by Annie Bryant
Isabel leaned over and gave Maeve a hug. “You know what? You’re a great friend,” she whispered. “It makes me feel so much better just telling you what’s going on. I just really needed to share it with someone.” She paused. “But remember, don’t tell anyone else. Promise?”
Maeve thought of Avery and Katani, and she frowned. “Are you sure, Isabel? It might make…I mean, it might just help, you know, if everyone else knew…”
Isabel shook her head, her dark hair swinging. “No way. I don’t want anyone feeling sorry for me or my mom. This is a family thing, Maeve. I really want to handle it on my own.”
Maeve bit her lip. She had promised Isabel, and now she had to stick to her word. But she knew that if Katani and Avery knew what Isabel was going through, they would be nicer because they both were really good about things like that. But Maeve could tell that Isabel had somehow rubbed her friends the wrong way. And she wasn’t feeling that hopeful that things were going to get better between them any time soon.
Sunday night after dinner, Maeve’s mother liked to take out the calendar and talk about “the week,” as she put it.
Maeve tried hard to be patient with her mother, especially tonight. Hearing about Isabel’s mom and what she was going through, she looked at her mother with new eyes. Imagine that her mom couldn’t drive—if she couldn’t hurry around the kitchen, the way she was right now, cleaning up and talking on the phone and doing what she called “multi-tasking.” Maeve vowed, watching her mother just then, to work on getting along better with her. After all, her mother only wanted what was best for her—even if she didn’t always go about it in the most tactful way.
“Maeve,” her mother said, hanging up the cordless phone. “That was Ms. Teague.” Ms. Teague was Maeve’s tutor, whom she had seen once a week for as long as she could remember. “She’s making space for you on Wednesdays and Saturday mornings from now on. That should help with math.” She frowned. “At least I hope so.”
“Mom!” Maeve wailed. “I don’t want to go see Ms. Teague on Saturday mornings! I have a lot to do on the weekend! She is so boring! Plus I work so hard all week long, the last thing I want to do on Saturday mornings is study! Why can’t you give me a break!”
“Maeve,” her mother said crisply, crossing her arms. “We have been through this before. When you have learning issues, you have to work harder. You need to deal with schoolwork head on. You can’t just pretend that things are going to get easier. We need to work at this, and I need your cooperation!”
Maeve’s father wandered into the room, having overheard the last part of what her mother said. “What’s going on?” he said mildly. Maeve’s father was a big, hearty man with a round face and a beard. He tended to see the humor in situations that struck Maeve’s mother as very serious. “Sounds like one of Sam’s battle scenes raging here,” he added.
“Dad,” Maeve shrieked. “Mom is making me see Ms. Teague on Saturday mornings! That’s not going to leave me time for anything.”
“What do you have to do that’s more important than studying?” her mother demanded.
“Carol,” Maeve’s father said, giving her mother a disapproving look.
“I’m serious, Ross! She needs to work harder or she’s going to be in real trouble by eighth grade!” Maeve’s mother burst out.
“I have lots of other things to do that matter to me.” Maeve thought fast. She knew this wasn’t a good time to bring up her friends—or Dillon—or shopping—or just having fun. “Like—what about my blanket project?” she sputtered.
“Good heavens. That project is getting totally out of hand,” her mother shot back.
“It is not! I love my blanket project!”
“It’s a mess,” Sam interjected. “You should see it, Mom. She hasn’t even made a single one. And they look like flags.”
“Sam,” Maeve’s father said. “Don’t get involved in this.” He gave Maeve an affectionate smile. “I like your blankets, Maeve. I think it shows your heart’s in the right place.” He turned to Maeve’s mother. “Carol, I’d like to talk about this later—alone.”
“Don’t start like that,” Maeve’s mother cried, getting angrier by the minute. “I happen to be the one who spends hours and hours organizing her schedule, I know what Maeve needs. And it isn’t more time trying to make blankets, believe me!”
“Organizing her schedule and knowing what she needs aren’t the same things,” Maeve’s father retorted.
The next thing Maeve knew, her parents were yelling at each other—and it wasn’t about Maeve and the blankets anymore. They were both furious. “You never listen to what I’m saying!” “That’s not what I’m trying to say!” “If you spent more time around here, maybe you’d understand!”
Sam gave Maeve a furious look. “Look what you’ve done,” he shouted at her.
Maeve stuck her fingers in her ears. She couldn’t stand it when her parents argued. The fact that this time it was her fault made it a million times worse.
“ASK MAEVE”
Dear Maeve:
I have a problim. I’m not always the worlds best student, and my mom realy wants me to be. I’d like to convinc her that I’m good at things—realy good. But some of those things have nothin to do with reading or writing or math. How can I get her to see I’m not a total messup?
Answer:
Maeve bit the tip of her pencil. Outside, she could see the moon rising. Inside, there was just her laptop glowing at her. She had the question pretty well written. That part was easy…except for the spelling, of course.
Now all she had to do was come up with the answer. How can you show someone you’re not a total failure? She picked up one of her botched blankets with a sigh, her eyes filling with tears. Mom’s right, she thought miserably. I’m rotten at math. And I’m rotten at making blankets, too. I’m not even any good at writing advice columns, since I don’t have any advice to give. And I’m probably not even a good enough singer or dancer to go to Hollywood.
CHAPTER 8
Reverse Psychology
OK, here goes, Charlotte thought to herself, rinsing and putting away the last of the dinner dishes. Reverse psychology. She turned to her father, trying hard for a smile.
“Hey, Dad. How was your day?” she asked him, pulling a chair up to the table where her father was sitting with a stack of papers in front of him.
“Mmmm—pretty good,” her father said, pushing his glasses up with one finger and giving her a smile. “Sorry to be so distracted, Charlotte. I just got in a huge batch of papers, and I’m trying my hardest to get a sense of this group. Some of them are excellent writers,” he added, “but some of them need a bit of work, I fear.”
“How do they seem, the American students?” Charlotte asked him. “I mean—compared to the students you taught last year in Paris? Do you miss teaching overseas?” There it goes, she thought. Is that reverse psychology? At least I’m leading into it.
Her father leaned back in his chair, looking thoughtful. “As a matter of fact, I do notice some big differences. And in lots of ways, I do miss living overseas. How about you, Charlotte? Are you missing Paris?”
Charlotte gulped. “Um…” Now what? According to reverse psychology, wasn’t she supposed to say yes? “Uh, sure,” she said. “Europe is so cosmopolitan—and it has so many interesting people and cultures.”
Her father glanced at her, surprised. “Really? I thought you were so happy here, Charlotte. As a matter of fact, there’s something I’ve been wanting to talk to you about, but I was a little afraid to bring it up. I’ve been offered a job to teach writing at the University of Oxford. What do you think of that?”
Reverse psychology—reverse psychology, Charlotte thought wildly. “Oh—that sounds…interesting,” she blurted. Well, it was the reverse of how she felt, all right. She just hoped that Isabel really knew what she was talking about.
“Really?” her father looked amazed.
“Well—I mean—I think it’s really important
that you should get to do what you really want to do,” Charlotte pushed on. There, that was better. “If you really want to teach in England, that’s what matters. After all, I’m only twelve and a half. I can get used to anything.”
Her father stared at her. “I hadn’t really thought about it that way before. That’s an interesting perspective, Charlotte.” He pushed back his chair. “Let me show you the materials that they sent me. There’s this wonderful new creative writing program that they’re starting. And I’d be able to make up my own course!” He looked ecstatic, and Charlotte had to bite her lip not to burst into tears. She could never remember seeing her father this excited before.
For the next half hour, he showed her brochure after brochure. He even had a map of Oxford with little red dots that a realtor had faxed him. “These are some of the houses that we could rent,” he told her. “They sound so charming, Charlotte. And there’s a wonderful village school in a town called Abington where you could go. Although…“He glanced at her, looking slightly uncomfortable. “I was worried that you’ve been through too many changes. The thought of uprooting you, especially in the middle of the school year…”
Charlotte didn’t know what to say. Maybe this was a good sign—maybe the reverse psychology was working.
“Oh,” she said, trying for a breezy tone. “You know me, Dad. I’m so—adaptable.”
“Yes,” her father said slowly. Smiling, he turned back to the realtor’s map. “You and I have always loved moving to new places together.” He turned back to Charlotte with a wistful smile. “Remember when we first got to Paris? We couldn’t get over the fact that we were going to be able to live on that houseboat together. It was like a dream.”
Right, Charlotte thought miserably. Another dream. How could she explain to her father that she didn’t want to live in a dream? She wanted things to be real. This was what she wanted—to stay right here in Brookline, with her friends, with Marty, with Miss Pierce. With her own little balcony and the beautiful view of the Boston skyline, and the Charles River and the stars.
So much for reverse psychology. She’d done what Isabel had suggested, and all that had happened was that she’d practically convinced her father to say yes to the new job. Charlotte made up some excuse to head upstairs, unable to watch her father enthusiastically studying the Oxford brochures for another minute.
It seemed like the Oxford move was as good as settled. And Charlotte had mostly herself to blame…and Isabel for helping to convince her father that it was the right idea.
UNRAVELING
Maeve took a deep breath, slinging her book bag over her shoulder. She spotted Katani halfway up the street heading to school, and she thought this was a good time to grab her friend and ask for help.
“Katani! Wait up!” she called.
Was it her imagination or did Katani look back over her shoulder and keep on walking?
But that was impossible. Maeve tried again, calling out a little louder this time. When Katani still didn’t answer, she chased after her, out of breath by the time she’d caught up.
“Didn’t you hear me calling you?” she gasped.
Katani didn’t look all that excited to see her. “No,” she said. She didn’t quite meet Maeve’s gaze. “What’s up?” she asked, her voice sounding funny. Not at all like her usual self.
“Katani, listen. I have to ask you a huge favor. I’m kind of…um…I don’t know how to put this exactly. But I’m kind of in over my head with this blanket thing. I really want to get it right.” She took a deep breath. “Actually, I kind of have to get it right, and—”
“Why don’t you ask Isabel to help you, then?” Katani said shortly. They had reached the front steps of school.
Maeve looked uneasily up at Katani. “I don’t see what Isabel has to do with this,” she said. “The thing is, Katani—”
But Katani had had enough. “I can tell you what she has to do with it,” she retorted. “I tried to help you, Maeve. Remember when we were in Fabric World—which, incidentally, you dragged me to—and I tried to tell you that you should just get some simple fleece and not make such a major project out of this? And you had to listen to Isabel and get that ridiculous quilting pattern, which anyone could see was going to be a mess—”
“Katani! I’m sorry, I just got excited about all the fabric…you are not being very nice.” Maeve was horrified and a little afraid. She’d never heard Katani this angry before—at least not with her. “I can’t believe you could say that! And anyway, it wasn’t Isabel’s fault about that quilting pattern. I’m the one who thought it would work.”
“There you go—defending her again,” Katani shouted. “That’s all you ever do. It makes me sick! That girl can do anything and you think it’s perfect. Well, I can’t stand it anymore. Fix your own dumb blankets!” Katani shrieked. And before Maeve could say another word, Katani had raced up the steps into the building, leaving Maeve gaping after her.
PROBLEMS!
“I don’t know what her problem is,” Maeve fumed, stuffing her books into her locker.
“Whose problem?” Charlotte asked.
“Katani’s. She just screamed at me,” Maeve said miserably. “She was ranting and raving about Isabel. What’s wrong with her? Why doesn’t she like Isabel? And why’s she so mad at me just because I do?”
Charlotte shook her head. “Katani doesn’t like Isabel?” she repeated slowly. “Who could not like Isabel? She’s great.”
“Yeah, well, Katani obviously doesn’t think so.” Maeve slammed her locker shut, still fuming. “I’m pretty furious at her, to tell you the truth. And I don’t care if she won’t help me with my blankets. I’ll figure it out myself—somehow.”
Charlotte looked at her friend in dismay. Everything seemed like such a mess all of a sudden. Katani and Maeve were mad at each other. The “reverse psychology” plan that Isabel had suggested was backfiring—badly. It was hard to tell what might go wrong next.
FIXED STARS
Charlotte let herself into the house and stooped down to give Marty a quick hug. “Hey,” she said to him softly, smiling as she watched his tail wag like crazy. Suddenly, the door bell rang and Marty started barking like crazy. It was Avery.
“Hi Char. Thought I’d take the Marty man for a walk.”
“That’s great, because I have a lot of homework to do,” Charlotte said.
As Avery and Marty raced off to the park Charlotte thought about how good Avery had been about keeping her promise to share responsibility for Marty when Miss Pierce said Marty could stay.
Sunlight was streaming through the big windows on the first floor; Charlotte loved this time of day. She headed upstairs, wandered into the kitchen and turned on the kettle to make hot chocolate, her favorite drink. It always helped her to concentrate. And she really wanted to work on her journalism assignment for Ms. Rodriguez.
But somehow, Charlotte just couldn’t get inspired. Each idea that she thought of seemed wrong.
In the distance, she heard the front door turn. It was Miss Pierce, her landlady, who’d come back from doing some errands downtown.
“Maybe she’ll have some ideas,” Charlotte said to herself. She took her hot chocolate and wandered downstairs into the part of the house where Miss Pierce lived, knocking politely on her door.
“Why, hello Charlotte! What a nice surprise. Come in. I was just going to make myself a cup of tea,” Miss Pierce said warmly.
Charlotte sank down on the soft couch that Miss Pierce kept in her kitchen. She looked admiringly around the room at Miss Pierce’s “treasures” from a rich life filled with travels and work. Charlotte admired one of the beautiful framed photographs on the wall. “What’s this?” she asked curiously.
“The double cluster,” Miss Pierce told her, putting on her glasses for a better look. “It belongs to the constellation Perseus. It’s really two clusters of stars, close together. Come have a look.”
Charlotte looked closer. It always amazed her, these facts a
bout stars. What looked close was usually so far away. What looked like one was really two. Maybe that’s why she loved stars so much—they made you question what you saw and what you believed in.
“Miss Pierce, can I ask you a question? What was it like—growing up here?” Charlotte asked her.
Miss Pierce tipped her head curiously at Charlotte. “It was very different back then,” she said. “You know, I ran into some problems…being half-Chinese in those days made for some strange comments from people. If it weren’t for your friend’s grandmother, Ruby, I would’ve been terribly lonely. But she and I had wonderful times together.” She was quiet, musing back on the past. “Why? What makes you ask?”
Charlotte twirled her spoon in her mug of cocoa. “I don’t know…I’ve been thinking about it a lot. My dad—” she hesitated. “My dad is thinking of taking a job teaching in England in January. We might move again.” Tears sprang to her eyes as she spoke.
Miss Pierce stared at her. “Oh, Charlotte,” she said kindly. “Your father can’t really want to move you in the middle of the year. You need to stay settled down for a while, child. Your father knows that! And if he doesn’t…” She looked earnestly at Charlotte. “If he doesn’t, we’ll just have to help him realize it.”
“I think I made it all much worse,” Charlotte said sadly. She filled Miss Pierce in on Isabel’s “reverse psychology” plot. “So now my dad thinks that I think it’s really OK to move. Even though it’s the last thing I want!”
Miss Pierce sighed. “Oh, dear. Sometimes these plans don’t really work, do they? Sometimes it’s best just to be straightforward.”
“I wish I’d tried that approach.” Charlotte shook her head. “I think I’ve learned my lesson on this one.”
Then for the next hour, Charlotte and Miss Pierce talked about what it had been like for Miss Pierce as a girl growing up in Brookline—her friendship with Ruby Fields, the way they’d ridden the trolley into Boston together, and how much fun they’d had growing up together. They talked of the Tower and how the two girls, Ruby and Sapphire, had spent hours up there discussing their hopes and dreams for the future.