Wish You Were Eyre

by Heather Vogel Frederick

  I overheard my mother and Gigi talking, and I guess she ended up in the exchange program because of her parents’ divorce. Mrs. Berkeley was the one who suggested it. Sophie’s grandfather was worried that all the arguing would be stressful for her, and Mrs. Berkeley told him that Concord was a safe haven.

  I make a mental note to add this new info to the list we’ve been keeping. Got it, I e-mail back. Good work, Megs.

  I’m about to log off and go upstairs, when all of a sudden Tristan Berkeley’s icon pops up on IM.

  He’s online.

  I look at the clock. It’s midnight in England. Too late to message him?

  Nah.

  Hey, Tristan! I sit there waiting, hoping he’ll see my message. A few seconds tick by, and then the screen flashes with a reply: Hey back!

  I did some ice dancing at the rink today. Just thought you’d want to know.

  Really? How’d it go? Ready to compete again?

  Ha! Not really, I tell him. But it was fun anyway.

  There’s a pause, and then: I miss dancing with you.

  Me too, I reply.

  Our words hang in cyberspace, shimmering on the screen.

  Can I ask you a question? I continue finally.

  Sure.

  How is your family related to the Fairfaxes again? I forgot.

  Funny, he replies. Megan asked Simon the same thing a little while ago. My mother, Annabelle’s father, and Sophie’s father are all cousins.

  Which makes the girls your . . .?

  Second cousins, I think.

  Got it, I tell him, jotting it all down furiously on my clipboard.

  Hey, I should probably go. It’s getting late.

  I could kick myself for wasting so much time talking about stupid Sophie Fairfax! Yeah, me too, I tell him reluctantly.

  See you at the next videoconference! Simon and I are working on a killer video—you lot are going to love it.

  Can’t wait! See you then!

  Bye!

  Bye!

  I linger a moment, hoping he’ll sign off “Fondly, Tristan,” but he doesn’t. That’s what he wrote in the book he gave me for Christmas, and I’ve practically worn out the page running my finger over the words.

  I sit there for a while, staring at the screen. It’s been a strange weekend. Strange—and confusing. I’m completely in the dark here and have no idea where things stand. Zach and Tristan, tied, maybe? Cassidy, clueless?

  I shut the computer down and head upstairs to bed. Time to see if Jane Eyre can help me figure out the score.

  SPRING

  “Merry days were these at Thornfield Hall; and busy days, too . . .

  —Jane Eyre

  Emma

  “When I saw my charmer thus come in accompanied by a cavalier, I seemed to hear a hiss, and the green snake of jealousy, rising on undulating coils from the moonlit balcony, glided within my waistcoat, and ate its way in two minutes to my heart’s core.”

  —Jane Eyre

  Dear Emma,

  Spring can’t come soon enough for me, how about you? The calendar says that the season should be changing soon—two weeks from now I’ll be on a plane to Boston for spring break, yay!—but apparently no one told Gopher Hole, because we’re still up to our ears in snow, snow, and more snow.

  I put Bailey’s letter down for a moment and gaze out my bedroom window at our yard. It may not be covered with snow like Wyoming, but it’s still a long way from looking anything like spring. Late February through April means mud season in New England, and right now Concord looks as grim as the grounds of Lowood School.

  Which pretty much sums up the way I’m feeling these days.

  I glance at my watch. Quarter after three. I need to get going soon; I’m due at a campaign brainstorming session. We’re gearing up for Mrs. Wong’s first debate in a few weeks. I pick up Bailey’s letter again.

  You wouldn’t believe how excited we all are about the trip! The only one of us who’s been back East before is Madison, and that was to Disneyworld, which doesn’t really count. Everything I know about New England is either what I’ve seen in movies or what I’ve read in nineteenth-century novels, which probably isn’t very helpful, is it? You guys aren’t, like, super formal or anything, are you?

  I laugh out loud at this. “Us, formal?” I ask Pip, who’s curled up next to me on my bed. Pip is our golden retriever, and it’s totally against house rules for him to be up here, but he’s so adorably thrilled when I give in and let him that it’s hard to resist.

  Pip’s eyes stay closed, but his tail thumps softly against my leg, which is his way of participating in the conversation.

  I scan the rest of the letter quickly: Bailey’s working part-time after school now at Shelf Life, her mom’s bookstore, and she’s learning how to knit, thanks to Summer Williams. Summer has expanded her craft horizons to include knitting, apparently. Bailey says that at their last book club meeting, Summer did an elaborate presentation about nineteenth-century needlework that included having everyone pick up a pair of needles and give it a whirl. Zoe Winchester thought the whole thing was stupid of course, but no big surprise there. Zoe is sort of the Chadwickius frenemus of Gopher Hole.

  Bailey’s mention of Zoe reminds me that her mother did a stint as mayor there. I’d totally forgotten about that, and I make a mental note to pick Mrs. Winchester’s brain for campaigning tips when she’s in town.

  Bailey ends by dropping a bombshell.

  Guess what? I finally have a boyfriend! Well, maybe not quite officially or anything. We’ve been on exactly two dates—once to a movie, and once for burgers after a basketball game. You’ll never guess who: Owen Parker!

  My eyebrows shoot up. Owen is one of Cassidy’s pen pal Winky Parker’s very cute older brothers. Zoe must be fit to be tied—she’s had a crush on him forever.

  Zoe is fit to be tied, of course, Bailey continues, and I smile. Great minds think alike. She practically shoots lightning bolts out her eyeballs every time she sees the two of us talking at school. I think I get just as much satisfaction out of that as I do going out with Owen!

  I laugh, picturing the look on Zoe’s face. I prop the photo Bailey sent me against the lamp on my bedside table. It was taken at their last book club meeting, and all five of them are holding knitting needles, pretending to look prim. Zoe is failing miserably; she just looks like she drank a glass of vinegar. I stare at the picture, thinking about how much everyone has changed since we were in Wyoming two summers ago. I’d still recognize them anywhere, though—Bailey’s freckled, friendly face; Winky Parker’s mischievous twinkle and one-hundred-watt grin; and of course Zoe herself, who still wears too much lip gloss. Summer Williams and Madison Daniels have changed the most, mainly due to their hair styles. Summer used to have waist-length blond hair, but she wrote to Megan recently and told her that she cut it off and donated it to one of those charities that helps disadvantaged kids. That’s such a Summer thing to do—she’s one of the nicest people I know. Her new hairstyle is cute, though. Madison has traded in her cornrows for a mane of corkscrew curls that look funky and edgy and awesome. Just right for someone in a band. I wish my hair would do that, but my curls are the more boring variety.

  I slide off my bed and cross the room to tuck Bailey’s letter into the “To Be Answered” slot in my rolltop desk, right next to the letters from Rupert Loomis and Lucy Woodhouse, my English friends. Well, Lucy’s a friend. Rupert’s more of a . . . how to describe Rupert? He’s like the Kevin Mullins of England, I guess.

  The notebook in the adjoining slot catches my eye and I pull it out and flip through its pages. I haven’t written anything in my journal in days, and I’m itching to get back to it. Now is not the time, however. I don’t want to be late for my meeting.

  Life has gotten really busy all of a sudden, what with school and being coeditor of Alcott High’s newspaper and now Mrs. Wong’s campaign. Plus, Cassidy twisted my arm into being her assistant coach for Chicks with Sticks. I thought she was ki
dding when she first mentioned it, because I am so not a hockey player, but it’s turned out to be phenomenally fun.

  It’s also turned out to be a really good way to take my mind off Stewart and Sophie.

  Stewart and Sophie.

  Of all the boys at Alcott High whom Sophie Fairfax could have set her sights on, why did she have to pick Stewart? And why does he have to act so flattered?

  Scowling, I stuff my arms into the sleeves of my jacket. Cassidy has started referring to him as Stew-rat, which I don’t think is quite fair because it’s not like there’s anything really going on between him and Sophie. At least I don’t think so. He’s just—twitterpated is the word, maybe. Or enamored. Charmed. Captivated. Entranced. Take your pick.

  Great, I think sourly. I’m playing the synonym game with myself. How pathetic is that?

  The thing I most hate is how self-conscious I feel whenever I’m around Sophie, which is due to happen again in about fifteen minutes. It’s like being back in sixth grade.

  It’s just that she’s so, so—perfect. Her hair is curly like mine, but unlike my shoulder-length tangle or Madison Daniels’s wild style, Sophie’s forms a cute little halo framing her face. Plus, even if she’s just wearing jeans she always looks chic, and her makeup is flawless. She’s like this petite little package of perfection. The French accent is just icing on the cake.

  I, on the other hand, am far from perfection. I’m just, well, Emma. Definitely not petite, hair almost always messy whether it’s long or short, clothes fairly hopeless, and makeup barely even on the radar screen. Next to Sophie, I feel like a real plain Jane.

  Which makes me wonder if that expression was coined after Jane Eyre came out. I’ll have to ask my mother.

  “Come on, Pip,” I tell him. “No point stewing about Sophie, right? Or should that be ‘Stew-ratting’?”

  Pip ignores my lame pun, of course, and follows me downstairs to my father’s office. “Hey Dad,” I say as we troop in. Lady Jane Grey, our new cat, is curled up on his desk beside his laptop.

  My father is frowning at the screen and doesn’t look up for a few seconds. His expression brightens when he sees me. “Emma! When did you get home? I didn’t hear you come in.”

  My father is a writer, and when he’s “in the zone,” as he calls it when work is going well, he’s kind of oblivious to everything else around him.

  “About an hour ago, and now I’m going out again,” I tell him. “I have a campaign meeting, and then I’m heading to the rink to help Cassidy. You and Darcy are on your own for dinner tonight. I promised Mom I’d walk her home after Chicks with Sticks—she’s working late at the library.”

  He nods absently, already engrossed again in whatever’s on his laptop screen. “Uh-huh,” he murmurs. “Got it.”

  Pip squeezes past me and settles onto the rug by his feet with a grumbly sigh. He and my father took a while to become friends. Dad is definitely a cat person, and Pip makes it clear that he considers him a poor substitute for me, and that he’s only tolerating him because I’m not around. I’m secretly glad I’m Pip’s favorite, though. He’s my dog, after all. I’d been wanting a dog forever, and Pip was my birthday present a couple of years ago from my book club friends.

  I shut the front door behind me and pull my hood up. The snow may have vanished, but it’s still cold out. Plus, it’s damp, too, which makes it feel even colder. It reminds me a lot of the weather in England this time of year.

  I walk briskly down Lowell Road, turning right at the corner of Main Street. Pies & Prejudice is just past Vanderhoof Hardware. The sight of the black-and-white striped awning over the front window and Megan’s clever sign—a silhouette of a woman in a cap and apron holding out a pie—instantly cheers me up. I think everybody in Concord feels the same way about it, actually. It’s been hugely popular ever since it opened.

  My smile fades as I enter and see Stewart standing at the glass display case talking to Sophie. He’s not the only one, either—she’s up to her éclairs in boys. It looks as if half of the male population of Alcott High is crammed in here, buying pastries.

  Sophie’s been a real boost for business. Because she and Gigi have taken such a shine to each other, she’s pretty much a fixture at the tea shop after school these days. Gigi can’t officially hire her because of some red tape with her being French and not having a work visa and all, but there’s no law against her hanging out and chatting up the customers. Which suddenly includes a lot of boys. Wherever Sophie and her oh-so-charming accent goes, they go, even if it means to a frou-frou tea shop.

  I hesitate for a moment by the door, hoping Stewart will notice me.

  He doesn’t.

  Sophie doesn’t either. She only has eyes for Stewart. I watch as she gives him a cookie, along with a flirtatious glance. I slap a smile on my face and cross the room to an empty table. I’m not going to give her the satisfaction of knowing she has me rattled. I sit down and grab the menu, then start scanning it as if I haven’t already got it memorized.

  Becca materializes about two seconds later. “Bonjour!” she says brightly.

  I glare at her. I’m not in the mood for waitress banter—especially not in French. “Your nametag is crooked,” I snap, pointing to the pocket of her uniform.

  “Looks like somebody got out of bed on the wrong side this morning,” she snaps back.

  I heave a sigh. “Sorry. It’s just—”

  “I know,” says Becca, glancing over at the counter. “It’s enough to make you gag, isn’t it?”

  I nod.

  “We might as well be invisible,” she continues, shaking her head in disgust. “Don’t let it bug you, though, Emma. My brother is an idiot—he’s oblivious to what’s going on, poor boy.”

  Either that or Cassidy’s right and he really is a Stew-rat, I think.

  Stewart turns around just then. Spotting me, he breaks into a broad grin and trots over to join us. “Hey, Em!”

  “Hey,” I say without much enthusiasm. He leans down and kisses me on the cheek and I relax a little, feeling bad for my disloyal thoughts. Maybe Becca’s right. Maybe he’s just clueless.

  “You’ve gotta taste this,” he says, enthusiastically shoving half of a cookie at me. “Sophie made it.”

  I reluctantly take a bite. It’s perfect, of course.

  “It’s called a ‘long dew sha,’ or something like that.”

  “Langue du chat,” Gigi calls from where she’s standing by the cash register. “It means ‘cat’s tongue.’ They’re a French delicacy.”

  “The cat certainly doesn’t have her tongue,” Becca mutters, watching Sophie chatter away to her knot of admirers.

  “What?” says Stewart.

  “Nothing.”

  He plunks himself down across from me as Becca heads off to take care of another customer. I have a clear view of Sophie over Stewart’s shoulder. Her eyes keep sliding over to where we’re sitting. Find your own boyfriend, I think crossly, pulling the campaign notebook out of my backpack. Before I can open it, though, the bell over the door jangles and Mrs. Wong stomps in, waving a newspaper.

  “This is war!” she cries, and the tea shop falls silent. Marching across the room, she flings the paper down onto our table. I suck in my breath sharply. The headline screams “Handcuffs Wong Enters Race For Mayor!”

  Beneath it is the picture that Becca took back in seventh grade of Mrs. Wong handcuffed to a tree at the Delaneys’. It was one of Mrs. Wong’s more over-the-top moments. Her heart was in the right place—she was protesting an unfair tax that almost cost Jess’s family Half Moon Farm—but Megan’s mother sometimes lets her passion for just causes get in the way of common sense. At any rate, Becca took the picture and managed to slip it into the middle school paper, under my byline, as a prank. The stunt nearly torpedoed my friendship with Megan.

  And now here it is again, dredged up who knows how, fanning the flames of a campaign race that’s really starting to heat up. I look over at Becca, but she frowns and shakes h
er head. She obviously had nothing to do with it this time.

  Sophie’s entourage comes over to see what all the fuss is about. The boys burst out laughing when they spot the picture.

  “I remember that from middle school!” one of them crows. “It was hilarious!”

  “It’s not funny!” retorts Mrs. Wong, putting her hands on her hips. She’s mad, but I can tell she’s embarrassed, too, because it looks like there are tears in her eyes. Gigi must sense her mood, because all of a sudden she claps her hands.

  “Closing time, everybody!” she announces, and Sophie’s flock of admirers reluctantly peel themselves away. “Come back and see us soon.” Gigi shoos them out, then locks the door behind them and turns the sign to CLOSED. “Now,” she says, crossing the room to join us. “What’s going on?”

  Mrs. Wong points to the headline. Gigi cocks her head and reads it, frowning. “So?”

  “So? That’s all you can say, Mother—so?”

  Gigi gives her shoulder a soothing pat. “What’s that expression? If you can’t stand the heat, get out of the kitchen. It’s just politics, and my daughter is strong enough to stand the heat.” She turns to Stewart and me. “Why don’t you two go home with Lily and continue the meeting there? Becca and Sophie and I will finish up here and be along in a bit. Dinner for the campaign team is from Leaning Tower of Pizza tonight; my treat.”

  She picks up the newspaper and hands it to me. I nod and put it into my backpack.

  As we start for the door, Sophie corners Stewart and hands him a broom. “If you stay and help, we’ll finish faster,” she coaxes. “And besides, who’s going to drive us home otherwise?”

  She’s right; Becca doesn’t have her license yet, and Gigi doesn’t drive.

  Stewart sees the look on my face and hesitates, then takes the broom. “She’s got a point,” he says, a tad defensively. “I’ll see you in a while, okay?”

  No, it’s not okay! I want to shout. But I keep my thoughts to myself and follow Mrs. Wong out to her car. We’re both quiet on the drive up Strawberry Hill. I doubt we’re worrying about the same things, though.