A Good Name: A Modern Pride and Prejudice Variation

by Sarah Courtney

  “We need more kids,” she said at the end. “You figure out the boxcar, and I’ll figure out the kids.” For some reason, they never asked the kids at the park to play with them, but George was fine with that. It was better for both of them if none of the other parents got wind of the fact that they were at the park alone. That meant that he wondered who she would ask, though, and how she’d make sure none of the overprotective mothers found out about it.

  He spent the half hour after she went home wandering through the narrow bands of woods in the park and attempting to “use his imagination,” whatever that meant. But there was no boxcar or any other wreckage in the woods, and he had no idea what he was supposed to come up with. It seemed he didn’t have any imagination.

  The next day, he was surprised when she showed up with two little kids in big puffy jackets, one holding each of her hands.

  “Ta-da!” she said when she saw him. “Kids!”

  He stared at them. “Did you . . . find them somewhere?” Were their mothers going to come looking for them any minute?

  “Ha! Like kidnapped them or something? No, silly, they’re my sisters!”

  He was puzzled. “I thought your sister was older?”

  “Nope! Well, I mean, yep, but I have four sisters.”

  “Four!” He stared at them. They hadn’t said a word. The littlest stared up at him with her thumb in her mouth.

  “This one’s Lydia,” she said, raising the hand that held the little one’s. “She’s three. And this one”—she raised her other hand a bit—“is Katie. She’s four.”

  “Can we play on that?” Katie asked finally, looking at the playground.

  “Yeah, for a bit, but you have to stay on the playground. Don’t go anywhere. Got it, Lydia?” she said, making eye contact with the littlest and shaking her hand a bit for good measure.

  Lydia nodded, took her thumb out of her mouth, and ran after Katie to the playground.

  “Lydia’s supposed to be taking a nap,” Elizabeth said. “But I borrowed her anyway. So maybe she’ll go to sleep in the boxcar.”

  George wasn’t sure what to say. “You . . . borrowed her. So we can play Boxcar Children.”

  “Yep! But we can let them play for a few minutes first. So, where’s the boxcar?”

  After the length to which Elizabeth had gone to bring kids, George felt rather ashamed to admit that he hadn’t found a boxcar. But Elizabeth wasn’t mad. “That’s okay. We can just use one of the tunnels on the playground. There aren’t that many kids today. Too cold, I guess.”

  And so George had to pretend to be Henry, the oldest of the boxcar children, while Elizabeth was Jessie, and the little ones were Violet and Benny.

  Violet and Benny were not very good at playing their roles. Benny got grumpy instead of sleepy and kept whining and crying over every little thing. Violet was not a sweet perfect little girl like the one in the book, either. She kept running off and having to be chased down.

  There was no reading done that day, but in the end, George could only laugh. Playing out the book had been an adventure, even if a rather frustrating one. He imagined this was probably a bit what it was like having sisters.

  As he walked home, he felt an aching for a sibling. He wished sometimes that his mom and Mark would get married. Then maybe they’d want to have another kid, and he could have a baby sister or brother. On the other hand, it probably wasn’t a good idea. His mom was really skinny and on so much stuff that she probably shouldn’t get pregnant, and what would happen when she forgot to feed the baby? He’d probably have to take the baby to the park with him or not go at all. The thought of missing Elizabeth, of no more books . . . it was scary how much the idea hurt.

  January 2001

  George had first thought it would be confusing to keep track of two different ongoing stories: the one Elizabeth was reading to him, and the one he was reading to himself at home. But he had found that he was able to keep the plots and characters separate in his head, partly because each book had a different sort of voice to it by who was reading it.

  But as the weather got really, really cold, he had something new to worry about.

  Walking around the park, as he’d usually done when it was cold, was one thing. The movement helped keep him warm even in only a big hoodie and sneakers, which was the warmest winter clothing he had. But sitting on a metal bench on a snowy day was impossible.

  “Where’s your coat?” Elizabeth asked. “It’s snowing! Are you like one of those people who wears shorts when it’s winter? This is perfect Narnia weather, but you need a coat!”

  He shrugged. “I don’t have one. Mom is . . . too busy. To take me shopping, I mean.” To the family shelter, really, where they gave out free winter clothing. He didn’t dare go by himself and deal with nosy questions.

  “Huh,” she said, giving him a look. “Well, let’s go play on the playground instead, then. It’d be warmer.”

  He sighed, but followed her. She was right, it was definitely warmer to keep moving. He even ate his ham and cheese sandwich while walking around, rather than sit on that cold bench. He missed reading, though. He went home as soon as Elizabeth left and read on his mattress, ignoring the shouting from the bedroom.

  The next day George arrived at the park to see a large plastic trash bag on the bench and Elizabeth looking rather sly.

  “What’s that?” he asked, pointing.

  “It’s for you!” she said.

  George opened the trash bag. Inside was a huge winter coat and a pair of men’s boots.

  He looked at Elizabeth. She smiled.

  “They’re my dad’s,” she said. “I told him he needed new ones now that it was snowy. We went shopping last night. So these are his old ones, and you can have them.”

  “Just... like that? You said he needed a new coat and boots, and he went shopping that night?”

  She smiled. “Yep. They’re pretty old, so it was the truth. And Grandma says I have him wrapped around my little finger.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “Means he does what I ask him to, usually.”

  “I don’t need them,” he said. He desperately wanted them. But he was sick and tired of always being the one who needed stuff. Elizabeth brought him food every day. She didn’t make a big deal of it, but she probably thought he was a charity case. “I’m not a charity case.”

  She looked shocked. “I didn’t say you were.”

  “And I don’t need you to buy me stuff. My mom can buy me whatever I want.” Okay, now he was lying, but he didn’t want to be just a poor kid in her eyes. “So you can stop making yourself feel good by bringing me stuff.”

  “So you’d rather freeze than wear my father’s old coat?”

  “Yes!” No. “I can get my own new coat! I just haven’t had the time yet.”

  “You’re lying,” Elizabeth said. “Your shoes are falling apart. You wear the same pants every day. Do you even wash your clothes?”

  “It’s not the same pair of pants. They just look alike.” They could be, anyway. Lots of people had more than one of the same kind of jeans.

  She shook her head. “The knees are torn exactly the same way. Exactly.”

  He flushed to think she’d spent enough time studying the holes in his jeans to notice. “What do you know? You’re some spoiled rich kid who’s probably never worn hand-me-downs in her life!”

  “I have an older sister! Most of my clothes are hand-me-downs!” she shouted. “Fine, don’t wear the coat! I’ll just donate it somewhere. Don’t come to me when you’re cold next week.”

  He deflated. He wanted that coat. He just hated being poor. He sat down hard on the bench.

  “I’m sorry,” Elizabeth said, sitting next to him. “I didn’t mean to make a big deal of it.”

  “It’s just... I hate always being the one to get stuff from other people.”

  He looked at the coat. It was pretty embarrassing to have an eight-year-old give him a coat. But it was already done, and he was
cold, after all. He sighed.

  “They’re too big,” was his final protest.

  “They’re supposed to be!” she said with a grin. “For Narnia. Remember, they just get those fur coats from the closet? They were grown-up clothes.”

  It was either laugh or roll his eyes, so he chose the first. She was such an adorable kid sometimes.

  He had to admit, though, that sitting on the cold bench listening to her read and following her through the frozen forest of the Western Wood were a lot more fun when he was wearing a big heavy warm coat and boots. The boots were so large, though, that he had to walk very carefully so he didn’t walk right out of them.

  George spent the entire walk home planning what he’d say to his mother when she asked about the coat and boots. He’d decided that the truth, that they were gifts from a friend, hand-me-downs from her father, would be the easiest explanation.

  But in the end, he didn’t need it. His mother didn’t even notice him come home—or notice much of anything lately. Mark was gone somewhere or other, and nobody said anything when he was back, either. There were some advantages to being ignored.

  April 2001

  “Let’s play Oz!” Elizabeth said as soon as she’d closed The Wonderful Wizard of Oz for the day. “I’ll be Dorothy, and you can be the Scarecrow.”

  “Nah. I want to play The Sign of the Beaver,” George said. “I can be Matt, and you can be Attean.”

  “We can do that next. Let’s play Oz first!” She jumped off the bench and started putting away the book and her food, clearly confident that she’d won the argument.

  Why should she always get to pick what they were going to play? Just because she was the one who brought the books?

  “I hate the Scarecrow,” George said.

  “Okay. Then you can be the Tin Woodman.”

  That was stupid, too.

  “No, I don’t want to be anybody in Oz. I want to make a bow and some arrows. I’ve been thinking about it all night.” He’d finished the book last night before going to sleep, and this morning he’d reread chapter twelve where it talked about how to make a bow. He wanted one desperately. There were plenty of woods to go shooting in, after all. He wouldn’t try to kill anything, just hit targets.

  “I don’t want to play Indians,” she said.

  “It’s not playing Indians like some old cowboys and Indians crap,” he said indignantly. “It’s actual history!” Well, he was pretty sure the story was made up, but stuff like this did happen back then!

  “Okay. How about we play mine first, then we can play yours second?”

  “How come yours goes first?”

  “Because I always come up with all the good ideas!”

  “Well, maybe that’s because you never listen to anybody else’s!”

  “Then I’ll go play by myself!”

  “Then I will, too. I don’t want to play any more of your stupid games.”

  “Fine! I don’t want to be your friend anymore anyway!”

  Elizabeth turned and stalked away, and George sat back down, reeling.

  What had just happened? Had he really just gotten into a shouting match with Elizabeth? What if she left? What if she stopped coming to the park?

  It was only fair that he got to take a turn sometimes picking what they would do. But was it worth losing his only friendship over?

  He jumped up and ran after her, but she was too far ahead. Where had she gone? She had run in the direction of the playground, but he couldn’t see her there anywhere. She wasn’t in the woods around it, either.

  He ran back down the path towards the pond, but she wasn’t on the path, or at the lookout, or in the woods. He ran back to the park, and stopped with his hands on his knees, panting, to look at the playground again.

  Could she be in one of the tunnels? Maybe she was hiding from him to make him mad.

  He sat on a bench and waited to see if she’d come out. But she never did. And when it started to get dark, he headed home.

  He had the most miserable evening he’d ever had. His stomach was churning so constantly that he couldn’t sleep, and he got up twice thinking he was going to be sick, although he never was.

  What if she never came back to the park? George didn’t know where she lived. It wasn’t like he could track her down to apologize.

  It wasn’t his fault, anyway. He should be allowed to pick what they played sometimes. He was older! How one-sided was their friendship if Elizabeth was the one who brought the food, who brought the books, who decided what they would read, what he would read, and what they would play? It wasn’t fair! How had he not noticed this for so long?

  But later, after his anger died, he was back to worrying. Did she really mean it that she didn’t want to be his friend anymore?

  Could he survive the loss of her friendship? He was eleven now, after all. He’d just had his birthday. Not that his mom had noticed, but he remembered. And he was starting to think that maybe eleven-year-olds were a bit too old to run around on the playground. Weren’t they? Maybe he needed to make some different friends, friends who would be in middle school with him next fall. But just thinking about not seeing Elizabeth every day made him uncomfortable.

  The next day, he felt like a prisoner awaiting his verdict. On one hand, he was anxious to find out if she was there. If she’d be his friend again. On the other hand, he was afraid to find out that he’d lost her.

  He practically ran most of the way to the park, but when he entered it, his pace slowed to a plod. He was terrified. His stomach hurt so much that he made a trip to the park bathroom before walking to their bench at the playground.

  She wasn’t there. He dropped onto the bench with a sigh, then immediately bounced back up. He couldn’t sit down. He put his backpack on the bench, then walked around it, then again. He bounced from foot to foot, looking at the playground, then towards the path that led to the parking lot.

  Suddenly, he saw her approaching from the path alongside the parking lot. She gave him a little wave as she approached.

  When she reached him, she plopped down on the bench next to him and pulled out his lunch as usual. He stared, dumbfounded, at the turkey and cheese sandwich and grapes that she handed him. She pulled out The Wonderful Wizard of Oz and turned to where they’d left off.

  He finally found his voice just before she started to read.

  “Aren’t you . . . mad?” George asked.

  She looked up. “Mad?”

  “Our fight. Yesterday.”

  “Oh,” she said with a shrug. “That was yesterday. I didn’t want to play Indians yesterday. But we can play that today if you want.”

  “It’s not playing Indians, it’s . . .” He paused. Was it worth starting a fight again? She’d figure out in school that “Indians” wasn’t the right word anymore, even if it was in some older books. Besides, he hadn’t wanted to “play”—he wanted to make a bow and the arrows to go with it. “Okay. But you said you didn’t want to be friends with me anymore.”

  She shrugged. “People say that all the time at school. It just means you’re really mad. Nobody ever does it.”

  “Oh.” He took a deep breath and tried to calm his temper. Everything he’d gone through yesterday, and it was just . . . something people said? It meant nothing? But then . . . he had to admit, he had heard kids fight on the playground and say things like that. It had just never mattered before, because they weren’t saying it to him. He closed his eyes and took another breath, then opened them. He wasn’t going to let his anger cause another fight. He had to keep Elizabeth. “So . . . friends?”

  “Friends.” She gave his hand a quick squeeze, then started to read while he took a bite of the best turkey sandwich he’d ever tasted.

  Change of Seasons

  June 2001

  “Have you ever been to the library?” Lizzy asked him one day as she was about to leave.

  He shook his head. “My mom’s too busy to get me a library card,” he said. He knew she saw right through
it, but it was still a convenient lie. He liked saying it. It made him feel like his mom was maybe busy at work, maybe one of those jobs where you wore nice clothes, and she came home late at night too tired to take him shopping or to the library.

  “You don’t need one to read books at the library,” Elizabeth said. “Only if you want to check them out. But anyway, you can use my card. Let’s go tomorrow. It’s only a few blocks from here.”

  “That sounds good.”

  He spent the entire night thinking about it. There was a library at school, and his class had gone every Friday. But none of the boys he hung out with ever checked out books. Usually they just tossed a paper football around instead, or sometimes looked at the graphic novels. Maybe he should think about checking books out when he went to middle school in the fall. Or would he just get made fun of?

  The next day they met at the park as always. He ate lunch first—a tuna sandwich this time—then walked to the library.

  It was probably three times as big as his school library, with an entire section of books for kids. Lizzy showed him the shelves with chapter books.

  “If you want something, we can get it on my card,” she said. She picked up a book called Caddie Woodlawn, which was a suspiciously girly title. She often picked books that he would never have considered, but he usually found he liked them all the same, so he didn’t say anything.

  He picked up the fourth Harry Potter book. He still ached when he thought about the series, how much like Harry he felt, and how cut off he was now that he couldn’t read on. He opened the book and read the first few pages. Then the next few. And the next.

  Before he knew it, he’d finished two chapters and he knew what he was checking out.

  Lizzy’s eyes widened when she saw it. “But...”

  “I think I can read it now,” he said. “I couldn’t before, but I think my reading has gotten a lot better.”

  She nodded. “Okay. Don’t tell me anything about it, though! No spoilers!”