Much Ado About Anne

by Heather Vogel Frederick

  Cassidy snorts.

  “Five hundred and fifty dollars!” shouts Mr. Kinkaid, the auctioneer, and Jen returns backstage smiling.

  “Now who’s queen of the hill?” says Emma to Becca.

  “Big deal,” Becca retorts.

  It’s finally my turn. I take Stewart’s arm and he leads me onstage. I’m incredibly nervous standing there in my blue gingham “tablecloth.” Not because of the design, but because I’m wondering if we’ll make enough money to keep my parents from having to sell Half Moon Farm. Usually I can add things up in my head no problem, but tonight I can’t seem to get my brain to focus.

  My dress goes for $425. After Stewart deposits me backstage, I run over to the stylist’s table. “Mom, do you have any paper? And a pen?”

  She digs around in her apron pockets. “Somewhere in here, I think,” she says, fishing them out and handing them to me. I do some quick addition.

  “Mom!” I cry. “We made twenty-seven hundred dollars for the first six outfits!”

  “Really?”

  I nod in excitement, then I dash back into the dressing room and change into my next outfit. As I do, it occurs to me that it’s probably a good thing Becca decided to start a little fashion show war. I say so to Emma and Cassidy.

  Cassidy grins. “Good point,” she says. “We should thank her. See what you think of this.” She turns to Becca, who is preparing to go onstage again. She’s representing July this time around, and she’s wearing white shorts, a red-white-and-blue-spangled halter top, and oversize white sunglasses.

  “Hey, Old Glory!” Cassidy calls to her. “Where’s the flagpole?”

  “Cassidy Ann!” says Mrs. Sloane, popping up from behind the dress rack. “Where are your manners? You apologize immediately.”

  “Sorry, Becca,” says Cassidy cheerfully, not sounding sorry at all.

  Becca sticks her nose in the air. Mr. Wong starts the music, and it turns out to be “Stars and Stripes Forever.” We all collapse in giggles, even Stewart. Becca shoots us a murderous look and flounces onstage. Stewart scrambles after her. Becca may be furious at us, but she’s all smiles for the audience, and by the end of the auction she’s regained her first-place position with a winning bid of six hundred dollars.

  “I can’t believe my stuff is selling for this much money,” whispers Megan, looking dazed.

  With Ashley waiting in the wings, Cassidy heads off to get changed. Ashley is wearing the black-and-white babydoll outfit that Becca tried on last month at the Sloanes’ house.

  “Wow,” I tell her, as Becca and Stewart exit the stage. “That looks even prettier on you than it did on Becca.”

  “Thanks, Jess,” Ashley replies.

  Becca gives us a sharp look. “The audience might not think so,” she says loftily.

  Fortunately the audience does think so, and Ashley’s ensemble sells for $525. She looks disappointed as she comes back through the curtains, though.

  “I was hoping to beat Becca,” she tells us.

  “You were great,” Emma consoles her. “Don’t worry about it.”

  Cassidy appears behind us, scowling. “Megan pulled a fast one on me,” she grumbles, plucking at the poufy little cap sleeves of the dress she’s wearing. It’s a back-to-school outfit, because she’s supposed to be September. “She promised I wouldn’t have to wear a dress. Besides, there’s no way I would be caught dead in this at school.”

  Emma glances down at her scabby knees. “Maybe you should pull it down a little lower,” she whispers.

  “Maybe you should shut up,” Cassidy whispers back. She stumps out onstage, looking surly. The audience doesn’t seem to notice, however, because one of the Bruins players buys the dress for his daughter, with a winning bid of four hundred dollars.

  Becca gives her a superior smile as Cassidy comes through the curtains. Cassidy looks like she wants to smack her, but Mrs. Hawthorne is watching so she ignores her instead.

  Just three more designs to go. Jen is up next. “In this fresh twist on the schoolgirl look, the designer updates a classic plaid pleated skirt with a fresh autumn palette of eggplant and gold. Note the witty nod to menswear—French cuffs on the companion shirt, and a matching necktie.”

  “Why couldn’t I have gotten that outfit? I’d rather wear a tie than a dress,” says Cassidy, still grumbling, as Jen emerges backstage, pleased with the $450 winning bid.

  “Here’s one way to show your school spirit,” says Mrs. Wong, as Stewart and Emma take to the stage again. I watch them closely. Stewart is holding Emma’s arm like she’s a piece of my mother’s best china, and he can’t keep his eyes off her outfit. She’s supposed to be November, and she’s dressed as if she’s going to a football game, in brown corduroy pants, brown boots, and a turtleneck the same creamy shade as one of our Saanen goats. Over it all is a big, fluffy wraparound sweater that’s more the soft brown of Sundance. The collar is turned up and it frames Emma’s round face perfectly. She looks—

  “Adorable!” says someone behind me. It’s Isabelle d’Azur, who has popped backstage to help Mrs. Sloane get ready. “Simply magnifique—Megan, your collection is a triumph!” She kisses Megan on both cheeks and disappears into the dressing area.

  I’m still watching Stewart and Emma. “He definitely likes Emma,” I report in a whisper to Cassidy, who pretends not to hear me. The question is, though, does Emma like Stewart? She hasn’t said a word to me about it if she does. I frown. Aren’t we best friends? Don’t best friends tell each other everything?

  Finally, it’s my turn again. I’m December, the last month of the year, and the last model in our Four Seasons of Fashion show. Well, except for Mrs. Sloane. My mother and the Flashlite stylist brushed my hair out and let it fall loose around my shoulders. It’s wavy from being in a braid all day, and I’m wearing a necklace of crystal stars that look like diamonds. Emma tells me I look like a dream.

  I’m still trying to add everything in my head as Stewart tugs me onstage. I’m pretty sure we’re close to our goal, but the numbers keep swimming around in my head and I can’t seem to pin them down. I try not to worry about Half Moon Farm, and instead concentrate on showing off my dress, which is a deep navy blue, instead of one of the usual holiday colors, and cut very simply and elegantly.

  I never understood before tonight what the expression “your heart is in your throat” meant. Tonight I get it. I can hardly breathe. What if people don’t like the dress? What if they don’t bid? What if nothing we’ve done here today makes any difference at all?

  The bidding starts, and it’s low. Only a hundred dollars. I grip Stewart’s arm tighter, trying not to let my anxiety show. Come on, I think. Come on.

  Mr. Kincaid is a good auctioneer. He sweet talks the audience the way I sweet talk our goats, squeezing every last drop out of them.

  “We’re coming down the finish line here, folks,” he says. “And it’s a close race. Surely you can do better than that. What am I bid now, do I hear two hundred?”

  He does. Then two fifty. Three hundred. I tune everybody out and let Stewart steer me around the stage. Mr. Wong is playing When You Wish Upon a Star for background music, and the twinkle lights envelop all of us in the tent in a warm glow. I start to hum along. Makes no difference who you are—Anything your heart desires will come to you . . .

  There’s only one thing my heart desires here tonight. I shut my eyes tight, wishing with all my might.

  The gavel bangs down and my eyes fly open.

  “Sold!” cries Mr. Kincaid. “For seven hundred and fifty dollars!” And then he brings the gavel down again with another resounding thump and adds, “And that, ladies and gentlemen, puts us over the top. Half Moon Farm is safe!”

  The tent erupts in cheers. My friends all crowd onstage and surround me, including Becca, who gives me a grudging thumbs-up. Then my dad is there and so is my mother, thanking the audience while my little brothers dash down the aisle, doing silly dances. The news cameras are rolling and bulbs are flashing and ev
eryone is calling for the designer.

  Megan comes out smiling shyly. Mrs. Hawthorne presents her with a huge bouquet of flowers, and Wolfgang and Isabelle d’Azur praise her and everybody claps, and then we all get bouquets too. My parents thank everybody for their incredible generosity, and then Megan’s mother gives a little speech about the importance of preserving our town’s history, and about how amazing it is to pull together as a community, only this time it’s a nice speech and not a goofy one like the one she gave in the tree house last winter, and even Megan looks proud of her.

  “And now,” says Wolfgang dramatically, grabbing the microphone away from Mrs. Wong, “we have something very special for all of you folks here tonight.”

  He waits for the audience to quiet down before he continues. “Historic Concord is the perfect setting for this historic event! Making her first runway appearance in over a decade, it’s the one, the only—Clementine!”

  We all move instinctively to the sides of the stage as the curtain parts and Mrs. Sloane appears. The audience gasps. I know I’m staring too, which isn’t polite but it’s hard not to. Mrs. Sloane looks—well, she looks like a queen. A real one. Queen Clementine. She’s wearing Megan’s mystery dress, the one she wouldn’t let us see. It’s absolutely the most beautiful dress I’ve ever seen. It’s romantic and elegant and could have come straight from Avonlea, with its bustle in the back and its yards and yards of pale peach fabric that tumble to the floor. There’s lace at the throat and cuffs, and tiny little pearl buttons all down the center of the back, and Mrs. Sloane’s long blond hair is swept up in one of those poufy, old-fashioned styles that suits it perfectly. So that’s how a model is supposed to walk, I think, watching her. The dress seems to float as she moves. Unhurried and smiling, she crosses to one edge of the stage and strikes a pose, then turns and crosses to the other edge and strikes another pose. The whole time, the audience watches her silently, transfixed.

  “And what am I bid for this gorgeous creation?” Wolfgang asks.

  Stanley Kinkaid leaps onto the stage. “I’ll give you one thousand dollars!” he cries.

  “Do I hear any other bids?” says Wolfgang, scanning the tent. He brings the gavel down with a bang. “Sold! To the gentleman in the front row for one thousand dollars.”

  Mr. Kinkaid crosses toward Cassidy’s mother. He takes her by the hand and drops down on one knee. An excited murmur ripples through the audience. Beside me, Cassidy goes completely rigid.

  “Clementine,” says Mr. Kinkaid, as the murmur dies away, “will you do me the honor—the immense honor—of making me the happiest man in the world?”

  Cassidy makes a small noise in the back of her throat.

  Mr. Kinkaid gazes adoringly at her mother. “Will you marry me?”

  For a long moment no one makes a sound. It feels like all of Half Moon Farm is holding its breath.

  Mrs. Sloane beams down at him. She nods. “Yes, Stanley,” she says. “I will.”

  The audience erupts in cheers again. All except Cassidy. She slams her bouquet to the floor of the stage and runs out of the tent.

  SUMMER

  “It’s a serious thing to grow up, isn’t it, Marilla?”

  –Anne of Green Gables

  Mega N

  “I think these engagements are dreadfully unsettling things!”

  —Anne of Avonlea

  Cassidy Sloane is a moron.

  I still can’t believe she blames me for her mother getting engaged to Stanley Kinkaid. It’s just so stupid. She says if I hadn’t made a wedding dress and gotten her mom to model it, he never would have proposed. For one thing, it wasn’t supposed to be a wedding dress. Was it white? Did it have a train? Was there a veil? And for another thing, not that I’m an expert or anything, but it seems to me either a guy is going to propose or he isn’t. A dress has nothing to do with it.

  My mother and I are in the car on our way to the Hawthornes’. We’re having a surprise wedding shower tonight for Mrs. Sloane. She thinks we’re just getting together for our last book club meeting of the year, but Mrs. Hawthorne and Emma cooked this up instead. Mrs. Hawthorne said there’ll be a bigger shower later, with a bunch of Mrs. Sloane’s friends from yoga class and her TV show. Even a few of her friends from California and New York are flying in. But this one is just for us. I wish I were more excited about it. I’ve never been to a wedding shower before, but it’s hard to be excited with Cassidy treating me like I’m her worst enemy.

  I pull my cell phone out of my pocket and text Becca: CARROTS STILL FURIOUS. Cassidy would be furious if she knew we called her that, of course. Which is kind of the point. Becca texts me right back: CARROTS IS NUTS. She adds a smiley face.

  “Everything okay?” asks my mom. “You’re awfully quiet tonight.”

  I shrug.

  She reaches over and pats my hand. “You did an amazing job with the fashion show, honey,” she tells me. She’s told me this at least once a day now for the past three weeks. Not that I mind hearing it. “Your dad and I are so proud of you.”

  Even though I suspect my mom secretly wishes I’d suddenly develop a passion for math and science instead of fabric and design, it’s still nice to know she feels this way.

  “I just wish Cassidy wasn’t mad at me,” I tell her.

  She pats my hand again. “I know,” she says. “She’s worried about things changing, that’s all. With her family, I mean. Remember in Anne of Avonlea, when Diana Barry gets engaged and Anne finds it unsettling, and wishes everything could stay the same? It’s that way for Cassidy, too. You just need to be patient with her, the way she was with you a few months ago.”

  I try to imagine how I’d feel if my mother was going to marry someone besides my dad. It’s impossible. I can’t. I know it must be hard for Cassidy, but still, does that give her the right to act like a jerk?

  We pull into the Hawthornes’ driveway and I hop out. Melville, Emma’s big orange tabby cat, is sunning himself on the back steps. He stands up and stretches, then ambles over to see me. I scratch him under his chin. I like Melville. We can’t have pets because my dad is too hyper about the mess. I had a Beta fish once, named Bubble, and we tried a lizard, too, back when my mom was still trying to get me interested in saving the environment.

  It’s not that I’m against all that stuff, it’s just that I don’t have my mother’s passion for it. My passion is fashion. Hey, that’s pretty catchy. I reach for my sketchbook. My passion is fashion. I jot it down. It might make a fun T-shirt logo someday.

  The Sloanes’ van pulls into the driveway right behind us. Mrs. Sloane gets out first. She’s dressed perfectly, of course, as always. Tonight she’s wearing a long tiered black skirt that ruffles out just below her knees, and a gauzy turquoise shirt cinched in at the waist with a chic black belt. There’s a big silver-and-turquoise buckle on the belt, and she’s accessorized with matching silver bracelets and big silver-and-turquoise earrings. She looks gorgeous. I’m going to have to sketch her later.

  “Hi, Megan! Hi, Lily!” she calls.

  Cassidy gets out of the car, too. She slams the door shut and doesn’t say anything.

  “Clementine, I wanted to ask you how plans for the vegan episode are coming,” my mother says. She winks at me as she hands over a salad bowl, then gives me a little shove. This is my cue to go inside. Cassidy trails behind me, still not speaking.

  “Come on in quick, girls!” whispers Mrs. Hawthorne, glancing over my shoulder. She glances out the kitchen window to make sure my mother is delaying Mrs. Sloane as we planned. “Go on into the dining room, both of you. Hurry now! They’ll be heading inside any second, and we’re all going to hide in there.”

  At least Emma and Jess are happy to see me. Jess waves her preview copy of Flashlite under my nose. It won’t be published until August, but the editors sent us all copies of the mock-up.

  “Can I get your autograph?” she asks. “Please, Miss Wong!”

  I know she’s teasing me, but it’s fun to play along. I
put the salad bowl down on the table, grab the pen, and sign the cover with a flourish. Then I pass to it Emma.

  “Your turn,” I tell her.

  Isabelle d’Azur liked Emma’s “Four Seasons of Fashion” descriptions so well she asked if Flashlite could use them in a sidebar about my designs. Emma got paid two hundred and fifty dollars. She says it’s her “first sweet bubble of success” as a writer, just like L. M. Montgomery. Emma really admires Maud. She’s even started signing her name “E. J. Hawthorne” on all of her articles for the school paper.

  Her dad helped her design some business cards on his computer, and the day that she and Becca and Cassidy came to my house to interview me and take pictures, Emma handed them out to me and my parents.

  “ ‘E. J. Hawthorne, Reporter,’ ” my mom read aloud. “Very impressive.”

  Becca snorted. “It’s just the stupid Walden Woodsman,” she’d scoffed. “It’s not like it’s the New York Times or anything.”

  Becca gets snarky when she’s jealous. I noticed she didn’t have any business cards.

  “Everyone has to start somewhere,” my dad pointed out. “My first job was sweeping the floors at a department store every day after school.”

  My dad grew up in Hong Kong. Sometimes I forget that he wasn’t always a computer genius. His family didn’t have much money, and he started working to help support them when he was my age.

  “I took that job seriously, and the owner noticed and promoted me to salesclerk. Before long, I was a department manager. I earned enough from that job to buy myself a ticket to the United States.”

  He tapped Emma on the head with her business card. “My point is, you’re on the right track here, Ms. E. J. Hawthorne. There’s nothing wrong with taking yourself seriously. Just like you girls did when you planned the fashion show.”

  The interview went okay. Cassidy made me pose a few times, first sketching, then at my sewing machine, and finally holding up one of my outfits.

  Becca was on her best behavior, especially since my mom’s office is right next to my sewing room, and she kept popping in to see how we were doing. I think she was more excited about the interview than I was. Becca asked most of the questions, while Emma wrote down my answers. It was kind of funny, because later, when each of them talked to me about how much of a pain it was to work together on the article, they both complained that they’d done most of the work. Somehow, I tend to believe Emma on this one.