Much Ado About Anne

by Heather Vogel Frederick

  “Yeah, but what is it?” Cassidy repeats, prodding the mound cautiously.

  “It’s called a Chocolate Raspberry Pavlova,” my dad tells her. “It’s a guaranteed-to-melt-in-your-mouth chocolate meringue, which we will shortly pile with fruit and whipped cream—thanks to Emma and that dog—and, in our own unique Hawthorne family twist, drizzle with chocolate sauce.”

  My mouth starts watering just thinking about it. My dad makes Chocolate Raspberry Pavlova only once a year, on New Year’s Eve. He takes the pizza ingredients out of the fridge and Cassidy and I wash our hands and start helping him put them together. A little while later there’s a knock at the door. It’s Megan and her father.

  “Where’s Lily?” asks my dad.

  “Home getting ready,” says Mr. Wong. He’s wearing a tuxedo. The Wongs are going to a big party tonight too. He leans down and gives Megan a hug and a kiss. “Have fun, sweetie.” He turns to the rest of us. “Happy New Year!”

  “Happy New Year!” we all chorus back.

  My dad has set up a table for us in the family room, and while he and Cassidy finish making the pizzas, Megan and I get out the good china and real silver. We set just four places, since this is a girls-only party. My brother is spending the night at his friend Kyle Anderson’s. We get my mother’s crystal goblets out too. She said we could use them for our sparkling apple cider toasts at midnight.

  Megan and I are kind of quiet at first. We haven’t talked since she called to say she’d come to my party. And before that, we hardly spoke for almost a month at school. She made the effort to sit with me and Jess and Cassidy a few times at lunch, but mostly she went around with the Fab Three. Hello Boston! still hangs over all of us like a dark cloud.

  “Here’s your Christmas present,” I say, handing her a long slender package wrapped in bright paper. “Sorry it’s kind of late.”

  “That’s okay,” she replies softly. “Now I feel bad, though, because I just brought you guys silly little souvenirs from my trip.”

  I shake my head. “Don’t feel bad. It’s nothing big.”

  She opens it. Inside the box is a doll.

  “It’s Stewardess Barbie,” I tell her. “She’s vintage, from the 1960s. My mom and I found her on eBay. I thought she might be good luck for your Flashlite interview.”

  Megan smiles at me. “She’s perfect! Look at this cool uniform she’s wearing, and the little suitcase and everything. And her hat has a tiny flight pin on it—sweet!” She gives me a hug. “Thank you, Emma.”

  I can tell that Megan really likes her gift, and that she’s not just being polite. This makes me happy, even though I still feel a little weird about the whole Becca thing. My mom says I should be patient, and just keep trying to put myself in Megan’s shoes. “She’s in an uncomfortable position,” she explained to me. “She likes you both. Try and see things from her point of view, instead of forcing her to choose between the two of you.”

  I still can’t understand why anyone would want to be friends with someone like Becca, though. Maybe it’s selfish of me, but underneath it all I guess I just really want to keep Megan for myself. And for Cassidy and Jess too, of course.

  Cassidy joins us and she and Megan start talking about San Diego. It turns out Cassidy’s been there a whole lot of times before, back when she lived in California, so she and Megan compare notes on Sea World and the San Diego Zoo and someplace called the Hotel del Coronado. I mostly just listen. Nobody brings up Becca Chadwick.

  The buzzer goes off and my dad takes the pizzas out of the oven for us, then disappears back into the living room where my mother is waiting with the fancy Thai takeout they ordered for their Pride and Prejudice marathon.

  There’s a knock at the back door.

  “Jess is here,” I say, and the three of us rush to open it.

  “Happy New Year!” we all shout as she walks into the kitchen.

  Jess takes one look at us and bursts into tears.

  We just stand there, aghast.

  “What’s the matter?” I ask finally.

  “This has been the worst birthday ever!” she wails. “And the worst Christmas. It’s the most tragical thing that ever happened to me!”

  Jess quoting Anne Shirley is not a good sign. Cassidy hands her a tissue and gives me a worried look. I know exactly what she’s thinking. What if Mrs. Delaney moved back to New York?

  “What happened?” I ask gently.

  Words and tears come tumbling out of Jess. “My parents didn’t want to worry me, but I’ve known for a while that something’s going on. We finally talked about it this morning. I told them I was thirteen now and they didn’t need to treat me like a baby anymore.”

  “Is it your mom?” asks Cassidy, handing her another tissue.

  Jess blows her nose. “No. That’s what I thought too. I thought maybe she was unhappy and missed acting and was leaving again. But she said no, that wasn’t it.”

  “So what is it, then?” Megan says.

  Jess collapses into a chair at the kitchen table and buries her head in her arms. “We have to sell the farm!”

  For a moment I can hardly breathe. “Half Moon Farm?” I say stupidly, like maybe the Delaneys have another farm stashed away someplace that they haven’t told us about.

  She nods.

  “No way!” says Cassidy. “Why would your parents do that?”

  Jess shakes her head. “It’s some tax thing,” she sniffles. “My dad tried to explain it to me but I didn’t quite understand. He said something about a tax exemption for a historic property being revoked. Because we’re running a business on the property.”

  “That’s dumb,” says Cassidy, which is true but not exactly helpful.

  “I don’t get it,” says Megan. “Half Moon Farm’s been around since the Revolutionary War, right? Hasn’t it always been a farm? And isn’t a farm a business?”

  Jess wipes her nose on her sleeve. “I don’t know,” she says miserably. “I guess my parents have been paying taxes, but not as much as they normally would because the farm is on the National Historic Register or something like that. And now they have to come up with a whole bunch of money, which they don’t have.” Yo-Yo trots over and rests his head on her knee. He looks up at her, his big brown eyes sorrowful, like he can tell she’s sad.

  Cassidy and Megan and I sit down at the table beside the two of them.

  “So what’s going to happen?” asks Cassidy cautiously.

  Jess shrugs. She reaches out and starts patting Yo-Yo. “All I know is unless my parents raise enough money for the taxes, they’ll have to sell. There’s already somebody interested in buying it. A developer. He wants to build condos.”

  I suck in my breath sharply. Condominiums? On Half Moon Farm? The pastures paved over, the woods by the creek all cut down? It hurts even to think about it.

  “Isn’t there anything they can do?” I ask her.

  Jess’s face is blotchy from crying. “My mom offered to try and get her acting job back on HeartBeats, but my dad said absolutely not. He said he’d rather lose the whole shebang than break up our family again. He said he’d rather live in an apartment.”

  I try and picture the Delaneys in an apartment, but somehow the dogs and the chickens and the goats—plus Led and Zep, their two big Belgian drafthorses that Mr. Delaney named after Led Zeppelin, his favorite rock band—keep wandering in.

  “And I sure don’t want her to go,” adds Jess in a low voice.

  “I could talk to my dad for you,” offers Megan. “Maybe he could help out.”

  Jess gives her a weak smile. “Thanks, Megs. He already talked to my dad, but my dad said no. He can be kind of stubborn that way. My mom says he’s too proud, but my dad says it’s way too much money, and that he’d rather sell than take anybody’s charity. Besides, he says, even if your dad gave us the money, we’d still have to come up with more again next spring. I guess the thing is with taxes, you have to pay them every year.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” says
Cassidy flatly. “And unfair. Who came up with that rule?”

  “I don’t know,” says Jess, “but there’s nothing we can do about it.”

  We’re all silent for a while. Half Moon Farm without the Delaneys? I just can’t believe it could really happen.

  “You know, that’s not necessarily true,” I say slowly, as an idea dawns. “Maybe there is something we can do about it.”

  “You’re kidding, right?” says Megan.

  I shake my head. “No, I’m serious. Remember at the end of the first Anne book, when she’s about to head off to college and Marilla’s eyesight starts to fail, and it looks like she’ll have to sell Green Gables?”

  My friends all nod.

  “Remember how Anne gives up her scholarship, and stays home to teach at the Avonlea school instead, so she can help Marilla keep the farm?”

  They nod again.

  “Well, we can’t just sit around and let this happen. We have to do something, just like Anne did.”

  Jess’s forehead crinkles. “But I don’t have a scholarship to give up.”

  I smile at her. “That’s not what I mean, silly. I just mean we have to come up with a plan.”

  “What the heck can we do?” says Cassidy.

  “Raise money,” I reply. I look at Yo-Yo. “We could start a dog-walking service, for instance. Plenty of people need their dogs exercised and looked after, especially this time of year. We could use your barn to run them around in, Jess.”

  “Hey,” says Megan. “That’s not a bad idea.”

  Cassidy nods slowly. “I could give hockey lessons. Lots of people saw me tutoring Stewart at the rink and asked me about teaching their kids.”

  “And we can pool our babysitting money,” I say.

  “And I can sew!” Megan offers. “Winter formal is coming up, and then there’s Spring Fling and the high school prom. Friends are already asking me to design dresses for them.” Friends meaning Becca and Ashley and Jen, most likely, but for once I don’t care.

  Hope blooms on Jess’s tear-streaked face. “You really think it would work?”

  Megan and Cassidy and I all nod enthusiastically.

  “I’m not sure what my parents would say if they found out,” says Jess. “My dad is acting kind of funny about all this. I think he’s embarrassed that people will think we’re poor. Which we’re not—we just don’t have a whole lot of extra money for taxes, that’s all.”

  “Nobody has to know,” I tell her. “This will be our secret.”

  Jess leans over and hugs me tightly. “You are the best friend anyone could ever have! And so are you, and you,” she adds, hugging Cassidy and Megan too. “And you too, Yo-Yo.”

  Yo-Yo wags his tail.

  “Just you wait,” I tell her. “This may have been your worst birthday and Christmas ever, but the New Year is going to be a whole lot better.”

  Cassidy reaches into the fridge and pulls out the bottle of sparkling apple juice. “Forget waiting until midnight—let’s make a toast right now.” We follow her into the family room. She hands us each a crystal goblet and fills them with the bubbly amber liquid. “To the new year, and to saving Half Moon Farm,” she says, lifting her glass.

  We lift our glasses too. “To saving Half Moon Farm!”

  CASSIDY

  “His memory was still green in Anne’s heart and always would be.”

  —Anne of Green Gables

  There are worse ways to spend a Saturday night.

  I’m at the Garden, sitting inches away from the rink. On the ice are the Boston Bruins and the New York Rangers, my two favorite teams in the whole world. Well, besides my own team, the Concord Comets. That’s the good news. The bad news is that Stanley Kinkaid is sitting next to me.

  This is my birthday present from Stan the man. I wasn’t too thrilled when I found out that it was only going to be the two of us here at the arena. This is the first time I’ve been alone with him for more than about five minutes. Still, I could hardly pass up seats right behind the team bench at a Bruins game. I hardly said a word as we drove into the city. Stan seemed pretty uncomfortable too. First he tried to make small talk by asking about school, which was stupid, because really, who wants to talk about school? Things got a little better when he started talking about hockey. He’s almost as big a fan as I am.

  We talked about the Bruins and about how my team’s doing. Stan’s gone with my mom to nearly all of my games this season, and he tells me that he thinks we can take the regional championships again this year. He says we’re playing really well together—which I already know, because we’ve played the Minutemen twice and beaten them both times. He told me he talked to Coach Danner and gave him a few pointers. I cringed at that. I can only imagine Stan the man bragging to coach, who took Cornell to the Eastern College Athletic Conference championships two years in a row, about how he kept the stats for the Boston University hockey team back when he was a student a hundred years ago. That’s kind of like bragging about being the water boy or the manager of the chess team or something. But still, I have to admit Stanley knows hockey.

  Not like my dad did, though.

  Most people figure I’m an Anaheim Ducks fan, since I’m from California and everything, but Dad was from Boston so I’ve always been a Bruins fan. He had DVDs of all their best games, and we never got tired of watching the one where Bobby Orr took the team to the Stanley Cup. Dad was just a little kid then, and he was right there in the stands with Grandpa. Every time we watched that DVD we used to look for them, but we never have been able to spot them.

  So Stanley Kinkaid can reel off all the stats he wants—and he knows plenty—but he’ll never rival my dad for sheer love of the game.

  I’m not supposed to compare Stan the man to my dad, though. I promised Dr. Weisman I’d try not to anymore.

  Even worse than having to spend my winter break skating with Stewart Chadwick was the fact that mom dragged me back to Dr. Weisman. He’s the shrink (“family therapist” my mother calls him) she made me go to last year, after we first moved to Concord. He’s nice and everything, but it’s not like I needed to see him again. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with me. Mom said she’d be the judge of that, and she told me that if I wanted to play hockey this season I’d better cooperate. This was right after the whole Hello Boston! mess, and she was really, really mad, so I decided maybe it was a good idea to play along.

  I explained to Dr. Weisman all about queen bees in general and Becca Chadwick in particular, and how horrible she’s been this year, especially to Emma, and he nodded and listened and took lots of notes. When I got to the part about the invisibility potion, his mouth twitched like he was trying not to smile.

  “Ah, yes,” he said. “I saw something about that on the Internet.”

  “How were we supposed to know that Mr. Dawson would grab the wrong teacup?” I said indignantly. “Or that his teeth weren’t real?”

  Dr. Weisman grabbed a tissue at that point and swiveled around in his chair so his back was to me. He blew his nose really loud, but I could see his shoulders shaking and I knew he was laughing. That made me feel a whole lot better, even when he swiveled around again and his face was all serious. Grown-ups always have to do that, to set an example and everything.

  “I can understand your logic, Cassidy,” he’d said. “But what you’re not taking into consideration are the ethics of the situation.” He explained that ethics are the principles or rules for how we act in the world.

  “Kind of like the golden rule?” I asked him. I’ve been hearing a lot about the golden rule ever since Hello Boston!

  “Exactly,” he said. “The thing is, it doesn’t matter whether or not Becca had it coming”—he held up his hand as I started to interrupt—“and yes, I agree with you that she certainly sounds like she can be a little pill at times. Not that her behavior isn’t understandable, perhaps, given what you’ve told me about her family. It can’t be easy growing up with a mother like that. But in the end, none of that matt
ers. What does matter is your behavior, not hers. Your ethics, not hers. The way you conduct yourself, not the way she conducts herself. Ambushing someone like that, whether privately or publicly, is unkind and unethical.”

  “But Becca does it all the time!” I’d protested.

  “Cassidy, we all must learn to act, not react,” Dr. Weisman had replied patiently. “Remember, too, that sometimes others learn by our examples. If you consistently treat Becca with courtesy and respect, perhaps you could help her.”

  I made a face. “I doubt it.”

  “Well, you might try. It would please your mother.”

  I heaved a huge sigh.

  “There’s one other issue your mother would like me to discuss with you,” he said, glancing at his notebook. “Stanley Kinkaid.”

  I stiffened in my seat. Dr. Weisman glanced at me over his glasses. “You don’t particularly want to talk about him, I take it,” he said gently.

  I shook my head.

  Dr. Weisman didn’t say anything at all. We sat there in silence. I could hear the slow ticking of the clock on the wall behind me. Finally I burst out, “We’re fine just the way we are!”

  “I see,” said Dr. Weisman.

  “Why does my mother even like him, anyway? He’s short and bald and boring—he’s an accountant!—and he doesn’t play sports.”

  “Is it possible you’re judging him a bit harshly, Cassidy? Comparing him to, say, your father?”

  “Leave my father out of this!” I hollered.

  Dr. Weisman took his glasses off and polished them. “Perhaps you could try and see things from your mother’s perspective. She obviously finds qualities in Mr. Kinkaid that make up for what you consider to be his shortcomings. His kindness, for instance. His intelligence and warmth. His sense of humor. His thoughtfulness. She made me a list. Perhaps you’d like to take a look at it?”

  He shoved it across the desk toward me. I shoved it right back at him. We went around like that for a while, but I wouldn’t budge. No way was he going to force me to like Stan the man, although in the end I did promise—but only to keep my mother happy so she’d let me play hockey—that I would try to stop comparing him to my father.