The Accidental Book Club
Page 25
My name is Bailey Butler and I’m sixteen years old. I wrote to you a long time ago, but what I didn’t know then was that you were already dead. I just discovered that right now when I was looking for your e-mail address. You can’t e-mail dead people, so I’m just going to write this one longhand. I have no idea where I’ll send it. I wonder where my mom sent my letter all those years ago? Maybe nowhere. Also, I hope it’s not rude to call you “dead.” I’m still learning from my grandma what it’s okay to say about people who’ve died and what isn’t. I think “dead” is okay, though, in this circumstance, especially since you won’t actually ever read this.
You know how sometimes people will ask you what is your favorite book of all time? When people ask me that question, I lie. It’s pretty easy to do. I read all the time, and I really love a lot of the books I read. I used to think I was Ramona Quimby, and I learned spells and stuff like Hermoine, and I have read Anne of Green Gables more times than I can count. And each of those books, if you had asked me at the time that I was reading them, I would have told you were my absolute favorite. Or maybe I would have made up something like Catcher in the Rye, which I’ve never read, or The Grapes of Wrath, which I actually hated, just to sound smart and impress people.
But all of those answers, the true ones and the false, would have been lies.
Your book Home for a Bunny is my favorite book of all time. I’ve always known that.
I was obsessed with it when I was a kid. That bunny felt real, like a part of my family. Like the pet I never had. Sitting on my mom’s lap and listening to the story was the coziest I’ve ever felt. Like nothing bad could ever happen to me. Like nothing bad could ever happen to us.
I will admit, I always wondered why the bunny didn’t have a home. Why was he searching? Where was his family? What had happened to his home? And why didn’t he seem upset about it?
It turned out bad things could happen to me. Bad things could happen to us. I wouldn’t be cozy forever. I wouldn’t be in my mom’s lap forever, and it has finally dawned on me that sometimes bunnies just don’t have homes, and they have to go looking for their version of the fluffy snow-white bunny who will take them in at the end. Maybe that was what you were trying to say with your book? Maybe it wasn’t just about a cute woodland animal and words that are fun to read aloud?
I carried that book with me everywhere I went. Nobody knows this, but I even kept it in the front pocket of my backpack every day that I ever went to school. And it would be in my backpack again this year, my junior year, but I’m homeschooled now. But even if I wasn’t homeschooled, I wouldn’t be carrying it, because I gave it away to someone who needs it more than I do. I have found my white bunny to take me in and make me cozy. And now I think I understand the bunny completely.
Thank you for giving me . . . well, everything.
Love,
Bailey Butler
Jean knocked on Bailey’s door, jarring Bailey out of a nap.
“You ready to go?”
Bailey sat up, spilling her comforter onto the floor next to the bed. She wiped her eyes, feeling cobwebby. She wasn’t sure how long she’d been lying down. It seemed like only a minute. Yet she’d had enough time to dream that her mother had shown up looking pink and healthy and scrubbed clean, asking Bailey if she was ready to go home. She’d had that dream a lot lately. It was always followed by Bailey telling her mother that she was already home. But in the end, Dream Bailey climbed in the car with her mother, feeling sorry and sad and thrilled and hopeful all at the same time. She hated that dream.
“Took you long enough,” she grumbled, stepping into her flip-flops and opening the door. “I’ve been ready forever.”
Her grandmother studied her face and grinned. “I can see you were waiting anxiously. You have a handprint on your face. Was it a nice nap?”
“Whatever,” Bailey said, picking up her string bag by her bedroom door and looping it over her shoulder. She couldn’t help smiling too. “You get lost on your way to change?”
“I tell you every day, it takes a long time to work up the courage to get into a swimsuit when you’re my age,” her grandmother said. “Plus, I had to call Loretta.”
“You look fine in your swimsuit.” Bailey jogged down the stairs. “Kind of hot, actually.”
Grandma Jean laughed as she followed Bailey down the stairs. “Now it’s my turn to say ‘whatever.’”
It was still hot outside, even though it was September, and for that reason the pool had been kept open past Labor Day. Most days Bailey got her schoolwork done on the computer before lunch was over, and she and her grandmother packed up bags of cinnamon sugar popcorn and cans of soda and headed down to the pool before the neighborhood kids got out of school and flooded the place.
“Is she coming? Loretta?” Bailey asked as she plopped into the car, her grandmother handing her the overstuffed pool bag and two towels. She felt dwarfed, as if she could barely see through the windshield, but she didn’t mind. It kind of reminded her of when she was a kid and hid in blanket forts. Back when she enjoyed being invisible.
Her grandmother groaned as she lowered herself behind the steering wheel. “Doesn’t want to pull herself away from La Lounge today,” she said.
“Rave DJ Flavian? Still? I thought she’d finished that one. Don’t tell me she installed black lights into that chandelier like she threatened.”
“Most likely, she did. But she’s moved on to Cruise Captain Flavian. Now she’s navigating the seven seas in nothing but a sailor hat and a compass that always points north. Or at least that’s how she put it.”
“Gross,” Bailey cried, bursting into a belly laugh. Every so often her grandmother did that—surprised her with something really funny or silly—and she was almost shocked by the sound of her own laughter.
They drove the four blocks to the pool and piled out of the car, Bailey trying to juggle the pool bag and towels while her grandmother signed them in. Noah was working the lifeguard table, like always, gazing out into nothing while gnawing on a thumbnail as if his life depended on it.
“Hi, Noah,” Bailey said as she walked by.
“Hey,” he said. He still hadn’t totally warmed up after the cell phone incident, and Bailey felt a pang of guilt every time she saw him pull out an old janky phone, look at it as if it were useless, and sullenly tuck it back into his swim trunks pocket. She didn’t know how to apologize to him, and besides, she wasn’t an apologizing type of person. But she felt bad, and if it counted for anything, she still considered him a onetime friend that she sometimes wished she could hang out with again. Not that Grandma Jean would ever let her hang out with him again, anyway, after the whole pot incident. So she settled on saying hi and leaving it at that.
They went straight to their usual two chaise lounges, the ones they had sat in the very first time they visited the pool, back when Loretta’s raunchy talk had grossed her out completely. The lounges were tucked under a patio umbrella, which Bailey always immediately wound to an open position. If Bailey pulled her feet up, she could be totally shaded. If she stretched out, she could get some sun on her legs. Grandma Jean just preferred the shade.
“You talk to your mom or dad today?” Grandma Jean asked as soon as they got settled. Same question every day.
“Nope,” Bailey said, moving around to get comfortable on her towel. Same answer every day. She supposed one day the answer would change, but she tried not to think about it. She rehearsed in her head all the time what she would say to Curt or Laura Butler if she ever heard from them again, but part of her was scared that she’d never have the guts to actually say it. A part of her feared that, just like in her dream, she would go to them, because they were her parents, and as much as she hated them, she missed them sometimes too. The old them. The ones who laughed when she popped out of her blanket fort, no longer invisible.
And just like every day, she asked her gran
dmother the same question. “You hear from them?”
Grandma Jean slowly shook her head as she reached into the pool bag. “Not today.”
And Bailey hated it, but that answer always came with a little stab of anger and hurt that, for just a second, made her want to do something crazy like vandalize a car or . . . take her clothes off in the pool. Sometimes she gave in to that anger—there was a closet wall in her bedroom so full of holes she could see insulation behind it—but more and more often she tried to fight it. To not let them do that to her.
Her grandmother pulled out a bag of popcorn for each of them and handed one, along with a can of soda, to Bailey, who immediately tucked it into her lap. She then pulled out two matching books—a lengthy period novel that Bailey was surprisingly into—and handed one to Bailey.
“Where are you?” Grandma Jean asked, crinkling her bag as she dug out a handful of popcorn.
“Adelaide just found out that John has come home from the war,” Bailey said.
“Oh, don’t tell me any more. I’m not there yet. You read so fast,” her grandmother said.
Bailey shrugged. “Lots and lots of practice, I guess. You better hurry up, though. Book club meets next week.”
She pulled her feet up and propped the book on her knees. Her grandmother munched on popcorn and flipped to her bookmarked page. Noah stared off into nothingness and chomped on his thumbnail, and the water softly lapped against the sides of the pool.
And side by side, they read.
Photo by Lacey Crough
Jennifer Scott is an award-winning author who made her debut in women’s fiction with The Sister Season. She also writes critically acclaimed young adult fiction under the name Jennifer Brown. Her debut YA novel, Hate List, was selected as an ALA Best Book for Young Adults, a VOYA Perfect Ten, and a School Library Journal Book of the Year. Jennifer lives in Liberty, Missouri, with her husband and three children.
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A CONVERSATION WITH JENNIFER SCOTT
Q. The Accidental Book Club focuses on both the relationship between a grandmother and her granddaughter and the relationships among the members of a book club the grandmother creates. How did this story begin for you? Did some characters speak to you more than others? Were some harder to write than others?
A. I am often asked to visit book clubs that have read and will be discussing one of my books. And I’m thrilled when I can join them, because book clubs tend to be very open and honest with their opinions. I love that honesty, and always welcome the opportunity to learn from them.
The idea for The Accidental Book Club came when I began wondering, however: What would happen if a visiting author didn’t welcome that honesty? What if, in fact, he responded quite rudely? And what if the book club wasn’t asking him there to pick his brain, but to pick a bone with him instead? Something about that setup intrigued me, so I ran with it.
Loretta really spoke to me. She was the member I would most want in my book club, if I had one. She’s a chronic reader, but she doesn’t take it all so seriously. In fact, she doesn’t take much of anything seriously. And she doesn’t have a very good filter, which makes her flinchingly hilarious at times, and someone I can relate to. I also really connected with Bailey. I felt so sorry for her, and I understood her anger and her antics. I was rooting for her the whole way through.
Mitzi, however, was the most difficult for me to write. She and I have fairly different viewpoints in life, and I found myself at times not really liking her much. It wasn’t until she began to admit that she wasn’t perfect, and that maintaining the appearance of perfection was exhausting for her, that I began to understand and appreciate her a little more.
Q. Jean Vison, the founder of the book club, remarks that the group came to be as much about the events in their lives, the food they brought, and the wine as the books themselves. Have you been a member of a book club? Did you find this to be the case?
A. I have never been a member of a book club, but I would sorely love to be. But I have noticed over the years of visiting book clubs that they almost all have one thing in common: food. There are always prized dishes that are fawned over, experiments that are test-driven, and regulars that everyone loves (the most common regular: dessert; most common dessert: brownies). In fact, for most of the clubs I’ve visited, nothing happens until everyone gets a plate. Another constant in the book clubs I’ve visited is wine. Lots and lots of wine. With margaritas as a close second.
Of course, once you get booze and chocolate flowing, the conversations loosen and real friendships are born. I once visited a book club meeting during which we discussed my book for about ten minutes, and then segued into a discussion about childhoods and fathers that was deeply intimate. It was a wonderful experience. The discussion was not about the book at all . . . yet, in a way, it was the deepest book conversation I’d ever been a part of.
Q. Bailey, the granddaughter, has written to authors of books she loves from a young age. Do you have books that serve as touchstones for you in your life? Could you tell us a little bit about them? Did you ever write to one of the authors the way Bailey does?
A. So many books were touchstones in my life, and their authors sometimes felt like more than just authors to me. They were my heroes, for sure, but almost, in a way . . . they felt like friends as well. Beverly Cleary, Judy Blume—it’s no coincidence that Bailey writes to the authors she does. The Ramona books defined my early childhood. Judy Blume helped usher me into adolescence, and her books Blubber, It’s Not the End of the World, and Are You There, God? It’s Me, Margaret each touched me particularly deeply. I have never written to any authors, but if I did, I imagine I would write to the authors Bailey wrote to and would say something very similar to what she said.
Q. The author of the book Blame receives great critical acclaim, and yet his ideas regarding women seem derogatory and outdated (to say the least!). What inspired you to explore this conflicted version of the artist-writer?
A. I don’t know if I was really exploring a critically acclaimed artist-writer so much as I was exploring the critically acclaimed in general, be it artist, author, performer, comedian, sports star, politician, actor, or otherwise. How we treat the famous is a very interesting study in contradiction to me. We put some celebrities up on pedestals and then put impossible pressure on them to behave perfectly, to think as we think, and to never voice an opinion otherwise. So many of the famous have found themselves in the midst of terrible, scathing critical firestorms and, at times, career-ending hate over a misspoken word. Yet at the same time, other celebrities frequently behave deplorably, and we still continue to happily consume their brand. It’s as if we are willing to overlook the willfully dreadful behaviors of some while at the same time refusing to allow any slack for the mistakes of others. And it seems so random who gets that free pass and whose career will end. So the exploration of R. Sebastian Thackeray, III, wasn’t the exploration of authors, readers, and critics so much as it was the exploration of the famous and their fans.
Plus, it was just really fun to create a nasty, vile little man and then beat up on him a bit.
Q. What would you most like readers to take away from reading The Accidental Book Club?
A. Well, first, foremost, and always, enjoyment. I want my readers to feel as if they’ve spent time with friends after spending time with Jean’s book club. I know I felt like they were friends while I was writing it.
But I think what I’d most like readers to take away is the feeling of empowerment behind human connection. The same that Janet felt when they marched into the supermarket, or that Bailey felt when she asked to live with her grandmother. Whereas R. Sebastian Thackeray’s novel was all about blame, judgment, and disconnect, The Accidental Book Club is all about acceptance, forgiveness, and connection, and the great power that comes from those things.
Q. You’ve now written two works of women’s fiction, The Sister Season and The Accidental Book Club. Was the writing process similar for both? Did you feel one came easier than the other?
A. In terms of process, I would say they’re fairly similar, with the exception that I wasn’t writing The Sister Season for anyone but me, whereas I knew going in that The Accidental Book Club would be published. With The Sister Season there were no expectations, no deadlines; it was just me hanging out with my favorite hobby. I also have very strong emotional ties to the setting of The Sister Season, so in those two regards, it may have been slightly easier to write.
That said, there were times that I had so much more fun writing The Accidental Book Club. The GNO scene, the confrontation with Thackeray, the initial pool scene—I got so much enjoyment out of writing those. And I truly loved Bailey’s character and watching her transform and grow.
In the end, comparing writing processes for different projects is like comparing apples and oranges. My books are like my children—they all have their strengths and their challenges, their good days and their bad, and in the end I love them all equally, and miss each and every one of them when I’m done.
QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION
1. The Accidental Book Club opens with the scene of Jean Vison, the founder of the book club, cooking a dish for the club members and struggling to make it “book club–worthy.” How does food become a bonding mechanism throughout the story? Do you think this attention to food detracts from the ultimate experience of the book club?
2. A complicated character, Jean is, among many things, a widow. As the story progresses, we learn of Jean’s different ways for dealing with her grief. What are they? Do you think some of them are more productive than others? Have you used similar coping mechanisms in your own life?