Much Ado About Anne

by Heather Vogel Frederick

  There’s still a ton of work to do to get ready, though. The fashion show’s not until this evening, but the gates are going to open at noon so people can tour the house and barn beforehand. Mrs. Wong was the one who suggested this.

  “So visitors can see what all the fuss is about,” she’d said. “If they can see how special Half Moon Farm is, it will help them understand what we’re trying to save.”

  Plus, she’d pointed out, if some people didn’t want to buy tickets to the fashion show but still wanted to support our fundraiser, it might encourage them to make a donation.

  By the time I take my shower and pull up a chair at the kitchen table to scarf down a bowl of cereal, people are already starting to arrive.

  The screen door squeaks open. “Hey, Jess,” says Darcy. One of the chickens—Tammy Wynette, I think—tries to dart past him, but Darcy’s too quick for her. “You need to stay outside,” he tells her firmly, shooing her off the back porch.

  “Thanks.”

  He grins. “No problem. Have you seen your dad? Your mom says we should get started roping off the parking area.”

  I point down the hall toward the front door. “He just went that way.”

  “Thanks.”

  Darcy must have just taken a shower too, because his brown curls are still damp. He gives my braid a yank as he passes by. I wonder if he’ll ever think of me as anything but a kid. I’m not that much younger than he is, but I guess when you’re fifteen and a freshman in high school, a thirteen-year-old is still practically a baby.

  The back door squeaks open again. This time it’s Mrs. Chadwick. Mr. Chadwick is right behind her, like a shadow. Becca’s father is as quiet as Becca’s mother is loud, and as thin as she is, well, large. Although the yoga classes must be working, because there’s less of her these days than there used to be. My dad still calls them Jack Sprat and his wife, though—at least when my mom’s not around to hear it.

  “Henry!” Mrs. Chadwick barks.

  “Yes, dear?” Mr. Chadwick replies meekly.

  “Make a note that something needs to be done about those ridiculous chickens. One of them just tried to peck my toes.”

  “Yes, dear.” Mr. Chadwick obediently pulls a small notebook out of his shirt pocket.

  “Where’s your mother?” Mrs. Chadwick demands.

  “Uh, I’m not sure,” I tell her. “She was just here a minute ago.”

  “When you see her, tell her we need her in the tent.”

  “Okay.”

  The Chadwicks retreat, and I finish my cereal in peace. By the time I finally get outside, almost everybody is here. Darcy must have found my dad, because he and Kyle and some of the other fathers are with him out front, roping off a section of the front pasture for cars. Jen and Ashley are painting signs—a big one to hang on the front fence that says FASHION SHOW TONIGHT! and another that says FARM TOURS TODAY! plus two smaller ones for parking and tickets.

  “This is turning into quite the community effort,” says Mrs. Hawthorne, coming up behind me. She puts her arm around my shoulders. “But then, it’s places like Half Moon Farm that make a community special, right?”

  Cassidy appears just then, holding a clipboard. “Gather around, everybody!” she hollers.

  “You sound just like Mr. Doolittle,” I tease her.

  She sticks out her tongue at me, then grins.

  Our moms decided that since we girls planned the fashion show, we should be the ones to direct everything.

  “We’ll just be on hand to offer suggestions and support,” said Mrs. Sloane. “This is your baby, after all, since you are now officially the ‘Concord teen fashion divas.’ ”

  That’s what one of the local newspapers dubbed us, and even though it’s not technically true—Emma doesn’t turn thirteen for a couple of weeks, so she’s not quite a teenager yet—the name stuck, and our families are getting a lot of mileage out of it.

  “Okay, everybody, listen up!” shouts Cassidy, consulting her clipboard. “The parking lot is almost ready, right?”

  My dad nods, and she checks it off her list. It turns out Cassidy is really good at bossing everybody around. Almost as good as Mrs. Chadwick. “How about the signs?” she asks.

  “We’ll hang them as soon as the paint is dry,” Ashley reports.

  “Ticket sales?”

  “Stanley should be here any minute,” says her mother.

  Since he’s an accountant, Stanley Kinkaid has been put in charge of the ticket booth and the auction.

  “How about the food? Is that under control?” Cassidy asks her mother.

  “Yes, sir,” Mrs. Sloane replies, saluting, and everybody laughs.

  Megan is nowhere to be seen, but Mrs. Wong tells us that she’s backstage in the tent, making some last-minute alterations. “She could use some help ironing,” Mrs. Wong says, and Mrs. Hawthorne offers to go.

  “Now all we need is for people to come,” Cassidy says to me, as everyone scatters to their assigned chores.

  “Do you think they will?” I ask her nervously.

  Cassidy doesn’t even hesitate. “Absolutely.”

  I wish I felt so sure.

  A couple of hours later, a big black limousine pulls through the front gates. Mrs. Sloane emerges from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron.

  “Wolfgang! Isabelle!” she calls, as a tall, skinny man dressed completely in black and a tiny woman with bright orange hair and oversize electric-blue glasses get out of the back of the car. It’s the editors from Flashlite magazine. They have the photographer and the stylist with them too.

  “Clementine!” trills the tiny woman.

  They all give each other air kisses. Mrs. Sloane’s friends gaze around at the farm. Isabelle d’Azur’s nose wrinkles slightly, and I suddenly wish that my dad hadn’t decided to spread manure on the back pasture last week.

  “My,” she says, “how quaint.”

  Mrs. Sloane quickly steers her toward the tent, which my mother and Becca and Emma are in the process of heaping with lilacs to help counteract any stray farm aromas.

  Meanwhile, I head for the barn to make sure that all the animals are where they’re supposed to be. I don’t want a repeat of last year, when Sundance got loose during our middle school musical and practically ruined the performance. Not that it was my fault—Becca masterminded that stunt. I put Led and Zep out in the pasture, where visitors can admire them, and then, when I’m satisfied that everything else is under control animal-wise, I head for my assigned spot in the ticket booth, where I’m supposed to help Mr. Kinkaid.

  As I cross the yard, Emma comes flying out of the tent.

  “Jess!”

  “What’s the matter?” I ask.

  “Come quick,” she says breathlessly. “It’s Megan.”

  She runs back toward the tent and I follow her. Backstage, Cassidy and the Fab Three are already there, standing next to the table where the stylist from Flashlite and my mom will be doing our hair and makeup.

  “She’s having a meltdown,” Cassidy whispers, lifting up a corner of the tablecloth. “She won’t come out.”

  I squat down and peek underneath. Sure enough, Megan is huddled on the ground with her knees drawn up to her chest.

  “Megs,” I ask her. “What’s the matter?”

  Megan doesn’t say a word. She just shakes her head.

  The stage curtain flaps open and Wolfgang pokes his head in. Cassidy quickly drops the tablecloth.

  “Darlings!” he cries. Wolfgang is one of those people who only goes by his first name. He’s very dramatic, and calls everyone “darling” and “sweetheart.” “Has anyone seen our star of the day?” he says. “We’re ready to start the interview!”

  “Uh, she’s around here somewhere,” Becca tells him.

  Flashlite decided to combine Megan’s interview and our fashion show feature into one big article, and the plan is for Wolfgang and the photographer to follow Megan around all afternoon, taking pictures and asking questions as they go.
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  Wolfgang withdraws, and Cassidy lifts up the tablecloth again.

  “C’mon, Megan, you have to come out,” Emma coaxes.

  “She’s right,” I tell her. “You’ve been looking forward to this for months.”

  Megan shakes her head vigorously. “No,” she tells us. “I’m not going to come out. I can’t believe I let anyone talk me into this. My designs are stupid and the dresses are stupid and I’m stupid. It’s all going to be a horrible flop, and I’m going to look like a great big idiot.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” says Cassidy. “Your dresses are awesome, and so are you.”

  “You’re just saying that to make me feel better,” mutters Megan. “This whole fashion show idea is worse than my mother handcuffing herself to the tree.”

  “Um, no, actually it’s not,” says Becca.

  There’s a long silence from under the table. “Well, okay, maybe not,” Megan admits. “But still—what if nobody comes? What if nobody bids on anything? What if people laugh at me? Flashlite will have brought the photographer here for nothing. They’ll change their minds and they won’t want to write an article about me at all.”

  The curtain twitches behind us and Cassidy quickly drops the tablecloth again. This time it’s Mrs. Chadwick. She sees us all kneeling on the floor of the tent and frowns. “Did you girls lose something?”

  “A contact lens,” says Jen, thinking quickly. She blinks one of her eyes rapidly and makes a big show of feeling around on the floor.

  “I didn’t know you wore lenses, Jennifer. Well, hurry up and find it. We need to hunt for Megan. She’s gone missing.”

  I lift up the tablecloth again after Mrs. Chadwick leaves. “Megan,” I tell her, “I know how you’re feeling. It’s called stage fright. Remember last year? When we were in Beauty and the Beast together?”

  There’s a little grunt from under the table.

  “Well, it’s the same thing. Opening night, I actually thought I was going to barf. Before the curtain went up I couldn’t remember a single one of my lines. But guess what? Once the show was underway, I was fine. You will be too, you’ll see.”

  There’s another pause.

  “No, I won’t,” says Megan.

  The stage curtain wafts aside again. I drop the tablecloth.

  “Now who?” says Cassidy, annoyed.

  It’s Zach and Ethan and Third.

  “Hi guys!” says Ethan. “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing,” says Cassidy.

  “Doesn’t look like nothing,” says Third.

  The boys saunter over. Cassidy and Emma and me and the Fab Three stand up. We form a line in front of the table.

  “What are you hiding under there?” asks Zach, craning his neck to see past Cassidy.

  She pushes him away. He pushes back. She pushes him again, harder.

  “Honestly, kids!” It’s Mrs. Hawthorne. She puts her hands on her hips, frowning. “We do not have time for this today,” she tells Zach and Cassidy sternly. “Boys, outside with you now. And girls, don’t you have assigned jobs to do?”

  “Mom, it’s Megan,” Emma says, as the boys leave the tent.

  Her mother frowns again. “Did you find her yet? Mrs. Sloane’s friends are getting a little worried.”

  In reply I lift up the tablecloth.

  “Why, Megan Wong, what are you doing under there?” Mrs. Hawthorne’s voice is gentle. She kneels down on the grass by the table.

  “I don’t want to come out, Mrs. H,” says Megan in a small voice.

  Emma’s mother reaches out and strokes her hair. “Oh, honey, you don’t have to be scared.”

  Megan bursts into tears.

  “Go get Mrs. Wong,” Mrs. Hawthorne whispers to Cassidy, who runs out of the tent.

  The two of them return a minute later. Mrs. Wong is wearing shorts and a T-shirt with a picture of a bunch of carrots and ORGANIC FARMERS DESERVE A BUNCH OF SUPPORT on it. I hope she’s planning to change before the fashion show, especially since she’s the emcee.

  “What’s the matter, Megs?” she says, kneeling down beside Mrs. Hawthorne.

  “I’m afraid,” Megan replies, sniffling.

  “Of what?” says her mother.

  “That everyone will laugh at me.”

  “Laugh at you!” Mrs. Wong looks mystified. “For heaven’s sake, why would anyone laugh at you? The clothes you’ve made are beautiful, and you’ve helped organize an amazing event for a worthy cause!”

  “But what if they do?” Megan persists. “What if they think my designs are dumb? And what if my interview with Flashlite sounds dumb? It’ll be in print for thousands of people to read! I could never go back to school again—I could never show my face again. I’d have to become a hermit, like stupid Henry David Thoreau.”

  We all start to laugh, and Mrs. Hawthorne shushes us.

  Mrs. Wong crawls under the table and puts her arms around her daughter. “Megan Rose Wong,” she says firmly. “No one is going to laugh at you. You have more talent and gumption in your little finger”—she picks up one of Megan’s pinkies and wags it in the air—“than most people twice your age. I am incredibly proud of you.” She peers out at us. “And that goes for all of you girls. You’ve done a fabulous job here today—and because of it, the Delaneys are going to get to stay here at Half Moon Farm where they belong. I just know it. You can take that from Handcuffs Wong.”

  Her confidence gives me a jolt of hope. Could she be right?

  Megan starts to giggle. Her mother kisses the top of her head. “There’s my girl. Come on out now and blow your nose.”

  The two of them emerge. Mrs. Hawthorne passes Megan a tissue, then turns to me. “Take her inside and help her get cleaned up, would you, Jess? Lily and I will distract the Flashlite folks until you get back. The rest of you girls—back to work now.”

  While she and Mrs. Wong go to head off Wolfgang and the photographer, I manage to sneak Megan out of the tent and into the house. I deliver her backstage again a few minutes later—face washed, hair brushed, and smiling again, though her smile is still a bit wobbly.

  “There’s our star!” crows Wolfgang. He sweeps his hand over the rack of clothes. “I’ve just been showing your lineup to our photographer, and he agrees with me completely, darling—you’ve done a brilliant job!”

  Megan relaxes visibly.

  “But what is this one here, in the garment bag?”

  “Please don’t touch that!” Megan says. “It’s Mrs. Sloane’s dress—and I want it to be a surprise.”

  “Ah,” says Wolfgang. “Well, I’m sure it’s brilliant, just like all the others.”

  “See?” I whisper to Megan. “You’re brilliant. Everything’s going to be fine.”

  I only wish I felt convinced of that. Even after Mrs. Wong’s pep talk, worry still gnaws at me as I head off to the ticket booth. I can see cars lined up all along Old Bedford Road, though, waiting to get in, which is a good sign, so I tell myself to pull my socks up, like my mother said. I wave at Zach and Ethan and Third, who are helping Darcy and Kyle direct traffic. They wave back.

  Inside the ticket booth—actually our farmstand, which my mother has practically buried under bouquets of flowers—Kevin Mullins is perched on a stool behind the counter next to Mr. Kinkaid.

  “Hey, Jess,” he says, his matchstick legs swinging back and forth like skinny wind chimes.

  “Hey.”

  “This young man here tells me you’re the smartest girl at Walden Middle School,” Mr. Kinkaid says.

  “Uh, I don’t know about that,” I reply, embarrassed.

  “It’s true,” Kevin says. “We’re both taking high school math.”

  It turns out Mr. Kinkaid is really good at math too—naturally, since he’s an accountant—and between customers we talk about statistics and stuff. Mrs. Sloane stops by a little while later with lemonade and sandwiches for us. “This should tide you over until the after-party,” she says.

  “Thanks, Clemmie,” says Mr. Kinkaid, givin
g her a kiss. Cassidy hates his pet name for her mother, but I think it’s kind of cute. So is the look Mr. Kinkaid gets on his face whenever Mrs. Sloane is around. It’s kind of how I imagine Gilbert Blythe looking at Anne Shirley. Thinking of Gilbert Blythe makes me think of Darcy Hawthorne, and I peek out the ticket booth over to the parking lot. Cassidy’s older sister Courtney is perched on the top rail of the fence, taking a break and talking to him and Kyle. The three of them are laughing. I sigh and wish I hadn’t looked. My little daydream is utterly hopeless.

  The rest of the afternoon flies by. Cars just keep coming and coming, and Mr. Kinkaid and Kevin and I sell more and more tickets. Mr. Kinkaid is really funny and nice, and he jokes around a lot with me and Kevin and the customers. I can see why Mrs. Sloane likes him. I’m not exactly sure why Cassidy doesn’t.

  As the light begins to fade, Mr. Kinkaid glances at his watch. “It’s nearly time, kids. You’d better round up the others.”

  Kevin and I find the rest of the boys and head for the tent. Inside, my little brothers spot us and come running.

  “Ta-da!” they shout.

  Behind me, someone starts to clap. I turn around. It’s Isabelle d’Azur.

  “C’est adorable!” she says. She’s beaming, so I guess that means she approves. Isabelle d’Azur is from Paris.

  The twins are dressed in tiny tuxedos. Megan calls them “pest suits.” She thought it would be funny. They’re not going to be escorts—nobody in their right mind would trust my brothers with that responsibility—but they’re going to take tickets at the door and help the older boys with the ushering. With my brothers in hot pursuit, Zach and Ethan and Third and Kevin follow Darcy and Kyle and Stewart toward the barn to get changed. I head backstage to the girls’ dressing room, which is actually just a corner of the tent that’s been sectioned off with a sheet.