Wish You Were Eyre

by Heather Vogel Frederick

  “Ah, there you are,” says a man in a suit, trotting toward us through the crowded lobby. He has a clipboard in one hand and an earpiece in one ear. “They’re ready for you backstage, Lily.”

  “You’re not nervous, you’re excited,” I whisper.

  “I’m not nervous, I’m excited,” Mrs. Wong parrots back.

  “Deep breaths,” adds Mrs. Sloane-Kinkaid.

  “You’re a boxer, heading into the ring,” adds Zoe’s mother. “You’re going to be fabulous.”

  “I’m going to throw up!”

  “Mom,” says Megan. “Do you remember our fashion show back in seventh grade?”

  Mrs. Wong nods.

  “Do you remember how nervous I was, and how you had to crawl under one of the tables where I was hiding to give me a pep talk?”

  Her mother nods again.

  “I’ll never forget that. You told me you were proud of me, and that I had more talent and gumption in my little finger than most people twice my age.” Megan grabs her mother’s pinkie. “So do you, Mom! You’ve got a better platform than your opponent does, a better team behind you than he does, and”—she pauses for a moment and grins—“you’re way better looking than he is. Dad’s right—ooh là là!”

  “Thanks, sweetheart,” says Mrs. Wong, her dark eyes shining with emotion. She gives her a trembling smile. “I’m really going to miss you next week when you’re in Paris.”

  Sophie materializes just then with her camera. She circles the two of them, clicking away.

  “Would you put that thing down!” snaps Megan. “You’re making my mother nervous!”

  “Pardon, but it’s my job, in case you’ve forgotten,” Sophie snaps back.

  “Girls!” says Mrs. Wong, her smile fading. “Please.”

  “Sorry, Mom,” mutters Megan, and stalks off.

  Shooting Sophie a look, I follow Megan down the hallway to the ladies’ room.

  “I loathe Sophie Fairfax!” She sniffles, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. “She ruins everything.”

  I know Megan means Simon as much as she means things with her mother, but I figure it’s best to try and get her to focus on right now.

  “C’mon, Megs, don’t let it spoil the evening,” I tell her.

  “Why does my mother always stick up for her?”

  I don’t have an answer for that.

  “One more day to a Sophie-free zone!” I say. “You’re going to Paris, Megan. PARIS!”

  She lifts a shoulder.

  “And you’re going to see Simon.”

  “If he still wants to,” she replies in a small voice.

  “Of course he still wants to,” I tell her. “Give him the benefit of the doubt and call him or e-mail him, will you? Don’t be a wimp—get your Jane on and just do it. I’m sure there’s a logical explanation, and I’m sure the two of you will straighten this all out. Now blow your nose,” I order her, and she obeys.

  “You’re right,” she says. “I don’t want to spoil tonight for my mom—I really am proud of her. A little nervous, too.”

  “No, you’re excited, remember?”

  She gives me a rueful smile.

  “That’s better,” I tell her. “Your mother is going to be great. And she looks fabulous, thanks to your suit.”

  Megan giggles. “Ooh là là, right?”

  “You said it.”

  We head back down the hall to the auditorium, passing the huge banners that blare the campaign slogans—UNDERHILL UNDERSTANDS! and RAISE YOUR HAND FOR HANDCUFFS WONG! Gigi said she’d save seats for us, and I spot her in the front row, right next to Mr. Wong and my parents. Megan slips in beside her, and I take a seat between Megan and Emma. Our group of friends takes up the entire two front rows. My brother is sitting on the other side of Emma, and for once, there’s no sign of Sophie. Then I spot her roaming the aisles, taking pictures of the crowd.

  And it’s quite a crowd. The whole embezzlement scandal has been big news in our little town, and Emma told us that some big-name reporters from Boston are here to cover the event. It looks like half of Concord turned out as well. I spot a lot of regulars from Pies & Prejudice, and I’m surprised at how many students from Alcott High are here, too—but then, most of the civics teachers are offering extra credit for attending. Ashley’s sitting a few rows back with her new boyfriend. They both wave and I wave back. Third, who’s seated with them, waves, too. I toss him a bone and waggle my fingers at him. Megan nudges me and I turn around just as the moderator is coming out on stage. Mrs. Wong and her opponent are right behind him, and they take their places at the podiums as he steps up to the microphone. Mrs. Winchester was right; George Underhill is wearing a red tie.

  “Good evening,” the moderator says. “I’m Andrew Johnson, editor of the Concord Chronicle, and I’d like to thank you all for coming to tonight’s debate. It’s an important time for our town, and with the special election just a few weeks away, it all comes down to this—a gloves-off, wide-ranging, no-holds-barred exchange between our two candidates: lifelong Concord resident and longtime selectman George Underhill, and all-around Concord booster and tireless volunteer Lily Wong.”

  The audience claps enthusiastically, and Mr. Wong waves his HANDCUFFS WONG! pennant. In fact, he does this every time Mrs. Wong’s name is mentioned. It’s kind of cute, really.

  The moderator explains that they flipped a coin backstage to see who would go first tonight, and Mr. Underhill won. “So I’d like to ask you, George, if you could briefly outline your qualifications and why you think voters should choose you when they go to the polls.”

  Mr. Underhill obviously doesn’t understand the definition of “briefly,” because he drones on for a full five minutes before finally winding things up. “I think it comes down to whether Concord wants someone with experience, someone with a proven track record, or someone who’s—well, let’s just say who’s willing to do anything as a publicity stunt.” He gives the audience a knowing look, and there’s a ripple of laughter.

  “Publicity stunt?” says Mrs. Wong, leaping right in. “Now wait just a minute, George. If you’re speaking of my moment in the spotlight as Handcuffs Wong—which even you have to concede I’ve made no attempt to avoid after you so conveniently leaked the photo to the press—let’s remember that moment for what it was: a sincere, impassioned, whole-hearted attempt to help friends facing an unfair tax bill and the loss of their historic farm. In fact, you must have found me convincing, because you were one of the selectmen who voted to grandfather Half Moon Farm in under the new tax code.”

  “Score!” Emma says under her breath.

  Mr. Underhill reddens. “My point, Lily, is that my record shows I will not do anything to open this town to ridicule.”

  “What your record shows is that you’re not willing to open this town to anything, including progress.”

  “Oooh,” calls someone from the back of the auditorium, prompting a ripple of laughter.

  “The floor asks the candidates—and the audience—to recall the rules,” says the moderator, frowning. “Politeness and decorum are the order of the evening.”

  He gives the floor to Mrs. Wong, who goes on to lay out her background as a civic volunteer and outline her campaign platform, which includes fiscal responsibility, upgrading the town’s infrastructure, and, of course, preserving the environment.

  “Round one: Handcuffs Wong!” whispers Mrs. Winchester when she’s done, and heads up and down our two rows bob in agreement. Mr. Wong waves his pennant again.

  “And now,” continues the moderator, “my first question . . .”

  The candidates are off and running. The questions and responses fly fast and furious as the moderator probes their stands on everything from taxes to conservation. Mrs. Wong really gets going when that subject comes up, especially when the moderator asks about the proposed ban on plastic shopping bags that’s on the ballot for the next general election. The Riverkeepers are spearheading the initiative, and Mrs. Wong is board chairperson for t
he Riverkeepers.

  “I’m completely opposed to the idea,” says Mr. Underhill. “It’s an infringement of individual freedom where our local merchants are concerned. It’s billed as an environmentally friendly initiative, but what environment are we talking about? If Concord creates an unfriendly environment for commerce, businesses will take themselves elsewhere, and our town will be poorer because of it.”

  “How about you, Mrs. Wong?” asks the moderator.

  “I’m fully in favor of the ban,” she replies. “In fact, I think you could say I’m handcuffed to the idea.”

  There’s another ripple of laughter at this—it’s pretty hard to miss Sophie’s pictures of Mrs. Wong handcuffed to a monster made of plastic bags (actually Stewart in full hockey gear, with plastic bags taped to every inch of his body) with a big red circle with a slash symbol on his belly. They’re plastered all over her campaign posters and brochures around town.

  “That’s right,” she says cheerfully. “I’m Handcuffs Wong and proud of it.” She holds up her hands and crosses them at the wrists, as if she were wearing handcuffs, then raises them overhead first to one side, then the other, in the classic champion’s cheer. The audience laughs again.

  Mr. Underhill does not.

  “On a more serious note, perhaps a better name for me would be the Green Machine,” Mrs. Wong continues. “I am a proud member of Riverkeepers, who have placed this important initiative on the upcoming ballot. Studies have shown unequivocally that plastic bags are detrimental to the environment. These bags waste valuable resources in their production, don’t biodegrade in any meaningful time frame, contain harmful chemicals that are then ingested by wildlife, and are, needless to say, unsightly when littered, whether deliberately or accidentally.” She ticks these off on her fingers. “Concord has a long heritage of environmental activism. It is home, after all, to the original conservationist, Henry David Thoreau. As for my esteemed opponent’s argument that passing this ban will drive businesses from Concord, may I remind you all that it was Thoreau who said, ‘What is the good of having a nice house without a decent planet to put it on?’ If I may paraphrase him, ‘What is the good of having a nice business without a decent town to put it in?’ Henry David Thoreau’s rich legacy here in Concord must be preserved.”

  To my right, Emma is mouthing the words as Mrs. Wong speaks them. Megan notices, too, and as the audience bursts into thunderous applause, she leans across and pokes Emma. “Emma J. Hawthorne, future White House speechwriter,” she whispers, and Emma grins.

  The moderator gives each speaker thirty seconds to wind things up.

  “Just remember, a vote for Underhill is a vote for experience,” says Mr. Underhill, as he concludes his remarks. “Underhill understands!”

  But Mrs. Wong has the last word. “If it’s the status quo you seek, by all means vote for my opponent. If, on the other hand, you’re looking for commitment, for a candidate who won’t give up no matter the odds—if that’s the candidate you want to hand your vote to, then hand it to me—Handcuffs Wong!”

  Our two rows rise to our feet, clapping and cheering. Mr. Wong waves his pennant wildly as the moderator crosses the stage and shakes hands with both candidates. Sophie rushes to the foot of the stage with the rest of the press, snapping pictures.

  “I’d say that was a stunning success,” says Mrs. Winchester in the lobby afterwards, as our group clusters around the campaign table watching Mrs. Wong being congratulated by a throng of well-wishers.

  “It was the earrings,” says Gigi breezily. “They always bring good luck. That and the fact that my daughter is smart, hardworking, and never gives up when she knows something is right.”

  We stick around until the school clears out, handing out brochures and banners and bumper stickers, pennants and buttons, and flyers. Third corners me while I’m taking a turn behind the table, and I’m forced to make small talk with him because Mrs. Winchester and Professor Daniels are there too, and I don’t want to look like a jerk.

  “Doing anything for spring break?” he asks.

  “Yeah,” I tell him. “I’m going on a trip with my grandmother.”

  “Cool. Anyplace fun?”

  Not so much, I think to myself. Aloud, I reply, “Minnesota.”

  His brow furrows. “Why? Isn’t it cold there this time of year? We’re going to Florida.”

  Good question, I think glumly. It’s getting harder to whip up any enthusiasm for this trip. I haven’t even finished packing, and I’m leaving first thing in the morning.

  I catch a ride with my parents to the combination debate celebration and farewell party at the Wongs’. Our Wyoming friends are leaving tomorrow morning, too.

  “I’ve had so much fun this week,” says Zoe politely to my mother.

  That makes one of us, I think. But I nod and smile.

  “Me too,” says Mrs. Winchester. “Thank you so much for hosting us, Calliope.”

  “You’re welcome,” my mother replies. “We’re going to miss you.”

  “And I’m going to miss your campaign tips,” says Mrs. Wong, coming over and draping her arm around Mrs. Winchester’s shoulders. “I don’t think I could have pulled it off tonight without you.”

  Mrs. Winchester laughs. “Are you kidding me? You’re a natural, Lily. I can’t wait to send you flowers when you win the election.”

  Stanley Kinkaid wanders over with a plate heaped with food. “This stuff is great,” he says, talking with his mouth full. How come grown-ups can break rules like that and get away with it? “Did Gigi make it?”

  Mrs. Wong shakes her head. “No, we had it catered. It’s from Mr. Green Dream’s.”

  “That vegetarian place?”

  Megan’s mother nods. “It was Sophie’s idea,” she says, slipping her arm around the French girl’s waist. “It’s fun having a fellow vegetarian in the house.”

  Megan is standing to the side, watching a little sadly as her kitten twines herself adoringly around Sophie’s ankles. Megan spent weeks making that suit as a surprise for tonight’s debate, but the only one who seems to get any praise around here is Sophie.

  Scooping Coco up, I go over to Megan and link my arm through hers. “Come on, Megs,” I whisper. “Let’s go to your room for a while.”

  We do, and I close the door so Coco can’t escape. The kitten hops up on Megan’s suitcase and bats at the luggage tag.

  “Are you excited about tomorrow?” I ask.

  Megan nods. “Yeah. How about you?”

  I shrug. I’ve been trying really, really hard not to be jealous, but it’s not easy working up enthusiasm for Minnesota when your best friend is going to Paris. You don’t need a passport to go to Minnesota.

  “I know you’re going to have a good time, too,” says Megan, accurately reading my thoughts. “Your grandmother is just as much fun as mine.”

  “That’s debatable.”

  “Come on, Becca—she’s great!”

  “Yeah, I guess you’re right.” But a little voice in my head whispers, If she’s so great, why isn’t she taking you to Paris instead of Minnesota?

  “Hey, I’ve got something for you to stick in your suitcase.” Megan reaches under her bed and pulls out a flat box wrapped in lavender tissue paper and tied with a silver ribbon. “No opening it until your birthday, though, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  A trip to Minnesota wasn’t exactly how I pictured I’d be spending my sweet sixteenth, but when Gram arranged this trip she didn’t know that spring break fell the week of my birthday.

  “Becca?” My mother’s voice echoes down the hallway. She doesn’t need an intercom to be heard in every corner of the house.

  “Coming, Mom!” I holler back, then turn to Megan. “I guess we’re leaving. She wants to make sure I get to bed at a decent hour tonight, and I haven’t finished packing yet.”

  Megan gives me a hug. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning, but bon voyage anyway!” She smiles at me. “Gotta start using my French sometime, righ
t?”

  I smile back. “Bon voyage to you, too. Let’s try and IM or videoconference this week, okay? And I’ll be reading your blog every day.”

  One good thing that happened tonight is that Mrs. Wong finally gave Megan permission to revive Fashionista Jane. Emma says she must have been filled with post-debate happy hormones or something.

  “I’ll put stuff in there just for you, I promise,” Megan replies.

  My mother and father and I head home with the Winchesters, but Stewart stays behind to hang out with Emma. At least that’s what he tells us he’s going to do, but as we’re leaving, the only person I spot him with is Sophie. Just you wait, Mademoiselle Velcro, I think, picturing the PIQUEUSE DE MEC T-shirt as I close the front door behind me. You are in for one big surprise.

  Early the next morning, we all meet up at Half Moon Farm to say good-bye to our Wyoming friends. I’m catching a ride to Logan Airport with them on the bus that the Wongs hired. The pen pals (well, except Zoe and me) all promise to write to each other, and Summer Williams hands out mittens that she knitted for everyone while she was here. Mr. Wong videotapes the whole thing, and Sophie Fairfax takes a few pictures, too.

  “All my bags are packed, I’m ready to go,” Madison begins, and Jess and Savannah jump right in as the three of them serenade us with an impromptu a capella version of “Leaving on a Jet Plane.”

  Things get a little tearful after that as none of us knows exactly when we’ll see each other again.

  “Next year in Wyoming, maybe?” says Mrs. Jacobs, giving Mrs. Hawthorne another big hug. “We need to give your menfolk a taste of the Wild West, too.”

  “You’re all welcome at the ranch any time,” adds Mrs. Parker. She leans over and gives Chloe one last kiss. “Especially you, peanut.”

  Our Gopher Hole friends climb reluctantly onto the bus, and I follow them, poking my head out the window to wave to my parents.

  “Give your grandmother my love,” says my mother, blowing me a kiss.

  “I will,” I promise her.

  “Call us when you get there!” says my father.