Pies & Prejudice

by Heather Vogel Frederick

  Mr. Chadwick is really funny. I guess you’d have to have a good sense of humor to be married to Becca’s mother.

  Becca tells me that there’s no way Simon will find out—“like he’s going to be reading Flashlite online,” she scoffs—and that I need to stop worrying and concentrate on coming up with a debut blog post. She helps me brainstorm, and I go home with a lot of ideas.

  I can hardly keep my mind on school the rest of the week, though, and by Saturday I’m a bit of a wreck. I nearly dump twice the amount of salt into the apple pies that Gigi and I are assembling—Becca is helping Jess with the cupcakes this time around—and I accidentally put whipped cream on the lemon meringue pies and meringue on the French silk chocolate pies.

  “Megan, what is the matter with you today?” my grandmother says, exasperated.

  “Sorry, Gigi,” I apologize, and help her switch them back.

  That night I realize that I have something new to agonize over as well—namely, what am I going to wear tomorrow to Simon’s birthday party?

  The next afternoon, while my mother and Gigi and Mrs. Chadwick are visiting in the kitchen—it’s the Chadwicks’ turn to bring snacks to our book club meeting, and it looks like Becca’s mother went all out to try and redeem herself from last year’s cornmeal mush episode, because she brought a yummy-looking Kentucky Derby pie—I get the equipment ready in the living room. Becca watches as I set up the webcam and microphone and connect my laptop to the TV.

  “You should join the A/V Club,” she says. “I hear Kevin Mullins is president.”

  I grin. “Technical expertise comes with the territory when your father is a computer whiz.”

  “So did you decide on a blog post for Flashlite yet?”

  I nod. “Want to see it?”

  I open the Fashionista Jane file on my computer and read it aloud to her: “ ‘Gentle readers, today your faithful fashion guide embarks on a new journey. Parasol gripped firmly in her gloved hand, she steps out of her carriage and into the glamorous world

  of . . . New York fashion! In celebration of this, her first guest blog for Flashlite online, she has assembled for you an all-new selection of Fashion Faux Pas, many of them spotted on the fair streets of

  the Big Apple itself.’ ”

  “You’re doing Fashion Faux Pas again!” Becca cries. “But I thought you’d sworn off them since the Tristan meltdown?”

  “I know, but they’re the part of my blog that Wolfgang likes best. Besides, what you told me is probably true, Simon will never read Flashlite, right?” I keep my voice light, but what I don’t tell her is how much I want my guest blog to be a big success. This is Flashlite we’re talking about!

  I send the pictures to our TV screen and she starts to laugh. The first one is of some guy wearing a little kid’s propeller hat. I took it in Central Park last time I was in New York. The caption reads, “Mobile headgear is simply not acceptable on anyone over the age of six.” The next one shows a businesswoman who looks normal enough from the ankles up—she’s wearing a suit and carrying a briefcase and everything—but instead of the kind of shoes that would go with her outfit, she’s got a pair of those ridiculous giant plastic shoes on. My mother has a bright orange pair, and I totally hate them.

  Becca laughs when she reads the caption: “Why is this otherwise dignified gentlewoman wearing dishpans upon her feet?”

  “Dishpans!” she cries, delighted. “That describes them perfectly. Wait until I use that on mom.”

  Becca’s mother has a pair too. Hers are green. I happen to know this because I was with my mother when she bought them for her. She thought they’d be perfect for Mrs. Chadwick’s new gardening venture.

  “Um, I still haven’t decided if I’m going to use this one or not,” I tell Becca as another picture flashes up onto the screen.

  “Omigosh, I forgot about that!” squeals Becca.

  It’s Tristan Berkeley again. He’s squatting down to pick up an apple that rolled off his cafeteria tray, and his sweater is scooched up in the back. You can see the waistband of his underwear. MANCHESTER UNITED is printed in big letters across it.

  “What would you use for a caption?” asks Becca.

  “I was thinking something like, ‘A true gentleman never reveals the purveyor of his undergarments.’ ”

  Becca grins. “Perfect. You definitely have to use it.”

  I gnaw on a corner of my fingernail. “You think?”

  “Absolutely. For one thing, Simon’s never going to see it, and for another, even if he did, you can’t tell it’s Tristan.”

  “Yeah, I guess you’re right. There’s one more.” I click on the final picture and our biology teacher’s feet flash onto the screen.

  Becca stares at them, and then recognition slowly dawns. “Are those Ms. Bates’s smiley-face socks?”

  “Yep,” I reply smugly. “And here is what Fashionista Jane has to say about them: ‘If a lady is bold enough to reveal her ankles in public, it were better not to draw attention to them with inappropriate or boisterous hosiery.’ ”

  Becca collapses on the couch. “Boisterous hosiery?” She gasps, clutching her sides.

  I grin. “I used a thesaurus. I wanted something more Austen-ish than ‘loud socks.’ ”

  “Wolfgang is going to die laughing! I might die laughing!”

  I grin at her, pleased.

  The doorbell rings and I quickly close the Fashionista Jane file as the rest of the book club arrives. I’d rather surprise them once it’s posted on the Flashlite website.

  “So girls, just a reminder,” says my mother as everyone settles into their seats. “Don’t spoil the secret!”

  “Mom!” I scoff. “As if we’re going to forget.”

  “I’m just saying.” She turns to Jess. “Any updates from the treasurer?”

  Jess pulls a small notebook out of her book bag and consults the figures. “We’re getting closer, you guys,” she tells us.

  “Close enough to tell Emma?” asks Cassidy.

  Jess shakes her head. “Not quite. We could use a few hundred more dollars.”

  “But spring break is less than a month away,” I say.

  “Yeah, I know.” Jess looks a little glum.

  “I’m sure Jerry and I could—”

  “No way, Mom,” I tell her. My mother is always eager to open up her checkbook for a good cause. Not that it isn’t nice of her and everything. But this is different. “We really want to do this ourselves.”

  Jess and Cassidy and Becca nod in agreement.

  “What we need is a big sale,” says Becca. “Anybody know someone who wants to buy, like, fifty pies?”

  The room is quiet for a moment, then Mrs. Bergson speaks up. “Didn’t you tell me you have a spring concert coming up, Jess?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “What if you were to ask Colonial Academy if Pies & Prejudice could cater the refreshments?”

  Jess perks up at this. “That’s a good idea. I’ll ask tomorrow.”

  “I’m just curious,” says Mrs. Chadwick, with a quick glance at Gigi. “What’s the best-selling pie so far?”

  It’s no secret that she and my grandmother have a little rivalry going with their pie recipes—namely Gigi’s apple streusel and Mrs. Chadwick’s coconut cream.

  Jess grins. “Sorry, ladies, but this month it’s lemon meringue all the way.”

  “Summer in a pie crust,” says Mrs. Sloane-Kinkaid smugly.

  My mother looks at her watch. “It’s time,” she tells us. “Places, everyone. And remember, not a word about all this.” She gives me a thumbs-up, and I click the icon on my laptop to place the videoconference call to England.

  “Hi, everybody!” Emma and her mother chorus a minute later as they appear on our giant TV screen above the mantel.

  “Hi!” we chorus back. We chat for a little while and they show us some pictures of their latest trip—a weekend in Edinburgh, Scotland—and then it’s time to officially start our book club discussion.


  “I’ve got a question,” blurts Cassidy, before anybody has a chance to say anything else.

  “Let me guess,” says Mrs. Hawthorne dryly. “You want to eat first.”

  Cassidy grins. “Nah, I’m good. Here’s the thing. I like this book okay, and it’s really funny in some parts—that Lady Catherine De Bourgh is a pill, isn’t she?—but why was Jane Austen so obsessed with people falling in love and getting married?”

  “Good question,” Mrs. Hawthorne replies. “Pride and Prejudice is much more than just a love story, however.”

  “Yeah, it’s only the best love story ever,” says Emma.

  “I wouldn’t disagree,” says her mother, who I suddenly notice is wearing an I MR. DARCY T-shirt. “But back to your question, Cassidy—while love is at the center of all of Jane Austen’s novels, they are also notable for their keen social criticism and gentle satire.”

  Cassidy’s face clouds.

  “That means she pokes fun at everything,” Emma explains. “Like the way Mr. Collins is always sucking up to Lady Catherine, just because she’s richer than he is.”

  How does Emma know all this stuff?

  “And because she’s higher up the social ladder,” adds my mother. “The class system back then was very rigid.”

  “Still, it’s the love stories at the heart of her books that have kept people coming back to them for two centuries now,” Mrs. Bergson notes.

  “That’s because it’s love that makes the world go round,” says Mrs. Delaney.

  Becca nudges me with her elbow, and I shoot her a warning glance. The last thing I need is for her to blab to everybody how I feel about Simon Berkeley.

  “So was Jane Austen ever in love?” asks Jess.

  “Funny you should ask!” Mrs. Hawthorne replies, holding up this month’s handout.

  FUN FACTS ABOUT JANE

  1) Although she fell in love on several occasions and was once briefly engaged, Jane Austen never married and never had children of her own. She was said to have been “a particularly agreeable aunt,” however. She had twenty-four nieces and nephews and enjoyed spending time with them.

  2) Once, when she was young, she invented a list of husbands for herself, none of whom were real people, and wrote their names down in her father’s parish register—Henry Frederick, Howard Fitzwilliam, Edmund Arthur William Mortimer, and Jack Smith.

  3) Historians disagree over who was the love of Jane’s life. Some say it was Tom Lefroy, a young Irishman she flirted with when she was twenty and wrote about to her sister, others that it was a student at Cambridge named Samuel Blackall, or a mysterious suitor she mentioned meeting at the seaside in the summer of 1801. Unfortunately, none of these crushes ended in engagement or marriage.

  4) Her sister Cassandra was also disappointed in love. She was engaged to a former pupil of her father’s, a young clergyman who traveled to the West Indies before their marriage to try and make his fortune. Tragically, while there he caught yellow fever and died. Cassandra remained single for the rest of her life.

  5) Jane was engaged briefly once, when she was twenty-six. Harris Bigg-Wither, whose sisters were close friends of Jane’s and Cassandra’s, proposed one evening while she was visiting at their home. She accepted, then changed her mind and broke off the engagement the following morning.

  6) Harris was heir to a comfortable estate, and as Mrs. Bigg-Withers, Jane would have been mistress of a large, elegant home and could have helped take care of her family financially. While no one is entirely sure what happened, toward the end of her life she wrote to her niece Fanny, “Anything is to be preferred or endured rather than marrying without Affection.” It’s not unreasonable to assume that she called off the engagement because she didn’t love Harris Bigg-Withers, and didn’t want to settle for anything less than love.

  I reread Fact #2 and feel myself blush. Just this morning, I practiced writing Megan Berkeley in my sketchbook. Not that I’m in love with Simon or anything, or thinking of marrying him.

  “Why would someone as smart as Jane Austen even think about marrying someone she didn’t love?” Cassidy asks. “Especially somebody named Harris Bigg-Withers.” She looks over at Jess. “Don’t withers have something to do with a horse?”

  Jess snorts. “Yeah. It’s the part at the base of their neck.”

  “Jane Big-Neck,” quips Cassidy, and we can’t help but giggle. “No wonder she didn’t want to marry him.”

  “Does anybody remember which character in Pride and Prejudice married someone she didn’t love?” asks Mrs. Hawthorne. She grabs Emma’s hand, which had started to shoot up. “Anybody besides Emma?”

  “Charlotte Lucas!” says Becca triumphantly, and her mother slaps her a high five. Becca’s been coming on strong in book club this year.

  “I still don’t get why she’d do that,” says Cassidy. “Especially that stupid Mr. Collins, too.”

  “Remember, things were different in those days,” Mrs. Bergson tells her. “Either you got married, or you lived at home with your parents forever.”

  We all look at our mothers, and then at one another, and then we burst out laughing. It’s obvious from the looks on our faces that we’re all thinking the same thing—no way!

  I glance at my watch. Only an hour and a half until I have to leave for Simon’s party. “Isn’t it time for snacks?” I ask.

  “Good idea,” says Gigi, hopping up off the sofa. “I’ll bring out the pie.”

  “What is it with you guys and pie this year?” says Emma from onscreen as my grandmother trots off. “I swear, every time we have a book club meeting, you’re always eating pie.”

  Becca and Cassidy and I start to snicker.

  “What’s so funny?” she demands.

  “Nothing,” I reply.

  By the time we finish eating and wrap things up and everybody finally leaves, I barely have half an hour to get ready.

  I change about four times. Even Mirror Megan is starting to get annoyed by the time I finally settle on an outfit. It’s just a pizza party, so I don’t want to overdo it, but still, I want to look good. It may be spring but it’s not all that warm out, so I opt for jeans instead of a skirt, these cool vintage black flats covered with black sequins that I found at a thrift store, and a soft cotton shirt with gathers around the scooped neckline. I like how feminine it is, plus the turquoise color looks dramatic against my pale skin. I grab the wide black belt from yesterday’s wardrobe remix at the last minute and add that, too.

  Mirror Megan gives me the nod of approval. Festive, a little bit sophisticated, but not over-the-top.

  “You’re too young to date,” says my mother grumpily when I reappear in the kitchen.

  “It’s not a date, it’s a birthday party, remember?” says my grandmother. “Pizza, Ping-Pong, a DVD. That’s what Mrs. Berkeley said when you and Jerry called.”

  Embarrassingly, my parents grilled Simon’s parents about the party before they agreed to let me go.

  My mother nods, but she’s watching me with a funny expression on her face.

  “What?” I ask, pulling a Cassidy and sniffing my armpits in case I somehow forgot deodorant.

  She smiles wistfully. “Nothing. It’s just that you’re growing up so fast.”

  I roll my eyes. “Mo-om!”

  “I know, I know.” She jumps up and grabs her keys. “Come on, I’ll drive you into town.”

  Cassidy and her mother pull into the Hawthornes’ driveway right behind us. Cassidy is behind the wheel—she got her learner’s permit last week—and she grins and waves. I give her a big thumbs-up.

  She got invited because of being Tristan’s skating partner, and I guess this time she decided to put up with his company. I thought maybe there would be a few other girls here as well, but there aren’t. It’s a really small party—just a few guys from the soccer team, one I recognize from biology class, and Zach Norton and Stewart Chadwick and us.

  “Hi, Megan!” says Simon when Cassidy and I come to the door. He beams at me—
well, at both of us, really. “Cassidy—so glad you could make it too.”

  He leads us out to the kitchen, where everybody’s clustered around the table. There are a lot of jokes about the paint color. I’m used to it, but I guess there aren’t a lot of pink kitchens in the world. Tristan stands apart, leaning against the counter and looking uncomfortable. He barely glances at Cassidy, who seems to have put a little more effort than usual into her outfit. She’s wearing jeans, like me, and a pale green hoodie that looks great with her hair, which she’s obviously fussed over as well. And is that mascara I see? Her mother must have gotten ahold of her. Or maybe not, I think, noticing how often her gaze drifts over to Tristan.

  Tristan, meanwhile, is watching me and Simon, like he’s trying to figure something out. Or it could be that I’m just imagining the whole thing.

  Professor Berkeley comes in the back door carrying a stack of pizza boxes, and Mrs. Berkeley passes out paper plates and we all dig in. Cassidy starts to relax and ignore Tristan and be more her usual funny self, and pretty soon everybody’s laughing. The Hawthornes’ house is small, but they have a rec room in the basement, and we take our food down there to start the Ping-Pong tournament. I’m eliminated almost immediately and so is Stewart, but the rest of Simon’s friends are supercompetitive, and the rallies are fast and furious.

  “Go, Cassidy!” I cheer as we gather around the table to watch. One by one she takes out the remaining players, including Zach. Finally, only Tristan is left.

  “It’s showtime, Ice Dancer,” says Cassidy, twirling her paddle. “Put up or shut up.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” asks Tristan.

  “Just that you are so going down in flames.”

  “Don’t count your chickens,” Tristan retorts, but the corners of his lips are quirked up and for once he looks as if he’s enjoying himself.

  The two of them are closely matched, and the little white ball flies back and forth, back and forth in a series of really long rallies. Cassidy’s got that look on her face I’ve seen before at her hockey games when she’s driving toward the goal—focused, intense, serious. Tristan’s face mirrors hers.

  In the end, though, she destroys him with a smash shot he just can’t return. I’ll say this for Tristan, he’s not a sore loser. As Simon awards her a can of root beer as a prize, Tristan lifts his paddle in a salute.