawmuts are just a couple of wins away from assuring ourselves a spot at the national championships, and with any luck tomorrow will move us a step closer.

  Somehow, though, my thoughts keep drifting back to that brooding house in Yorkshire. Thornfield. I even like the name of it. It’s sort of, what’s the word, ominous? With that word “thorn” in there, you know it’s not going to be smooth sailing. I stopped at a really exciting part just now too, where Jane is hearing creepy things this one night—weird laughter and footsteps in the hallway. Plus, she just saved her boss’s life when a fire broke out in his bedroom.

  The next morning I toss the book into my hockey bag at the last minute, telling myself that I might have an odd minute or two in the car to read. The odd minute or two turns into the entire drive. Zach is carpooling with us too—he’s our team’s equipment manager—and he keeps trying to talk to me, but my eyes keep straying back to the page. He finally gives up and talks to Coach Larson and my teammate Allegra Chapman in the front seat instead.

  “Cassidy!” Coach scolds me a while later, when we’re at the rink and I’m lacing up my skates and reading at the same time. After the fire at Thornfield, Mr. Rochester goes away, leaving Jane to wonder what’s up. I need to know what’s up too. But Coach is right; now is not the time.

  “Sorry,” I tell her, snapping the book shut and stuffing it back in my bag.

  “Mind—and eyes—on the game,” she says, and I nod energetically.

  Zach skates over after she leaves and hands me a water bottle. “Man, Sloane, what’s gotten into you? Since when did my girlfriend turn into such a bookworm?”

  Zach’s not much of a reader. But then, neither was I before I joined this book club back in sixth grade. “I dunno,” I reply, leaving it at that. I don’t want to touch the whole “girlfriend” thing. Not now, right before the game.

  We’ve never really talked about it officially, but I guess Zach is my boyfriend. I’m still a little bit on the fence, to tell the truth. I’m just afraid of becoming one of those girls who turn into a puddle of mush once they start dating, you know?

  My sister used to do that. I watched her when I was in middle school and she was in high school. It was like the Courtney I knew would disappear right before my eyes and this other weird alter ego would take over, one that was always checking her makeup and giggling at everything the boy of the month said. (Courtney had a lot of boyfriends.)

  Fortunately, she doesn’t do that anymore. My sister got engaged at Christmastime. She told me that one of the reasons she said yes when Grant asked her to marry him was because she feels so totally comfortable around him. She can just be her own goofy self, and he loves her anyway.

  Not that I’m thinking of getting engaged or anything. Or that I love Zach. I like him—a lot. We’ve known each other since fifth grade, and most of the time I can be myself around him too. But this whole you’re my boyfriend/I’m you’re girlfriend thing is kind of a sticky issue for me.

  Plus, there’s something else influencing how I feel about Zach. It’s kind of embarrassing to say, but I’ll say it: He’s not a great kisser.

  Not that I have a huge basis of comparison or anything—I’ve only ever been kissed by one other guy, and just one time—but that kiss was memorable. If that kiss went to the National Championships, it would have brought home the trophy. Kissing Zach is more like, I don’t know, kissing Murphy or something. Lots of enthusiasm, but lots of slobber, too.

  I glance at Zach, suddenly imagining him with a tail wagging back and forth, and I fight a wild urge to laugh.

  “What’s so funny?” he asks suspiciously.

  “Nothing,” I tell him. But I can’t help wondering what Jane Eyre would do if she were in my shoes.

  The whistle blows and I snap to attention. Shaking off all thoughts of Zach Norton and Jane Eyre and comparative kisses, I grab my stick and head out onto the ice, determined to focus with laserlike intensity on the game ahead.

  It’s a tough match. Rhode Island’s top U-16 team is just as eager as we are to make it to Nationals, and they’re not about to let us walk away with the game. It takes us until well into the second period to score a goal—an awesome rebound shot off the goalie’s pads that Lucinda Quigley puts away—and then we spend the rest of the game trying to keep the Reds from scoring. Somehow we manage it, chalking up a win that takes us one step closer to earning a spot at Nationals.

  Coach is thrilled, of course—we all are. She treats us to pizza on the way home to celebrate. Zach sits next to me and tries to hold my hand under the table, but I pull it away. “Not here,” I tell him.

  Later, in the car on the way home, he leans over and whispers, “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing,” I whisper back, with a nod at the rearview mirror. Coach Larson is watching us. I swore up and down when Zach volunteered to be equipment manager that we weren’t boyfriend/girlfriend (which was true at the time), because Coach doesn’t put up with what she calls “relationship drama-rama,” and even though I didn’t make some big announcement when things between us kind of changed, I’m pretty sure she suspects.

  Zach sighs and turns away.

  I wait until Coach starts talking to Allegra, then I elbow Zach. “Don’t be that way,” I whisper. “It’s just that I have a lot on my mind. You know—school, Chicks with Sticks, and now Nationals to worry about.”

  He nods. “Got it.” He doesn’t say any more, but his knee drifts over to touch mine, and I don’t move away.

  See? It’s complicated.

  The next morning Mom asks if I would babysit Chloe for a couple of hours. “I know you have Chicks with Sticks and book club later, but it would be a huge
help, and you can put her down for her nap before you leave. I just need an hour or two to whip things back into shape here before Stanley gets home.”

  “Sure, Mom,” I reply. “No problem.” And it’s true, it’s not a problem. I love spending time with my little sister.

  The house is still kind of a wreck from the TV retaping yesterday. Even though there’s snow on the ground outside, it looks like spring is in full bloom inside, what with the flowers and potted plants everywhere that Mrs. Chadwick brought over. The kitchen countertops and dining room table are still littered with the remains of the show—some kind of a Mother’s Day celebration, from the looks of it.

  My mother hands Chloe to me and I take her upstairs. Chloe gets all excited, thinking we’re going to my room. She loves going in there. Most of the time it’s off limits, because it’s hard for her to keep her little hands off things. She broke one of my hockey trophies last week, which wasn’t that big a deal, really, since it was one from third grade, but I try and remember to keep my door closed, just like it is now.

  I latch the toddler gate at the top of the stairs and Chloe-proof the upstairs hallway by closing all the rest of the doors except the one to her room. Murphy doesn’t like being shut out of the fun, and he sits on the next-to-the-top step and watches us, whining. I can’t let him join us, though, because he gets too excited when we play, and once or twice he’s knocked Chloe over.

  “Sorry, Murph, you’re just going to have to be the referee today,” I tell him, getting down on all fours. “Come on, Chloe, climb aboard the horsey!”

  She does, squealing, then grabs my hair with both her hands as I trot around the hall with her on my back. We end up in her room, where I tip her carefully off and then tickle her. I love her delicious little belly laugh.

  “Time to work on your hand-eye coordination,” I tell her, sitting her down at the far end of the area rug. I sit at the other end and we roll a ball back and forth for a while. I think of it as pretraining for her future debut with Chicks with Sticks. As soon as this kid is steady on her feet, I’m getting skates for her.

  By now I’m feeling the need for a snack, and I figure Chloe could use one too, so I take her back downstairs—Murphy is ecstatic—and fix us both some PB&J.

  “Everything going okay?” my mother asks at one point, poking her head in the kitchen door to check on us. Unfortunately, she chooses the exact moment when Chloe decides to smear the rest of her sandwich in her hair.

  “Gross!” I shriek.

  My mother laughs. “Welcome to my world. See ya!” She waggles her fingers at us and disappears again.

  I heave a sigh and pluck Chloe out of her high chair. “Okay, Miss Messpot, let’s get you cleaned up.” Carrying her into the downstairs bathroom, I wash off her face and hands and deal as best I can with her sticky hair.

  Sprucing her up gives me an idea. “Photo shoot time,” I announce, and back upstairs we go, where I put a clean outfit on her—flowered overalls and a striped turtleneck, for contrast—and rummage through the pile on my desk for my camera. It’s been gathering dust since our holiday trip to California. I took some great pictures of my friend Hannah surfing, and some fun ones of the rest of the family, but for what I have in mind I need some shots of Chloe all by herself. I’m thinking that a book of family pictures would make a great Mother’s Day present.

  “Ready?” I ask.

  “Dee! Dee! Dee!” Chloe echoes happily, and I scoop her up and walk with her down to the door at the end of the hall, the one that leads to the turret. My sister is almost never allowed up here, and her eyes widen with excitement as I open the door.

  The turret is my favorite spot in our old house. It has comfortable window seats beneath the circle of windows, and a killer view. It’s a great place to read, or just sit and dream, and the light up here is phenomenal, particularly for shooting in black and white, which is what I’m using today. I put Chloe on one of the benches and start taking pictures: Chloe sitting there looking thrilled; Chloe standing up and looking down at the snowy yard; Chloe examining the leaded diamond-shaped panes in the windows.

  “Okay if I take the van?” I call to my mother, grabbing the keys off the counter a little while later after I put my sister down for her nap.

  “Sure, sweetie!” she calls back. “Have fun with your ‘chicks’!”

  I get to the rink half an hour early, which gives me plenty of time to pull the equipment I need out of the storage closet. After I set everything up, I change out of my down jacket into my warm-ups, and reaching into my fleece pullover pocket, I pull out Mrs. Bergson’s silver whistle and loop its lanyard over my head. It’s one of my favorite possessions, and easily one of the nicest gifts I’ve ever received. Mrs. Bergson left it to me in her will. She was the one who helped me start Chicks with Sticks, and I like wearing it as a tribute to her when I coach. Plus, it’s a reminder that she had a lot of confidence in my abilities.

  I love coaching. Probably as much as I love playing hockey, and sometimes more. It sounds sappy, but it’s incredibly rewarding working with kids. Hockey is rewarding, too, but this is different—I love to see my little skaters improve and watch the way they grow more sure of themselves week by week.

  Lacing up my skates, I head out onto the ice to warm up and suddenly find myself busting out some ice dancing moves. This isn’t easy to do in hockey skates, and I don’t try anything fancy, just a few jumps and spins. It feels good to stretch some muscles that haven’t been used in a while.

  Where did that come from? I wonder. And then I realize it’s because I’ve had a certain someone on my mind this weekend.

  A certain someone named Tristan Berkeley.

  I swoop around the rink, recalling what if felt like to dance with him. And recalling that one, memorable kiss . . .

  “Cassidy!”

  I whirl around. It’s Katie Angelino. My littlest “chick” isn’t the littlest anymore. She’s eight now, and on a peewee team. Anybody who’d seen her last year when she first started wouldn’t recognize the scrappy, fearless player that she is today.

  “Hey, Katie, what’s up?” I skate over and pull up to a stop next to her.

  “My cousin Ivy wants to know if she can join the club.” She points to the chubby, dark-haired girl who’s clinging to her hand. She can’t be more than six or seven. The timid expression on her face reminds me of how Katie looked the first few times she showed up at the rink.

  “Sure you can, sweetheart,” I tell her, squatting down so my height doesn’t intimidate her. “Your cousin was your age when she started, Ivy, and she’s one of my stars now.”

  Katie beams at this, and her cousin gives her a worshipful look.

  We locate Ivy’s mother and get things rolling, and pretty soon the rest of my players start to arrive. I’m glad I thought to ask Emma to help me out, as the group has really grown. Emma’s not into hockey, but Mrs. Bergson was her figure skating teacher, so she was coached by the best. She’s completely capable of helping the younger girls get comfortable on the ice and learn to do stuff like skate backward and stop, plus all the basic drills. More important, she definitely understands hockey, what with all those years spent watching her brother’s games. She didn’t know if she’d have time at first, since sh’es coeditor of the newspaper and all, but she finally said yes. I’m looking forward to having her out here on the ice with me.

  My cell phone buzzes and I pull it out of my pocket. It’s Emma, texting me to let me know she’s not going to be able to make it today.

  JESS IS IN MAJOR MELTDOWN MODE.

  WHAT’S UP? I text back.

  CALL ME LATER WHEN YOU HAVE TIME.

  I call her right then instead. “What’s going on? Is everything okay?”

  “Jess has been accused of cheating,” she tells me.

  “Whaaaaaaat? Seriously?”

  “Yes, seriously. She could lose her scholarship.”

  “Whoa. Anything I can do to help?”

  “Unfortunately not,” Emma
replies. “The headmistress referred the matter to the Community Justice Board—”

  “That thing Savannah got elected to?”

  “—yeah, but they aren’t meeting again until after their February break.”

  Suddenly Jess is on the phone. She must have snatched it from Emma. “It’s agony!” she wails. “I have to wait nearly two whole weeks!”

  Alcott only gets one break between our winter holidays and summer vacation, but private schools get spring break plus an extra week in February. For those essential ski vacations and trips to the Caribbean, I guess.

  “Couldn’t you hire a lawyer, or something?” I suggest.

  “Not yet,” Jess replies. “It has to go through the academy’s justice system first.”

  “Dang, girl, I’m really sorry.” Suddenly, my dumb obsession with Zach’s merits as a kisser feels pretty insignificant. “Hey, I have to go—practice is about to start, but I’ll call you later, okay?”

  The afternoon’s session on the ice goes pretty well, considering I have so much on my mind. Zach shows up toward the end, a habit he’s fallen into lately, which most of the time I don’t mind, but tonight feels a little claustrophobic for some reason. Probably since I already spent all day yesterday with him.

  I’m a little irritable afterward when he asks if I want to hang out at the snack bar for a while, and then I have to apologize because it’s obvious I’ve hurt his feelings.

  “It’s just that I have a ton of homework I didn’t finish,” I explain. Which is sort of true. To be exact, I have a little homework and then I have to finish Jane Eyre. Which is homework for book club, technically.

  He gives me a quick kiss in the parking lot—too quick to be slobbery—and tells me he’ll see me at school tomorrow. And then we get in our separate cars and head home.

  After dinner I log onto the computer in the family room and find an e-mail waiting from Megan. It’s addressed to Becca and Emma and Jess and me, letting us know that she’s found out a little more about Sophie Fairfax: