“Explain what, exactly?” he says coldly.
“I was tricked into kissing him. Annabelle pushed me under the mistletoe and snapped the picture.”
“The overall impression is not that you were unwilling to be kissed.”
Stewart is going into his weird, stiff little version of Austen-speak, which is not a good sign. This always happens when he’s nervous or upset.
The problem is, he’s right. From the angle that the picture was taken, you can’t see my scrunched-up mouth, or the revolted expression that I know was on my face. All you can see is Rupert’s obvious delight, and his giant hands on my shoulders.
“Honestly,” I tell Stewart. “It’s not what it looks like.”
“Stewart, don’t be a dork,” Becca scolds. “Emma’s telling the truth. She told us all about it months ago.”
“So how come she didn’t say anything to me?”
“I was embarrassed,” I admit.
“Wouldn’t you be?” Jess points out. “It’s like me getting tricked into kissing Kevin Mullins.”
“I don’t want to talk about it anymore,” Stewart replies, and stalks off.
Openmouthed in disbelief, I watch him go, feeling completely and utterly humiliated. I can’t believe this is happening! My boyfriend just broke up with me, in front of all my friends, on Patriot’s Day! At five o’clock in the morning!
Across the field, I can see Annabelle watching us. She looks like the cat who ate the canary. Too bad the pancake breakfast hasn’t started, I think. If I had a full plate in my hand right now—or even a pie—I’d start a battle reenactment of my own.
“I hate Annabelle Fairfax!” I blurt out. “I can’t believe she did that!”
“You know what they always say—don’t get mad, get even.” Megan holds up her cell phone. “Stinkerbelle is about to get a taste of her own medicine.”
She flips it open to reveal a picture of Annabelle that she must have snapped earlier. Nobody looks their best at five o’clock in the morning, and Annabelle is no exception. She obviously hasn’t taken a shower yet today, and her hair is stuck to one side of her head. Plus, her mascara is smeared and she’s wearing what looks like some ratty old soccer jersey of Tristan’s or Simon’s. The expression on her face—her eyes are narrowed and her mouth is all twisted up in a smirk—makes her look like she just drank a quart jar of pickle juice, as my dad likes to say.
“I think I feel a blog post coming on,” Megan tells us. “Let’s go home.”
We find her mother and convince her that I’m jet-lagged and not feeling well and need to leave. She says it’s a shame that we’re going to miss out on the festivities, especially since we managed to get up early, but that she understands.
Mrs. Wong drops us off at Megan’s house, and after she leaves again, we all crowd around the coffee table in the family room and watch as Megan uploads the photo onto her laptop.
“We’re counting on you,” says Jess.
“Never fear, Fashionista Jane is here,” Megan replies. Squinting at the picture, she blurs the face slightly so that Annabelle isn’t instantly recognizable. Then she turns her attention to the caption. “It is a truth universally acknowledged,” she begins, talking out loud as she types, “that a young lady—if one can indeed call her a lady—who is not in possession of a shower, a hairbrush, suitable garments, or—” she hesitates, drumming her fingers on the desktop, thinking.
“Or a brain?” suggests Cassidy.
“Manners?” I offer.
Megan shakes her head. “Nope. Hang on, I’ve got it.” She continues typing and talking: “or a genteel upbringing would do well to remain at home, rather than risk becoming an object of public mirth.”
I stare at her. She’s gotten really good at Austen-speak. “Megan, you’re a genius!”
“That’s what Wolfgang says,” she replies smugly, and with a click of her mouse, she posts it.
“Are you sending it to your blog, or to Flashlite?” asks Becca.
“Both,” Megan replies. “This one deserves maximum coverage.”
We go back to bed for a while after that, but of course I can’t sleep because I’m too worked up about Stewart. I send him about a zillion texts and leave him half a dozen voice mails, but he doesn’t respond. Finally, I crawl out of my sleeping bag and into the shower.
“Looks like you’re feeling better,” says Mrs. Wong a little later, when she comes back downstairs to check on us and sees me already up and dressed. “Traveling always takes a lot out of me, too. Just take it easy today.”
But of course I don’t. I can’t—not with three dozen pies to help bake and Stewart to worry about. And first, there’s the parade. The Berkeleys invited us over to watch, which we do. It feels weird, standing in my own front yard where I’ve stood for what feels like a million April mornings before, knowing that they’re living in our house and driving our car around our town. I give Annabelle a wide berth. She’s obviously gloating, and I have no intention of giving her the satisfaction of knowing how upset I am. I plaster a smile on my face and leave it there as Darcy marches by with Kyle Anderson, both of them dressed as Minutemen and playing their fifes. Darcy’s been dressing up as a patriot for the parade ever since he was in sixth grade. Usually he marches with Dad, but this year he and Kyle are with Mr. Anderson.
“Your brother looks delicious in knee breeches,” says Annabelle, sidling up beside me. “Don’t you think so, Jess?”
We both ignore her. Just wait until you see what we have in store for you, I think to myself.
After the parade, Mrs. Wong drives us over to Cassidy’s house. Gigi is waiting in the kitchen, and she hands me a pink apron that matches the others.
“Welcome to Pies and Prejudice,” says Gigi. “This is your honorary uniform.”
“Sweet!”
It takes us all day to bake the pies. We barely finish in time to get them over to the country club before the dinner dance starts. People are already starting to arrive as we pull into the long gravel driveway.
“Perfect timing!” says the caterer as we troop into the kitchen. “Line them up over there.” She points to a stainless steel countertop, and we line the pies up in three rows—a dozen cherry, a dozen blueberry, and a dozen coconut creams piled high with whipped cream.
“Red, white, and blue,” says Mrs. Chadwick, swooping in through the swinging door that leads to the dining room. “In honor of the Union Jack and the Stars and Stripes.”
Mrs. Chadwick, whose ancestors fought with the British, is president of the British-American Society this year. Tonight, her gardening clothes are nowhere in sight. She’s wearing a long formal gown the same pale robin’s-egg blue as her eyes, dangerously high heels, and diamond earrings almost as big as the ones Gigi sometimes lends to Megan.
As Mrs. Chadwick goes over to talk to the caterer, Cassidy pokes her head into the dining room. “Uh-oh,” she says. “Stinkerbelle alert.”
“What?” I take a look too. “What’s she doing here?”
“Professor Berkeley is giving a talk before dinner,” says Mrs. Sloane-Kinkaid, coming in with more pies. “See? It’s on the program.”
She passes one to Megan, who reads it aloud. “ ‘The Rebel Uprising: A British Perspective.’ ”
“That should go over really well here in the cradle of liberty,” I reply.
Mrs. Chadwick brushes past us on her way out to the dining room, then sails back in almost immediately with Mrs. Berkeley and Annabelle trailing in her wake.
“And this is our kitchen,” she announces grandly.
“Look at all those pies!” says Mrs. Berkeley. “You girls have been busy, haven’t you?”
Annabelle surveys our handiwork. “Mmmm,” she chirps. “Look at all that lovely whipped cream! Such a favorite amongst”—she pauses dramatically—“young ladies of genteel upbringing.”
Mrs. Chadwick and Mrs. Berkeley and Mrs. Sloane-Kinkaid all laugh at this, thinking it’s a joke, but Annabelle’s eyes are very bright a
nd her face is flushed and she’s staring at Megan.
“I’ve been reading Flashlite for years,” she whispers, as the adults drift off to tour the patio. “So have my friends. Jemima sent me a text the minute she spotted my picture. I knew it had to be one of you, and Simon was gushing just yesterday on the way home from the airport about your keen interest in fashion, Megan.”
I glance over at Megan, who’s looking stricken, and realize that this could get much worse.
It already has.
“Simon wasn’t at all pleased, when he saw how upset I was,” Annabelle continues. “And of course I had to confide in him my suspicions as to who did it. Oddly enough, it’s the same person who ridiculed his brother.” She leans toward Megan. “Nobody but nobody does that to me and gets away with it.”
The color drains from Megan’s face. She turns and runs blindly outside. Annabelle starts to follow her, but Cassidy grabs her arm.
“Back off, Stinkerbelle,” she warns. “You don’t want to tangle with big, bad Cassidy Sloane.” Annabelle sniffs, then retreats through the swinging doors back into the dining room.
My friends and I go in search of Megan, who has taken refuge in the back of the Sloane-Kinkaid’s minivan. She’s crying.
“We’ll get it all sorted out, don’t worry,” I tell her, as Becca hands her a tissue. I’m not nearly as certain as I sound, though. This is a real mess.
It quickly gets messier. It seems Annabelle isn’t done with us yet.
Mrs. Sloane-Kinkaid takes us all to Burger Barn for dinner, and afterward, we go back to her house for dessert—leftover pie. The phone is ringing as we walk through the door. Mrs. Sloane-Kinkaid, who’s balancing Chloe on one hip, presses the speakerphone button.
“Hello?” she says.
“Is this some kind of a joke?” replies a cold voice. It’s Mrs. Chadwick.
Cassidy’s mother gives an exasperated sigh. “Now what, Calliope?”
“ ‘Now what?’! We just served the pies, and it turns out that my coconut creams are topped with shaving cream, not whipped cream, that’s what!” Mrs. Chadwick hollers. “How dare you make me look like a fool in front of the entire British-American community?”
I feel something vibrating in the pocket of my jeans. It’s my cell phone. My heart leaps—it’s got to be Stewart! But it’s not. It’s someone else, using his phone.
A picture flashes onto the tiny screen. It’s Annabelle Fairfax. She’s holding up a piece of coconut shaving cream pie and waving her fork cheerily. The message beneath it reads: SEE YOU BACK IN ENGLAND!
“Next to being married, a girl likes to be crossed in love a little now and then. It is something to think of, and gives her a sort of distinction among her companions.”
—Pride and Prejudice
Megan
“Adieu, sweet you.”
—Letter from Jane Austen to her sister, Cassandra, January 1809
My mother hangs up the phone, then turns around to face me, eyes narrowed and hands on hips.
“What?” I ask.
“That was Mr. Flanagan.”
Mr. Flanagan is the principal of Alcott High School.
“And your point is?”
“Don’t you sass me, Megan Rose Wong! You are in big trouble, young lady!”
My father backs slowly out of the kitchen. Gigi suddenly decides the pantry needs reorganizing. Nobody wants to be caught in the crossfire when my mother gets like this.
I try for a more respectful tone. “I honestly have no idea why he was calling, Mom.” Which isn’t entirely true. I actually have a pretty good guess.
“I have two words for you: Fashionista Jane.”
Uh-oh. My guess was right.
Today was our first day back at school after Spring Break. Word is out about my blog, and while I got my fair share of high fives and “Way to go, Wong”s, I was also on the receiving end of a lot of dirty looks. Mostly from people I poked fun at in the Fashion Faux Pas.
“Boisterous hosiery?” Ms. Bates had said, arching an eyebrow at me as I entered the biology classroom.
I shot her a guilty glance. “Sorry,” I replied. But as I took my seat I couldn’t help noticing that she was wearing regular shoes for once, and normal-looking socks.
“Mr. Flanagan says his phone has been ringing nonstop, and several parents are threatening lawsuits,” my mother continues.
“Lawsuits?” I gulp. “For what?”
“Cyber harassment.”
“Harassment? Gimme a break! All I did was make fun of stupid stuff like silly socks and bad haircuts and highwater pants.”
“Well, obviously people don’t like being ridiculed!” My mother sighs wearily and slumps into the seat across from me at the table. “Where did I go wrong? I’m obviously a failure as a parent.”
Here we go again. My mother loves to trot this line out. Just to remind me that I was probably switched at birth with the perfect Chinese-American daughter she was meant to have, the one who is never in trouble, always gets straight A’s, and plans to go to Harvard.
Gigi pokes her head out of the pantry. “I think Megan’s blog is very funny. And so does Eva Bergson.”
“Mother!” my mother snaps. “You are not helping!”
“Sorry.” The pantry door closes again.
“One thing’s for sure,” my mother tells me, drumming her fingers on the table. “You are pulling the plug on Fashionista Jane. Tonight.”
“But Mom—”
She holds her hand up, silencing me. “No ifs, ands, or buts. I promised Mr. Flanagan.”
“What am I going to tell Wolfgang?”
“Tell him the truth—that you acted irresponsibly and that your blog is inappropriate and inconsiderate. In fact, maybe I should call him. Shame on him for egging you on! And paying you to do it!”
I can’t help it; I start to cry. The thing is, I’m not even crying because of my blog. I’m crying because of Simon Berkeley. At lunchtime, he sat with his brother instead of at our table, and he barely even looked at me in biology class. As he passed me in the hall, all he said was, “Badly done, Megan.” He looked so disappointed that I just wanted to disappear.
But I can’t tell my mother that. She doesn’t know how I feel about Simon and I don’t need her poking her nose in, especially not tonight, and especially not when she’s in this kind of a mood.
I go to my room and call Becca instead.
“Poor baby!” she says sympathetically. Becca has been extra nice to me since the Patriot’s Day fiasco. She’s feeling pretty perky these days, and when Becca’s perky, everybody around her benefits. Over the break, Zach Norton asked her to go to Spring Formal. I was really happy for her, because she’s had a crush on him just as long as I have, and because I thought Simon was going to ask me and we’d all go together. But now that’s not going to happen and I’m feeling nothing but sorry for myself. Plus, part of me is jealous that she has a date, and an even teenier part is wishing that I’d stuck to Zach instead of falling for Simon. Then maybe I’d be in her shoes.
“I’d like to get my hands on Annabelle Fairfax,” I tell her bitterly. “This is all her fault.”
Even though we told our mothers that it was Annabelle who added a layer of shaving cream to the top of the coconut cream pies, she got off scot-free since no one had actually seen her do it. When Mrs. Chadwick questioned her, she went all wide-eyed and innocent and said, “Why on earth would I do such a thing? Besides, where would I have gotten shaving cream?”
“Duh,” said Cassidy when she heard about it afterward. “It’s a country club. Hasn’t anybody ever heard of locker rooms? And she had plenty of time to prank the pies while her father was giving his dumb talk.”
It was Mrs. Sloane-Kinkaid who saved the reputation of Pies & Prejudice. After Mrs. Chadwick’s frantic phone call, she drove right back over and set up this thing called a chocolate fountain. I guess it was a big hit, and she even managed to get all the guests laughing about the shaving cream pies, too.
“How’s Stewart doing?” I ask. “Have you talked to him about Emma?”
“Yeah, but he won’t listen,” Becca replies. “He’s being really stubborn. My dad says it’s wounded male pride, whatever that is.”
Jess and Cassidy and I have tried talking to Stewart too, with no luck. Emma’s just crushed about their breakup. She probably feels a whole lot worse than I do, since Simon wasn’t even officially my boyfriend.
After I finish talking to Becca, I send Wolfgang an e-mail, explaining what happened and why my mother is making me quit blogging. He e-mails me right back. “Too much snark, not enough sweet?”
“Exactly,” I reply.
“You’re still FABULOUS!” he writes back. “TTFN, darling—I look forward to other brilliant projects together in the future!”
And that’s that.
The week goes downhill from there. The next morning, I get hauled into Mr. Flanagan’s office, where my mother has arranged for me to apologize in person to the parents who wanted to sue, along with their kids. Feeling totally humiliated, and with my mother’s eyes burning twin holes in the back of my new yellow tank top and matching cardigan, I make it worse by apologizing in Austen-speak.
“I am sincerely regretful of having caused anyone distress,” I begin. It’s like I can’t help myself. I’m nervous—three sets of parents, my mother, and the principal all staring at me with their arms folded across their chests—and the words just come tumbling out. “Fashionista Jane was never meant to harm, only to enlighten and provide mild amusement for her readers.”
My mother hustles me out of there pretty quickly after that.
Simon continues to ignore me, even after I slip him a note apologizing—not in Austen-speak this time—and trying to explain.
By Friday afternoon, I’m a wreck.
“Let’s go shopping!” says Becca. “I need something to wear to Spring Formal.”
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