Much Ado About Anne

by Heather Vogel Frederick

  “Here’s your first outfit, Jess,” Megan says, handing me a hanger from the rack. I can tell she’s back to her normal self now that things are underway. “You’ll be going sixth, just like we rehearsed.”

  “Okay.” I duck into the changing area and pull off my shorts and T-shirt. We’ve titled our show “The Four Seasons of Fashion.” Emma made that up, and she wrote the script for the emcee too. The emcee was originally going to be my mother, but she said she’d rather just have a supporting role this time, and volunteered to help the stylist backstage. So Mrs. Wong is going to emcee.

  I pull Megan’s dress on over my head. Each of us has been assigned a month, and I’m supposed to be June, so naturally my first outfit is a summer dress. It’s short—it just reaches my knees—and designed in a loose, flowy style made of blue gingham with smocking on the top.

  Cassidy plucks at the fabric when I emerge. “It looks like a tablecloth,” she says.

  “Cassidy!” says Emma. “It does not.”

  I look from one of them to the other, not sure who to believe. Fortunately, Wolfgang appears just then.

  “Perfect!” he decrees. “Very farmgirl chic! And tell the stylists to keep your hair exactly the way it is, darling.” He waggles his hands in the air. “It’s so—you know, Dorothy! Oz!”

  I’m not sure if I like this remark any better than Cassidy’s, but I trudge dutifully over to the makeup table that Megan was hiding under earlier.

  “Oh, sweetie, that looks gorgeous on you!” my mother says. She’s wearing an apron, and there are curling irons and brushes and combs sticking out of all the pockets.

  “Thanks,” I reply, relieved to hear that I’m not about to go out on stage dressed in a tablecloth. I trust my mom’s opinion more than anyone’s. The photographer snaps a bunch of pictures as she and the Flashlite stylist fuss with my makeup and my hair. In the end they decide to put it in a French braid instead of just leaving it in my regular braid down the back.

  “This is a fashion show, after all,” says my mother.

  “Knock knock!” calls a voice on the other side of the stage curtains. “Can we come in?”

  “Sure,” Cassidy calls back. “Everybody’s dressed.”

  The curtains part with a flourish and Zach Norton steps through. The Fab Three start whispering in excitement. Zach is wearing his tuxedo. He takes a bow, and Cassidy gives him a wolf whistle. The rest of the boys all file in behind him. None of them are dressed in tuxedos, because in the end Megan decided that one escort would be enough. They’re dressed more casually, in white polo shirts and khaki pants. Stewart’s are about three inches too short, of course, but that’s just Stewart.

  “Very nice, gentlemen, very nice,” says Wolfgang. He claps his hands. “And now, places everyone! We’re just about ready to start!”

  The boys turn to go.

  “You look like a penguin,” Ethan says to Zach, grinning at him.

  “I do not,” Zach retorts, putting him in a headlock. Ethan struggles to break free, and the two of them start mock wrestling.

  “Knock it off, guys,” warns Mrs. Hawthorne. “Remember what I said earlier.”

  Ethan manages to escape Zach’s grip, and as he does he gives Zach one final shove.

  “Whoa!” cries Zach, teetering on the edge of the stage. He waves his arms over his head, desperately trying to regain his balance. He falls into the clothes rack with a crash!

  Everybody rushes over.

  “Ooo, Zach, are you hurt?” asks Becca in that special chirpy voice she reserves for boys.

  Zach winces, though I can’t tell whether it’s from embarrassment or pain. “It’s my ankle,” he says. “I think I twisted it.”

  “We told you to quit horsing around, you morons,” says Cassidy.

  Ethan looks stricken. “I’m sorry, dude,” he says to Zach.

  “No big deal,” Zach replies.

  But it is a big deal. If Zach can’t walk, he can’t be our escort.

  “We’re going to need a replacement,” says Wolfgang, looking around.

  “Not me,” says Ethan, backing away.

  Wolfgang narrows his eyes, sizing him up. “Wouldn’t work anyway,” he replies. “Too husky.” He turns to Third and Kevin. “Too short, and w-a-y too short. None of you would fit into the tux.”

  “How about Kyle, then, or Darcy?” Emma suggests, pointing to her brother and his friend.

  My heart does a little somersault. Walking arm in arm across the stage with Darcy Hawthorne would be heaven.

  “Far too tall, both of them,” says Wolfgang dismissively. “We need someone the same height as this boy, so the pants fit.” His gaze wanders over to Stewart, who is standing on one leg, sucking on the end of a pencil, watching the proceedings.

  “Don’t even think about it,” says Becca flatly.

  Wolfgang sighs. “Well, he is about the right height, and apparently we have no other choice. Young man!”

  Stewart gapes at him. “Me?”

  “Yes, you. Come here!”

  Stewart lopes over.

  “Consider yourself the cavalry,” Wolfgang tells him.

  “Huh?” says Stewart.

  “You’re our replacement escort.”

  Stewart’s eyes widen behind his glasses. “Me?” he squawks, his voice cracking.

  Becca snickers.

  “Shut up,” says Cassidy. She turns to Stewart. “Dude, remember what I told you last December, out on the rink? About what my dad always used to tell me?”

  “You mean about bringing my best to every game?” Stewart’s Adam’s apple bobs up and down nervously.

  Cassidy nods. “This is it, dude. This is the game, and this is the time to bring it.”

  “But I—”

  “Just go put the tuxedo on and stop arguing,” says Wolfgang, waving him away.

  “Come on, Stewart,” says my mother, hooking her arm through his and tugging him toward the makeup table. “Time to work some stylist magic.”

  I can’t imagine any kind of magic powerful enough to transform Stewart Chadwick, but I don’t say anything.

  With Ethan and Third on either side of him for support, Zach hobbles off to the barn to take off the tuxedo. He returns a few minutes later in his jeans again, looking sheepish.

  “Sorry if I messed things up for you, Beauty,” he says, handing me the tux.

  “It’s okay, Beast,” I tell him. I can’t help but be disappointed, though. And a little worried. I sure hope having Stewart onstage isn’t going to ruin our show. What if he trips over his feet or something, and makes us look like amateurs?

  I give Zach’s tux to my mom, who passes it over the dressing room curtain to Stewart. With my twin brothers in tow, the ushers all head for their posts, depositing Zach in a chair in the front row on their way. We can hear the excited murmurs from the audience as they start to file into the tent. The twinkle lights are on and everything looks amazing.

  “Places, everyone!” says Wolfgang

  The Flashlite photographer snaps away as the six of us models line up by the short flight of steps leading to the stage. I wonder if real models ever get used to having cameras flashing in their faces every three seconds. It’s very annoying. But I grit my teeth and smile.

  “Oh. My. Gosh.” Ashley is staring over my shoulder, open-mouthed.

  “What?”

  She shakes her head and points. I turn around to see my mother leading Stewart Chadwick toward us.

  “I can’t see a thing,” he complains, squinting.

  My mother tucks his glasses into her apron pocket. “You don’t need to,” she says firmly. “And don’t squint. The girls will guide you.”

  “But I thought I was supposed to be escorting them.”

  “Just relax, Stewart. Everything will be fine.”

  Stewart Chadwick looks completely different. I’ve never noticed his eyes before. His glasses are so thick and scratched-up they kind of mask them. Stewart’s eyes are a really intense gray, and my mom and th
e Flashlite makeup person slicked his hair back so that his bangs don’t cover his forehead, and in the tuxedo he looks, well—

  “Fabulous!” says Wolfgang. “Quite the Cinderfella, aren’t we?” He cocks his head to one side and gives Stewart a thoughtful look. “And quite the brooding poet type too. I never would have guessed.” He pokes him between the shoulder blades and Stewart jumps. “Stand up straight, young man. Posture is essential.”

  Mrs. Chadwick barges through the curtain. “Has anybody seen—Stewart?” She looks at her son and blinks. “What are you doing in that tuxedo?”

  “I, uh, I’m going to escort Emma—the girls, I mean,” he stammers. “Onstage.”

  “Your son has quite a unique look, madam,” says Wolfgang. “We’ll have to see how he photographs, but it’s entirely possible we might be able to use him.”

  “Use him?” Mrs. Chadwick’s eyes narrow. “What on earth are you talking about?”

  “As a model,” Wolfgang replies.

  For once, Mrs. Chadwick is speechless.

  “Of course, the tuxedo helps,” Wolfgang continues. “Every man looks handsome in a tuxedo.”

  “I do?” says Stewart, his voice breaking into a squeak again.

  “Absolutely,” my mother says. “Don’t you think so, girls?”

  I nod. Emma does too, vigorously. Becca looks disgusted, especially when Ashley and Jen start nodding as well. Cassidy just shrugs.

  The curtains part again and Isabelle d’Azur walks backstage. “Who wrote this?” she asks, holding up a copy of the emcee’s script.

  “I did,” says Emma, looking worried. “Is something wrong?”

  “Where did you learn to write fashion copy?” the petite editor demands.

  Emma turns red. “I, uh, kind of followed the style in your magazine.”

  “Aha,” says Isabelle d’Azur. “Well, they say imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. You did a marvelous job, chérie. Truly astounding for one so young. You should think about a career in journalism. The fashion industry could use you.”

  Emma stares at her, openmouthed. She finally manages to stammer a thank-you.

  “I helped her write the article in our school newspaper about Megan,” blurts Becca.

  Isabelle d’Azur nods vaguely. “Oui, oui. I’m sure you did.” She disappears through the curtains again.

  Becca glares at Emma. “You think you’re so smart!”

  Emma looks flustered. “What’d I do? I barely said a thing.”

  “Sheesh, what’s eating you, Chadwick?” says Cassidy.

  I know exactly what’s eating Becca. First Zach twists his ankle and can’t be her escort, then her brother is told he’s male-model material, and now Emma’s in the spotlight for her “Four Seasons of Fashion” script. Becca doesn’t like it when she doesn’t get what she wants, and she definitely doesn’t like to share the spotlight.

  All of a sudden there’s a drumroll. My stomach lurches. We’re starting! Megan’s dad sticks his head through the curtains, grins, and gives us the thumbs-up. He’s in charge of the music, and he brought over a fancy CD player and these huge speakers from his music room at home.

  Becca looks Emma up and down. “That dress makes you look fat,” she says spitefully.

  “Yours makes you look like Josie Pye,” I retort.

  Stewart Chadwick takes his sister by the arm and hauls her toward the curtain. He looks over at Emma. “Becca is dead wrong,” he says. “You look fine in that dress. Really pretty, in fact.”

  “How would you know?” snaps Becca. “You’re blind as a bat without your glasses.”

  “For heaven’s sake, stop bickering!” says Mrs. Hawthorne. “Please, everyone!”

  “I hope Becca trips and falls on her face,” mutters Emma.

  “Don’t listen to a word she says,” I say, consoling her. “She’s just jealous. At least Stewart stuck up for you. He’s pretty nice, you know.”

  Emma turns pink. “I know,” she says.

  On the other side of the curtains, there’s a roar of applause from the audience. We peek through the curtains and watch as Mrs. Wong greets the audience, thanking them for their support for Half Moon Farm. Her organic T-shirt is gone, thank heavens, and she’s wearing black pants and the red silk dragon-lady top she bought on our trip to New York last summer. She’s even wearing lipstick.

  “I’ve just been told that not only do we have a sellout crowd here tonight, but that we have standing room only!” she cries. After the applause dies down she continues, “Looking out at you all this afternoon I see a lot of familiar faces—some from the TV screen, others from the hockey arena, and even one from the Internet.” There’s a ripple of laughter as the audience realizes she’s talking about Carson Dawson. He frowns, but as the audience starts clapping and cheering for him, his glower changes to a grin. Getting into the spirit of things, he stands up, takes out his dentures and waves them in the air. The audience howls with laughter.

  “Megan’s mom is really funny,” I tell Emma and Cassidy, surprised.

  “No kidding,” says Emma.

  “We have a very special show for you here tonight,” Mrs. Wong continues, after the crowd settles down again. She explains that the fashions they’ll be seeing are prototypes, and will be made up in any size the winning bidder requests. “So there’s no excuse for not bidding,” she says. “I’m expecting you all to dig deep into your pockets—and not in search of gum, either. I’m talking about digging for the kind of support that will help save this historic farm. And why not have some fun while we’re doing it? Without any further ado, let’s celebrate the ‘Four Seasons of Fashion’ with Concord’s own teen fashion divas!”

  Mr. Wong fiddles with the CD player and the opening music starts. Mrs. Hawthorne pushes Becca and Stewart through the curtains. Becca struts across the stage, dragging her brother with her.

  “Kicking off tonight’s stellar lineup is Miss Rebecca Chadwick,” says Mrs. Wong. “Becca takes a walk on the wild side here in this wintry January ensemble. Note the sophisticated mix of metaphors as the designer pairs casual black leggings and a long-sleeved leopard-print top with the uptown glamour of a black quilted mink-trimmed vest. It’s faux fur, of course. All of my daughter’s designs are cruelty-free.”

  “Hey, I didn’t write that last bit,” says Emma. “She must have added it.”

  “Mrs. Wong wouldn’t be Mrs. Wong if she didn’t manage to squeeze her favorite subjects in somehow,” I reply with a smile.

  We watch Becca wiggle her way around the stage, trying to look like a fashion model.

  “She looks ridiculous,” says Emma.

  “Yeah, but the audience loves it,” says Cassidy.

  It’s true. Hands are shooting up all over the tent as Mr. Kinkaid gets the bidding started. I can tell he’s enjoying being the auctioneer—we made sure he had a little gavel and everything.

  A minute later, Becca reappears through the curtains. “Carson Dawson’s wife just paid five hundred dollars for my outfit!” she says triumphantly. “See if you can top that!”

  This is the wrong thing to say to Cassidy Sloane.

  “Watch me,” she says, and suddenly our fashion show is about more than just modeling. Cassidy bounds out onto the stage like she’s hitting the rink for the championship game. The bidding for her powder-blue ski ensemble heats up quickly, thanks to her antics. Pretending to be skiing, she squats down and tucks imaginary ski poles under arms, rocking from side to side. Stewart looks like he doesn’t quite know what to do, so he sticks his arms out and pretends to be a tree, blowing in the wind. At least I guess that’s what he’s doing. It’s kind of hard to tell.

  The audience eats it up, whatever it is, and Cassidy’s outfit finally sells for $475, not quite enough to knock Becca out of the lead.

  “Tough luck, Carrots,” says Becca smugly.

  Cassidy ignores her. “Go get ’em, Ashley,” she says, handing Stewart over.

  Ashley’s red-and-white polka dot Valentine’s D
ay outfit raises $350. Then it’s Emma’s turn. She gives me a nervous wave as Mr. Wong changes the music—it’s supposed to be springtime now, so he’s playing a waltz or something. Stewart’s right, Emma does look really pretty. Megan designed a cheerful daffodil yellow dress for April, and it’s flouncy and feminine and nipped in at the waist to show off the fact that Emma isn’t as round as she used to be. All that figure skating is making a difference.

  Onstage, Becca’s brother has this huge goofy grin on his face and he keeps beaming at Emma. Something dawns on me as I watch the two of them.

  “I think Stewart Chadwick likes Emma,” I whisper to Cassidy in amazement.

  “Whatever,” Cassidy replies. She hates it when we talk about boys.

  “Note the puffed sleeves,” says Mrs. Wong, reading from Emma’s script. “As all of you Lucy Maud Montgomery fans will recall, Anne Shirley always wanted puffed sleeves, and this romantic springtime confection harks back to a more elegant time—a time of tea parties at Green Gables, kindred spirits, and innocent romance with a young man named Gilbert Blythe.”

  The ladies in the audience all sigh when Mrs. Wong mentions Gilbert Blythe, and Emma’s dress sells for four hundred dollars.

  “Nobody’s going to beat my price,” crows Becca, as Stewart and Emma come back offstage.

  “We’ll see about that,” says Jen, showing more spirit than usual.

  “Looks like somebody forgot to bring the remote control,” Cassidy whispers to Emma and me, and we giggle.

  Jen is modeling a pair of capris made from a bright patchwork fabric in shades of pink and orange and yellow and blue and green. Over it she’s wearing a long, fitted white camisole edged in pale green lace, and topping it off is a short jacket whose floral print is in the same colors as the capris.

  “Saucy, sassy, and utterly scintillating, this perky trio in cupcake shades is just right for Spring’s in-between days,” says Mrs. Wong.

  Cassidy shakes her head. “Man, Emma, I can’t believe you wrote this stuff.”

  “What’d you expect me to write, a poem?” says Emma defensively. “It’s just like in the fashion magazines. Isabella d’Azur even said so.”