Much Ado About Anne

by Heather Vogel Frederick

  Meanwhile, Mrs. Chadwick sets off at a brisk pace. With a last lingering look at Zach Norton—who is heading in the opposite direction with Third’s mother—we follow her. The plan is that the boys will hike one way around the pond looking for wildlife while we girls hike the other way. We’ll tour Thoreau’s cabin along the way and then meet up for lunch back here at the amphitheater, where Ms. Nielson will read to us from Walden.

  “I’m bored already,” whispers Ashley, before we’re even out of the parking lot.

  Jen and I giggle. Becca manages a smile.

  Mrs. Chadwick, who in addition to her loudspeaker vocal cords must have ears like a fox, turns around and frowns at us. “Now, girls,” she chides, “Walden Pond is a national treasure, and an important part of Concord’s heritage. Do you realize how fortunate you are to be able to so easily appreciate its splendors? Visitors travel from all over the world to walk these hallowed trails.”

  Behind us, there’s a burst of laughter from Mr. Hawthorne’s group. I feel that little twinge of regret again. Mr. Hawthorne is probably telling funny stories about Thoreau. He knows lots of good stories about Concord’s famous authors.

  Under Mrs. Chadwick’s grim supervision, we plow our way through the checklist of wildlife from science class. We scour the woods for signs of mice, and squint at the sky for hawks or loons or geese or even blue jays. All I manage to spot is a squirrel. Halfway around the pond Mrs. Chadwick makes us stop and listen to see if we can hear some of the same things Thoreau heard when he lived here: Cows? No. Owls? No. Whippoorwills? No. The rattle of railroad cars? No. Church bells? No.

  Mrs. Chadwick squinches her eyes closed. “Listen harder, girls!” she orders.

  Jen and Ashley and I collapse in silent giggles. Becca glares at us.

  Mrs. Chadwick’s eyes pop open. “There! Did you hear that?” she cries in triumph.

  “What?” snarls Becca.

  “The trill of a sparrow!”

  “If you say so, Mom.” Becca makes a mark on her checklist.

  In the end, the only other things I check off are “baying of dogs” and “croaking of frog.”

  Then it’s on to plant life, and we spend a while trying to identify blackberry bushes, shrub oaks, sumac, pine trees—that at least is a no-brainer—goldenrod, and something called sand cherry.

  I’m starting to get hungry. It must be close to noon by now. It feels like we’ve been wandering around out here for hours. I don’t say a word, though. I don’t want another of Mrs. Chadwick’s lectures about appreciating the glories of Concord’s heritage.

  Finally, we reach Thoreau’s cabin—well, the replica cabin. Like the Pilgrims at Plymouth Plantation, it’s not the real thing. I guess the original was taken down a long time ago. A park ranger is inside, waiting to give us a tour.

  “Cozy, isn’t it?” she says with a smile, as the six of us squeeze inside the tiny one-room cabin. “Henry David Thoreau moved into this cabin on July 4, 1845. He lived here for two years, two months, and two days.”

  “I wouldn’t have lasted two minutes,” whispers Becca.

  Her mother shushes her.

  The park ranger continues her spiel. “It was Thoreau who wrote, ‘There is some of the same fitness in a man’s building his own house that there is in a bird’s building its own nest.’ He was quite proud of his cabin and of the furniture he crafted for it.”

  We glance around. There’s nothing to get excited about, just a bed, a table, a small desk, and three chairs.

  “Big deal,” whispers Ashley, and Becca and Jen and I all snicker.

  Mrs. Chadwick shoots us what my dad calls the evil witch-mother eye of death. Mrs. Chadwick’s eyes are ice blue, and her version is even scarier than my mom’s. We quickly wipe the smiles off our faces.

  “Many of Concord’s townspeople considered Thoreau to be somewhat of an odd duck,” the park ranger tells us. “But in the end he had the last laugh. His book Walden has come to be known and loved the world over, and many of its quotes are deservedly famous.” She glances down at the notecard she’s carrying. “Quotes such as: ‘Beware of all enterprises that require new clothes,’ and ‘Simplify, simplify.’ And my personal favorite, ‘If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer. Let him step to the music which he hears, however measured or far away.’ ”

  I don’t know about the clothes one—Thoreau probably wouldn’t think too much of Flashlite, which would help explain why my mother admires him so much—but I kind of like the sound of that last quote. I turn to say something about it to Becca, but she’s rolling her eyes at Jen and Ashley. Again I feel a nip of regret, and find myself wishing for a split second that Emma were here. Emma would know what I mean.

  As usual, though, I push the thought away.

  After our tour is over we wander around a bit more and then head for the amphitheater. The others are already there, and Ms. Nielson tells us to find our seats quickly.

  “Boys and girls!” she shouts, clapping her hands together to get our attention. “Before I start reading to you, does anybody have any questions about what they’ve seen here this morning?”

  Somebody makes a wisecrack in the boys’ section, and Ms. Nielson frowns. “People! I want you to be serious here. Don’t forget, you’ll be journaling about your experience here today, so you need to pay attention.”

  Emma raises her hand.

  “Teacher’s pet,” Becca whispers to me.

  “Rebecca! Hush!” says her mother.

  “How come Thoreau is so famous for being a hermit and this big outdoorsman and everything?” Emma asks. “We’re only a mile from Concord, and people used to visit him all the time. Plus, it’s a well-known fact that he used to walk into town often for dinner with his family and friends.”

  “Uh,” says Ms. Nielson, looking a little flustered.

  “And my mother says his mom and his sister did his laundry for him too,” adds Emma.

  I’ve heard Emma’s parents arguing about this before, when I was over at the Hawthornes’ for dinner. Her parents love to talk about books. I guess it’s only natural, since Mrs. Hawthorne is a librarian and Mr. Hawthorne is a writer.

  “Well, uh . . .” Ms. Nielson flounders, looking around for support.

  “Nonsense,” states Mrs. Chadwick flatly. “Henry David Thoreau was a true bard of the wilderness.”

  “Actually, Calliope, my daughter is correct,” says Mr. Hawthorne. “Thoreau was as fond of a good home-cooked meal and a little company as any of us. And his family did keep an eye out for him.”

  Mrs. Chadwick doesn’t like to be contradicted. She swells up indignantly, but before she can say anything else Mr. Hawthorne continues smoothly, “However, I think we can all agree that whether or not his time here at Walden Pond was a truly solitary sojourn, Henry David Thoreau is still one of our country’s premier naturalists, and his book Walden is as ardent a plea for the preservation of the environment as any that has ever been written. In addition, his philosophy of simplicity has influenced many lives, including my own.”

  Mr. Hawthorne’s little speech seems to satisfy Mrs. Chadwick, and Ms. Nielson looks relieved. I notice she doesn’t ask if there are any more questions. She opens Walden and starts to read: “I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately. . . .”

  We eat in silence as she drones on. The sun filters through the trees overhead, warming my shoulders. I’m wearing a pale yellow, sleeveless T-shirt with jeans today, and the matching hoodie is tied around my waist. I look out at the sparkling water. At least we’ll get to have a little fun when we all go canoeing.

  After Ms. Nielson is finished, we troop down to the boat launch and line up with our chaperones.

  “Three or four per boat, maximum!” hollers Mr. Doolittle, waving his clipboard again. “And make sure your life jackets are securely fastened!”

  “He sounds like a flight attendant,” says Becca.

  “Maybe he’ll pass out peanu
ts and soda later,” Jen replies, and we laugh.

  The four of us scramble to be in the same canoe.

  “Don’t get too far ahead, girls!” Becca’s mother orders, as she wedges herself into a canoe with Mr. Hawthorne.

  “Relax, Calliope,” I hear him tell her. “How much trouble can they get into on such a beautiful day?”

  It’s really warm out now, and I start to perspire as we stroke down the pond toward the shelter of a small cove. Out of the corner of my eye I see a flash of red, and I look over to see another canoe approaching. Fast. Cassidy Sloane is in the front, and behind her are Emma and Jess. They’re all paddling hard, like they think they’re warriors or something. Their canoe is aimed straight for us.

  “Hey!” I shout. “Watch where you’re going!”

  They veer away at the last second. As their canoe flashes by, Cassidy grins and swipes her paddle across the surface of the pond, sending up a huge spray of ice-cold water. The sun may be warm today, but Walden Pond sure isn’t.

  “You moron!” shrieks Becca as it engulfs us.

  We dig our paddles in and chase after them. Cassidy is laughing, of course, which makes us even madder, so we paddle even harder. Meanwhile Zach and Ethan and Third have rounded the corner of the cove. Kevin Mullins is with them, his head barely visible over the edge of the boat. They paddle over to see what’s going on.

  When we come up alongside Cassidy’s canoe, Becca reaches out and gives it a shove, trying to topple it over, but Cassidy grabs hold of her arm. She yanks, hard. With another shriek, Becca tumbles forward.

  KER-SPLASH!

  “Man overboard!” hollers Ethan, just as Mr. Hawthorne and Mrs. Chadwick appear at the mouth of the cove.

  Becca surfaces, gasping for air.

  “Rebecca!” bellows her mother, waving her paddle. “Swim for your life! I’m coming to save you!”

  In response, Becca stands up. We’re close enough to shore that the water is only up to her waist. She’s dripping and shivering, and there’s murder in her eye. Cassidy stops laughing as Becca wades over, grabs the edge of her canoe and pushes down on it with all her might. The boat tips over, dumping Cassidy and Emma and Jess into the pond.

  For once in her life, Becca has the attention of all the boys, who are howling with laughter by this point.

  “Go, Becca!” shouts Zach.

  “Attaway, Chadwick!” encourages Third.

  Suddenly I realize that Cassidy and Emma are nowhere to be seen. Next thing I know, they’ve surfaced on the far side of our canoe and in a flash, they’ve flipped it over and sent Ashley and Jen and me tumbling into the water too. Now it’s our turn to shriek. The water is freezing.

  “Why’d you do that?” I scream at Emma.

  “Why have you been so mean to me?” she screams back.

  “Because you’re a traitor!”

  “I didn’t write that stupid article!”

  “You did too!”

  “Did not!”

  “That’s a lie and you know it!”

  We’re both dripping wet and mad as heck and neither of us cares that everybody is staring at us.

  “It’s a lie,” Emma repeats, more quietly this time. “Becca was the one who wrote it.” She’s looking me straight in the eye, and in that instant the spark of guilt I’ve been feeling for the past few weeks flames up inside me again.

  “Don’t listen to her!” yells Becca.

  Jess turns on her. “Why don’t you tell the truth for once! Even your brother knows you did it, Becca. He told Emma he found the picture of Mrs. Wong on your cell phone.”

  “Shut up, Goat Girl!”

  “Don’t you call me Goat Girl,” says Jess, giving her a shove. Becca topples over backward into the water again and comes up spluttering.

  I wrap my arms around my sodden middle. “Is this true?” I ask Becca, shivering. Stewart might be an uber-nerd, his pants might be high-waters, and he might read poetry like, well, Emma, but he’s not a liar.

  Becca pushes her wet hair back off her face. She shrugs. “Does it really matter? Listen, if you’d rather be friends with . . . with stupid Goat Girl here, and Carrots, and, and Waldo, go right ahead! See if I care!”

  By now, her mother and Mr. Hawthorne have made their way across the cove. Mr. Doolittle and Third’s mother are right behind them, and Mr. Doolittle does not look very happy.

  “You girls are in detention for the rest of the day!” he yells. “I want you back at the bus on the double!”

  The seven of us manage to slither back into our canoes, and cold, wet, and shivering, we paddle our way to the boat landing.

  “You’ll dry off faster out here in the sun,” suggests Mr. Hawthorne, as we start to climb onto the bus.

  “Someone will need to keep an eye on them if they’re not with the driver,” says Mr. Doolittle.

  “I will,” barks Mrs. Chadwick, who looks only too eager to volunteer as our jailer.

  “I think you’re better at this chaperone thing than I am, Calliope,” says Mr. Hawthorne mildly. “Why don’t you go help the teachers with the other kids. I’ve got a book in the car that I’m supposed to review. I can stay here with the girls and read while they’re drying off.”

  Mr. Doolittle agrees that this is a good plan, and he and Mrs. Bartlett rearrange themselves to make room for Mrs. Chadwick in their canoe. As they paddle off, Mr. Hawthorne heads for his car.

  “I’ll be right back,” he tells us.

  “You are such creeps,” says Becca bitterly, crossing the grass and spreading her jacket out on the beach. She sits down.

  “Look who’s talking!” says Cassidy. “At least we’re not big fat liars.”

  “Some of you are plenty fat,” Becca zings back, looking straight at Emma.

  Suddenly I am just sick and tired of this whole thing. “Would you all please just SHUT UP!” I yell. Mr. Hawthorne looks back over his shoulder and I lower my voice. “Can’t we just stop this stupid fighting? How did it ever get started, anyway?”

  Everyone looks at Becca.

  “What?” she cries. “Why are you all looking at me?”

  “Because you, you—” I take a deep breath. “Look. The thing is, you guys, we’re all really different. Cassidy, you like sports, and none of the rest of us do. Well, maybe Emma a tiny bit since she started figure skating. Jess, you love animals”—I glare at Becca, daring her to say a word about goats—“plus, you’re the smartest one of all of us. A whole heck of a lot smarter than me, that’s for sure. Emma, you’ve read every book under the sun and can write circles around most of the kids at school. Jen, you’re an amazing artist, and Ashley, you and Becca and I really like fashion. So we’re different, so what? We don’t have to be best friends, but can’t we just quit picking on each other for five minutes?”

  The only sound for a long moment is the slam of Mr. Hawthorne’s car door on the other side of the parking lot. Emma traces her finger in the sand.

  “I’m tired of always feeling like I have to be at war with somebody!” I tell them, flopping down on my jacket beside Becca. “It’s just so stupid.”

  Out on the pond, there isn’t a canoe in sight. The sun is sparkling on the water, and a faint breeze has sprung up, rustling the leaves in the woods behind us. The quiet is soothing. Mr. Hawthorne has returned and is sitting a short distance away against a tree. His book is open but his baseball cap is tipped over his eyes, and I think maybe he’s falling asleep.

  “D’you mean we should call a truce?” asks Cassidy cautiously.

  “A what?” says Becca.

  “You know, a truce,” Cassidy repeats. “No more saying nasty things, no more being mean.”

  We all eye each other. No way on earth is that going to happen, I think. Impossible.

  “Maybe,” says Emma, surprising me. “On one condition, though. Only if Becca tells the truth about the article in the Walden Woodsman. And if she apologizes.”

  “That’s two conditions,” says Jen.

  “Whatever.�
��

  “Well, you said one.”

  “Gimme a break, you guys!” Cassidy tells them.

  Emma looks questioningly at Becca. Becca shrugs. “Okay, okay,” she says. “So it was me—so what? Big deal. I only did it to get back at you three for that horrible potion you were going to make me drink on live TV.”

  Somehow, somewhere deep down inside I think I always knew that it was Becca. I just didn’t want to believe it, so I kept pushing the truth away.

  “I didn’t think you were all going to get so bent out of shape about it,” she continues. “It was just a dumb joke.”

  “Some joke,” says Jess. “You really embarrassed Megan, for one thing. And then you go around pretending to be her friend.”

  “I am her friend,” Becca retorts. “And it’s not like you’re so innocent. How come it’s okay that you three tried to trick me, but when I do it you’re all over my case?”

  “What we did wasn’t okay,” Emma admits. “It was mean, and we apologized—to you, to your mom, and to Mr. Dawson. And we got punished for it big-time, or have you forgotten?”

  “Look, I’m sorry, okay?” says Becca.

  It’s not much of an apology. I look at her, not sure what to think. Jess is right about Becca embarrassing me. People at school are still talking about “Handcuffs Wong.” What’s worse, though, is the fact that she lied to me. And on top of everything, I feel awful for all the mean things I’ve said and done to Emma and Cassidy and Jess these past few weeks.

  “So is everybody happy now?” Becca adds.

  Nobody replies. She flops back onto the sand. “Fat lot of good that did.”

  “Apology accepted,” says Emma stiffly.

  Everybody looks over at me. But I’m still feeling confused and a little angry, and my expression gives me away..

  “I thought you liked the idea of a truce,” says Cassidy, puzzled.

  I lift a shoulder. “I guess you’re right. Okay, then, apology accepted.”

  “So now what?” asks Jess.