Zach Norton thinks of me as a friend. That’s it. No more, no less. Just a friend, the same way he thinks of Cassidy, and Jess, and Ethan, and Third. A boy who really likes you doesn’t punch you on the arm, the way he does a teammate. To Zach, I’m just one of the guys.
He saunters off and I stand there, stunned. Becca says something to me but I don’t even hear her. She and Katie laugh as I push past them and stumble down the hallway. Outside, the after-school activities bus is waiting. I climb on and take a seat, staring blindly out the window. I hardly know what to think. I can’t even remember a time when I haven’t had a crush on Zach Norton. It started way back in kindergarten. I’ve always hoped that maybe he secretly liked me, too. But now I know he doesn’t. Not that way.
There’s one consolation I suppose, I tell myself as the bus doors close. Zach Norton doesn’t like Becca Chadwick at all. Not even as a friend.
I continue to stare out the window as we bump our way toward town. I don’t want to go home just yet. If I go home right now, my mother will take one look at me and know something’s wrong, and then she’ll want to talk about it. My mother says she can read me like a book. She loves to quote Lucy Maud Montgomery to me, the part in Anne of Avonlea where Mr. Harrison says, “You’ve got a very expressive face, Anne; your thoughts just come out on it like print.” That’s what I’m like, she says.
I don’t feel like being an open book for my mother right now, so when the bus reaches downtown Concord I get off and head for the rink instead.
You can’t grow up in New England and not know how to skate. Mr. Delaney got me and Jess started by pushing old kitchen chairs around their frozen pond when we were only five or six, but I didn’t think it would be something I’d be interested in as an actual sport. I’ve just never thought of myself as the athletic type. Not unless they suddenly decide to make reading an Olympic sport. Which is why I’m still kind of surprised at how much I’m enjoying figure skating.
When Cassidy first suggested it, right away I thought of the Shoes books for some reason. My mother gave them to me way back in elementary school. Noel Streatfield was one of her favorite authors when she was growing up, and she thought maybe I’d like the stories too. Like them? I loved them. Especially Ballet Shoes, Theater Shoes, and Skating Shoes. I read them over and over again.
Maybe that’s why I decided to go ahead and give figure skating a try, I don’t know. Maybe because it seemed familiar somehow, after all that time I spent reading about Harriet and Lalla. At any rate, I’m glad I did, even though I’m still pretty awful at it and I still fall down a lot, especially when I try toe loops and spins. Skating is just plain fun.
When I get to the rink, I call home to let my dad know my change of plans and he offers to pick me up afterward. I tell him that would be great. Then I dig my skates out of my locker and stuff my backpack in their place, and lace up as quickly as I can to head out for what’s left of the free skate session.
Push glide, push glide, arms out for balance, I swoop left, then right, then skate as fast as I can down to the far end of the rink. I make the turn with inches to spare, gathering speed as I round the curve, placing one foot over the other, practicing my crossovers. I repeat the same pattern back to the other end of the rink to complete my warm-up. By now I’m breathing hard and feeling loose enough to attempt a little spin, which lands me squarely on my behind.
I can almost hear Eva Bergson laughing. “Remember Thomas Edison, Emma,” she’d say if she were here. I thought she was nuts the first time she brought him up during class. What could a guy who invented the lightbulb have to do with figure skating?
“When one of his experiments went bust,” she had gone on to explain, “Mr. Edison always told people that he hadn’t failed, he’d just found ten thousand ways that didn’t work!”
“That makes about nine thousand more to go,” I mutter to myself, but I pick myself up and brush myself off and head across the rink again. Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned from Eva Bergson, who may be ancient but who’s actually still pretty cool, it’s not to get discouraged. A few tries later I finally manage the spin. Feeling ridiculously pleased with myself, considering all the little kids who are whirling effortlessly around me like tops, I skate my way down the rink again, humming. Cassidy is right—exercise always helps. No matter how horrible things get, no matter how cranky or tired I am, just getting out and moving makes a difference. My mom says that’s why she and my father try and go for a long walk every day.
By the time free skate is over, I’m drenched with sweat and feeling a whole lot better. My dad doesn’t bring up school on our ride home, and best of all there are no comments at dinner about me being like an open book. I’m glad. I don’t really want anybody trying to “read” me right now.
By Saturday morning, though, I’m feeling sorry for myself again. I prop my chin on my hand and stare out our kitchen window, mindlessly tapping my spoon against my bowl. Rain drips from the eaves and the bare tree branches, melting the snow and turning everything to sloppy brown soup. I hate this time of year, when winter’s not quite over and spring hasn’t quite started and the half-melted piles of snow are covered with dirt and everything looks dead and forlorn. Mud season, my dad calls it. The Ides of March. A fine old New England tradition. Ha! This time of year, Mother Nature is as mixed-up as my thoughts. Why does life have to be so complicated?
As if the mess with Megan and Becca isn’t enough, in addition to my disappointment over Zach, it turns out that he is going to Spring Fling with Katie Malone. Cassidy called me last night to check something on our math homework, and it turns out she ran into Zach after her hockey game and he told her that Katie had asked him to go to the dance and he said yes. Cassidy didn’t tell me this to be mean or anything—she has no clue about what happened after our newspaper meeting—but it just brought everything crashing down again.
And on top of all that, I haven’t written a single poem in months. Every time I try, all I hear ringing in my head is Becca calling me “Porky the Poet”—even though I’m a lot less porky these days. Cassidy was right about exercise helping with that, too.
“You’re awfully quiet this morning,” says my mother.
The two of us are sitting alone at the breakfast table, where I’m brooding over my oatmeal.
“In fact,” my mother continues, “you’ve been awfully quiet lately, period.”
I shrug.
“How’s school?”
“Fine,” I tell her.
“And the newspaper?”
“Fine.” I don’t feel like explaining about what happened on Thursday.
“Figure-skating lessons?”
“Fine.”
“Is Becca Chadwick acting up again? Should I have a talk with Calliope?”
I shake my head.
My mother gives me a long, thoughtful look. I scrape my spoon listlessly across my bowl, plowing a shallow trench in the oatmeal. I can tell she’s in the mood for one of those heart-to-heart kind of mother-daughter chats. Which is exactly what I’m not in the mood for. I really don’t want to talk about it.
“You’re still upset about book club, aren’t you?” she says gently.
I put my spoon down. Maybe I really do want to talk about it. “I just feel so awful,” I tell her. “Remember in the first Anne book, when Mrs. Barry wouldn’t believe that Anne hadn’t deliberately tried to get Diana tipsy on the raspberry cordial? And she wouldn’t let them be friends anymore? That’s how awful I feel. Megan just won’t believe me.”
My mother nods sympathetically.
“And now Ms. Nielson won’t either.”
My mother raises an eyebrow. Suddenly the words tumble out in a rush, and I explain about Ms. Nielson making me work with Becca on the article about Megan, and how Becca tried to weasel out of it and made snide remarks about my clothes, which made me feel even worse.
“And most of all I still can’t believe that Megan doesn’t want to be friends with us anymore,” I finish
miserably.
My mother nods again. “Just try and be patient, Emma. Often these things have a way of sorting themselves out. I think there’s more to this than what’s on the surface. Megan is probably feeling a lot of pressure right now with this upcoming magazine feature. She’s pretty young for that kind of attention. Lily told me she’s spent every waking hour this past month either sketching or sewing, so she probably didn’t get enough sleep, and that can certainly affect one’s attitude.”
Moms are really good at finding excuses to make their kids feel better.
“So how about the rest of your life besides Megan?” she asks. “Everything going okay?”
I pick up my spoon and poke at my oatmeal again. My mother waits quietly for my reply. She’s really good at just listening, too. “Mom,” I say finally, “what do you do when a boy you like doesn’t like you back?”
“Oh, sweetheart,” she says, reaching over and giving my hand a squeeze. “That’s a tough one. I wish I had an easy answer.”
I guess I was kind of hoping she did too. I think about Anne Shirley, and how she secretly liked Gilbert Blythe but wouldn’t admit it to herself for ages and ages. I guess I was kind of hoping that it might be that way for Zach Norton, that maybe he really did like me deep down underneath. But now I know that’s not true and never will be. We’re friends, that’s all. His stomach doesn’t get all fluttery when he sees me coming down the hall at school, the way mine does when I see him.
“Emma, you’re twelve—”
“Almost thirteen.”
My mother smiles. “Almost thirteen, then. My point is, you’ve got plenty of time to worry about boys, and dating, and all that.”
Why is it that grown-ups always tell us stuff like this? That we’ve got plenty of time? It sure doesn’t feel that way. Can’t they remember what it felt like when they were our age?
“Don’t you worry,” she adds. “One of these days your knight in shining armor will come along.”
This is mom-code for you’re probably going to be an ugly duckling for a while longer before you turn into a swan so get used to it. I know she’s doing her best to comfort me, though, and actually she has managed to make me feel a little better. Make that a whole lot better. I don’t know what I’d do without my mother to talk to.
She reaches over and gives me a hug. “Finish your oatmeal,” she tells me, smoothing my hair.
Maybe she’s right, I think, spooning up a bite. Maybe I shouldn’t be worrying about all this stuff so much. But still, it would so be nice to have a Gilbert Blythe all my own!
MegaN
“Anne, you certainly have a genius for getting into trouble.”
—Anne of Green Gables
Field trip day.
This used to be my favorite day of the whole school year. When I was little, I couldn’t wait to go to Boston to the Aquarium, or to Paul Revere’s house, or Plymouth Plantation where you got to talk to a real live Pilgrim (okay, so I was dumb back in elementary school and I thought there were actual Pilgrims at Plymouth Plantation, not actors dressed up as Pilgrims). Field trips used to be so much fun.
Not this year.
Right after Thanksgiving, when they told us where we were going, I burst out laughing. I actually thought they were kidding! I still can’t believe we’re only going to Walden Pond.
I guess it’s some big tradition at Walden Middle School. It’s called “Namesake Day,” and we’ve been preparing for it for months. They made us all read Walden in English class—which is such a boring book my eyes nearly fell out of my head—and then in science we’ve been studying the wildlife that Henry David Thoreau observed when he was living in his stupid cabin at the pond, and of course we had to make models of the cabin for social studies. My mother thinks this is all just about the greatest idea in the history of the world, naturally, and she volunteered right away to go along as a chaperone. Fortunately, she has a board meeting today for the Concord Riverkeepers, so she couldn’t come. I don’t think I could stand one more crack about “Handcuffs Wong.”
I wish I were an eighth grader. They’re so lucky—they get to go to Washington, DC, and tour the White House and the Capitol and the Smithsonian and all that stuff. Even though I’ve been to Washington already with my parents, given a choice between going there again and having to tromp around Walden Pond, which is exactly five miles from my house, and where I’ve spent nearly every day of every summer since before I can remember, I’d pick DC in a flash.
I climb reluctantly on to the bus and head down the aisle toward the back where Becca and Jen and Ashley are saving me a seat. They like to sit as close to the boys as possible. Emma and Jess and Cassidy are sitting together near the front, but I don’t look at them as I pass by. Traitors.
They tried to convince me that Becca masterminded the whole “Handcuffs Wong” thing, but Becca said I shouldn’t believe them. Not after that mean trick they tried to play on her on Hello Boston!
And after all I did for them too, helping with their stupid fund to try and save Half Moon Farm.
A little spark of guilt flares up inside me when I think about Half Moon Farm, but I push it away. Becca smiles and pats the seat beside her and I slide in. Becca is the only one who really understands how humiliated I was by the Woodsman article. Emma and Jess and Cassidy all have normal mothers—well, mostly. Not many people have moms as famous as Cassidy’s, and Jess’s mom running off to be an actress last year was pretty weird. Still, neither of those things compare to the stunt my mother pulled.
My mother still doesn’t understand why I was so upset. She actually thought the whole “Handcuffs Wong” thing was funny. I tried to explain to her how it made me feel, but she didn’t get it.
“Remember when Anne Shirley accidentally dyed her hair green?” I told her. “Remember how she was so mortified that she wouldn’t leave the house for a whole week?”
My mother had just stared at me, puzzled. Then she told me it was a faulty analogy, whatever that means, because she was the one who had handcuffed herself to the Delaneys’ tree, not me. And that I shouldn’t be embarrassed because of something she’d done.
She just doesn’t get it, just like she doesn’t get me.
Becca understands, though. “I am so not looking forward to sitting in that boring old cabin, and listening to Ms. Nielson read boring old Walden to us,” she says to me and Ashley and Jen.
“No kidding,” I reply.
“At least it’s a warm day,” Ashley points out.
This is true. The last week of April in Concord isn’t usually this warm. The sun is streaming in through the bus windows, and I’ve already taken off my hoodie.
“Maybe it won’t be so bad,” Jen says. “We aren’t stuck at school, for one thing. Besides,” she adds, turning to Becca, “your brother said it was a fun field trip.”
Becca gives a little snort of disgust. “He would. You know my brother. He’s worse than Kevin Mullins. Stewart loves this sort of stuff. He’s all into history and poetry and he’s read Walden about a hundred times. Don’t listen to him—Stewart’s like the Emma Hawthorne of boys.”
I feel that hot flicker of guilt again, just like I do whenever Becca says snide things about Emma, but I shove it away.
It’s a short ride to Walden Pond, and in no time we’re milling around the parking lot, shrieking and laughing as Ms. Nielson and Mr. Doolittle, our science teacher, try and get us organized.
“Let’s make sure we’re in Zach’s group,” says Becca, drifting closer to where he’s standing with Ethan and Third. Ashley and Jen and I trail along after her, trying to look inconspicuous. I haven’t had much time to think about Zach lately. I’ve been too busy with all the Flashlite stuff. I sent my sketches in over a month ago, and Wolfgang called to tell me that he loved them, and had sent them along to the design department. It’s pretty cool, actually—they have a staff of tailors and seamstresses who are going to take my sample prototypes and make professional clothes out of them for the photo sho
ot. We set up a date for the interview next month, and I’m already nervous. Being interviewed for Flashlite is way different from being interviewed for our school newspaper. What if I end up sounding dorky? What if everybody thinks my designs are dumb?
“Listen up, people! I’d like all the girls over here, please!” hollers Mr. Doolittle, holding up his clipboard and waving it like a flag. He’s exasperated and red-faced and sweaty already, and we haven’t even started yet.
“And all you boys come over here with me!” orders Ms. Nielson, moving to the far side of the parking lot.
“What?” Becca bursts out indignantly. “No way—they’re going to split us up!”
“That is so not fair,” moans Jen.
Disappointed, the four of us watch as the boys head over toward Ms. Nielson, pushing and shoving each other as they go. Then we line up reluctantly in front of Mr. Doolittle with the rest of the seventh-grade girls. He passes handouts to the chaperones, who consult their clipboards and start calling out names. Emma and Cassidy and Jess and a few other girls are assigned to Mr. Hawthorne. The four of us end up with Mrs. Chadwick, who is dressed like she’s going on an African safari, with a hiking stick and a big hat and binoculars and everything. I can tell just by looking at Becca that she’s dying of embarrassment. I feel a rush of sympathy. When it comes to weird mothers, Becca definitely gets it.
As we pass the bus where Mr. Hawthorne is standing with Emma and the others, I hear him cracking jokes and for a split second I find myself wishing I were in his group. But I push the thought away. I’m getting used to pushing those thoughts away. Traitors, I remind myself.
“Does anyone need to go to the bathroom before we start?” trumpets Mrs. Chadwick. “Remember, there are no toilets in the woods!”
Becca turns bright red at this announcement. Cringing, she looks over to see if any of the boys heard, but they aren’t paying the least bit of attention to us. They’re too busy stuffing Kevin into the recycling bin by the visitor’s booth. Ms. Nielson spots them and races to the rescue.