We spend the rest of the bus ride talking about what we’re going to do over the summer. Mostly we just plan to hang out at Half Moon Farm like we always do. It’s the best. We ride Led and Zep and gather eggs and help make goat cheese and raspberry jam and stuff for the farm stand, and when we get tired of chores there’s the creek beyond the edge of the fields to splash around in and Waiden Pond to swim in. Jess knows every trail through the woods, and the names of every bird, insect, and flower. Last summer, she taught me how to gather milkweed before it dries into pods, and to boil the flower buds in water on the stove. They’re delicious with butter and salt. Once, we found an arrowhead, and I keep hoping I’ll find something from the Revolutionary War—the button from a minuteman’s uniform, maybe, or an old coin. That would be so amazing.
This year, we’re thinking about making a secret hideout in the barn, someplace the twins can’t find us. There’s a tack room up by the hayloft that doesn’t get used much, and Mr. Delaney said Jess and I could have it. It sounds like the perfect retreat for a poet, and we figure we’d invite Megan and Cassidy over for a campout once we get it all fixed up.
The last day of classes goes by quickly—mostly it’s just parties and teachers passing back all the assignments they’ve collected from us over the year, and turning in our library fines and stuff like that. We have a sixth grade kickball tournament out on the baseball diamond, and our homeroom beats the pants off Mr. Flanagan’s, thanks to Cassidy and Zach. My birthday luck seems to be holding because I don’t do too horribly, for once, and Zach even gives me a high five after I manage to kick the ball way out into left field when the bases are loaded, bringing home two runs. A high five may not be as good as a dance in the gym, but still, it’s something.
Then it’s time to go. Jess and Cassidy and I ride Megan’s bus home with her, because of my party.
“Come in, come in!” says Mrs. Wong, greeting us at the door.
Mom and Mrs. Sloane are already there, drinking iced tea, and so is Mr. Delaney. He’s traded his usual jeans for slacks, and he’s wearing a crisply ironed blue shirt. His hair is wet, like he just took a shower, and when he hugs me I notice that there’s not even a whiff of barnyard on him. He smells good, like aftershave.
“Happy birthday, Emma,” he says.
“Thanks, Mr. Delaney.”
I glance past him into the dining room, which is decorated with crepe paper streamers and balloons. A big banner with “HAPPY 12th BIRTHDAY, EMMA!” on it is hanging across the window, and I spot a pile of presents waiting for me in the middle of the table.
“Uh-uh-uh,” says Mrs. Wong. “No peeking. You girls go put your things in Megan’s room while Mrs. Sloane finishes decorating the cake.”
I’m delighted to obey, especially now that I know Mrs. Sloane is making the cake. I was worried I might have to be all polite about some horrible sugar-free tofu creation, but Mrs. Sloane is an even better cook than my dad. She could have her own TV show, I swear.
We troop down the long hallway to Megan’s room, where we dump our backpacks, then she gives us a tour of the new sewing room that her mother set up for her “hobby,” as she calls it, in the old guest bedroom next door. Mrs. Wong will probably never give up hope that Megan will grow up to be an environmental engineer or rainforest activist or something, but still, the sewing room is a step in the right direction.
“Wow,” I say when we return to the dining room, and I mean it. The table looks beautiful. There’s a white linen tablecloth on it, and a big white jug filled with fragrant pink roses from Mrs. Sloane’s garden. Fresh strawberries from Half Moon Farm are heaped in a bowl beside plates of tiny sandwiches (“Made with organic cucumbers,” says Mrs. Wong proudly) and there’s a platter of my dad’s special oatmeal cookies, too. The centerpiece is Mrs. Sloane’s cake, which is frosted with pink frosting and decorated with little white flowers—real ones!—and geranium leaves that she makes us all smell because they’re lemon-scented. Plus, there’s both strawberry and vanilla ice cream from Kimball Farm, and pink lemonade to drink.
“Too much pink,” grumbles Cassidy.
“It’s perfect,” I sigh.
Everybody sings “Happy Birthday” to me, and I blow out the candles and then we sit down and start to eat. Even though this afternoon is not an official Mother-Daughter Book Club meeting—it’s over for the year, now that we’ve finished the book—we end up talking about Little Women anyway. Mostly, we argue about whether Jo should have married Laurie instead of Professor Bhaer. My mother and I both think Jo and Laurie should have ended up together.
“Louisa copped out on her readers,” my mother says heatedly. “She knew that’s what we all wanted, but for whatever reason, she didn’t want to give us that happy ending. So she married Laurie off to Amy instead, and threw in Professor Bhaer at the last minute.”
“I disagree,” says Mr. Delaney, taking a bite of cake. “I like Bhaer. Plus, wasn’t he modeled after Louisa’s father?”
We take a vote, and it’s a split decision. Four for Jo and Laurie, four for Jo and Professor Bhaer.
“Just like real life,” says Mr. Delaney lightly “You can’t always predict the end of the story.”
Finally, it’s time for presents. There’s a whole stack of poetry books from my parents, and from Cassidy and her mother an awesome fountain pen that uses real ink (“It was my mother’s idea, not mine,” says Cassidy ungraciously). Jess and her father give me a rhyming dictionary, and from Megan and her mother there’s a beautiful purple velvet mood pillow.
“Megan made it,” says Mrs. Wong. “We figured if Louisa had one, an aspiring writer like you should have one too.”
I stand it on its end to show that I am in a good mood, which I certainly am after all these presents, and everyone laughs.
“There’s one more gift for you,” says Mr. Delaney, rising to his feet.
“I hope it’s not a tambourine,” says Cassidy in a stage whisper.
Jess’s father grins. “Definitely not a tambourine,” he replies. “This one is actually from Shannon, and it’s for all of you girls.” He passes us each an envelope.
“Shannon wanted to do something special for the four of you,” my mother says. “She asked us what we thought, and we got to talking after yoga class a few weeks ago—”
“Uh-oh,” I reply automatically.
“Emma!” my mother says, exasperated. “For heaven’s sake! You haven’t even opened it yet.”
I turn to Jess. “Do you know what it is?”
She shakes her head. “No clue.”
“Can we open them?” asks Cassidy.
“All together on the count of three,” says her mother. “One, two …”
I tear open my envelope on “three” and pull out a train ticket. Four of them, actually. I stare at them blankly. “Boston to New York, round trip, first class,” I read. I look up at my mother, who is smiling broadly Mrs. Sloane takes a picture of my astonished expression. “Wow!” I say. “Are we really going to New York?”
Our mothers all nod happily.
“Check it out!” calls Cassidy, waving something in the air. “She got us tickets to a Yankees game!”
“And to Little Women: The Musical,” Megan says. “A Broadway show! Jess, your mom rocks!”
“What’s in your envelope, honey?” my mother asks Jess.
She holds up a brochure, a wary look on her face. “We’re staying at a hotel,” she replies. “Someplace called the Pierre.” She looks over at her father. “How come we’re not staying with Mom?”
“That’s because … you three ladies are going too!” he cries, tossing envelopes at my mother and Mrs. Sloane and Mrs. Wong.
“Oh, my,” says my mother, a bit breathlessly. “I really can’t—it’s much too expensive—Michael, she shouldn’t have!”
Mr. Delaney smiles. “It’s a done deal, Phoebe. There’s no dissuading Shannon when she gets a bee in her bonnet about something.” He winks at Mrs. Wong. “Besides, from what I hear, the en
terprise received a generous charitable contribution from a local benefactor.”
Now it’s Mrs. Wong’s turn to smile. “It’s a worthy cause,” she says.
My mother and Mrs. Sloane jump up and hug her.
“Are you going too, Dad?” asks Jess.
Mr. Delaney shakes his head. “Nope. I’ll be holding down the fort here at home with the twins.”
“But—”
He waves away her concern. “It’s a girls’ trip, sweetie. Your mother has all sorts of stuff planned—you know, manicures, shopping, that sort of thing. Not my scene.”
Jess still doesn’t look convinced. Across the room, my mother and Mrs. Wong and Mrs. Sloane have formed a conga line. They reach out and grab Cassidy and Megan and Jess and me and we all dance down the hall into the Wong’s’ enormous living room.
“It’s not a maypole, but it will do,” says Mr. Delaney, chasing after us with the camera. “Look out, New York—the Mother-Daughter Book Club is coming to town!”
Megan
“Women work a great many miracles.”
“Oh, great, look who’s here,” groans Emma. “Wouldn’t you know it.”
We’re standing on the depot platform, waiting to catch the commuter train to Boston where we’ll transfer to Amtrak for New York City. I don’t need to turn around to see whom Emma’s spotted. I can tell just by the look on her face. But I do anyway, and sure enough, there’s Becca Chadwick heading our way. Her mother is right behind her.
“Well, if it isn’t Concord’s most exclusive club,” booms Mrs. Chadwick. She looks us over sourly, her eyes narrowing as she spies our luggage. “Going on a trip, are you?”
Mrs. Hawthorne nods. “That’s right, Calliope,” she replies evenly. “New York City.”
“Dreadful place,” says Becca’s mother dismissively. “So crowded. And wretchedly hot this time of year.” She casts a calculating glance at Jess. “Any word yet on when your mother’s going to quit that ridiculous television show and come home to Half Moon Farm?”
There’s an awkward silence. Jess stares down at her sandals. Mrs. Hawthorne places a protective hand on her shoulder.
“Shannon will be meeting our train in New York,” she says icily. “Perhaps you’d like us to relay your question directly to her?”
Mrs. Chadwick bridles at this, but before she can retort there’s the sharp screech of metal on metal as the commuter train pulls into the station.
“Let’s go, girls!” says Mrs. Sloane, grabbing her suitcase.
We all follow her on board. Mrs. Chadwick wedges herself into the empty seat beside Emma’s mother, who is wearing a slightly faded summer dress that I’m guessing she got at the thrift store. Across from her, Mrs. Sloane is dressed exquisitely in a white dress with a black patent-leather belt, black strappy sandals, and a broad-brimmed black straw hat. Only my mother isn’t wearing a dress. She opted for shorts and a T-shirt (this one’s slogan reads “Certified Tree Hugger”) instead.
“So where are you two off to this morning?” Mrs. Sloane asks Becca’s mother, her voice all sugary-polite.
“The orthodontist,” Mrs. Chadwick informs her. “Rebecca has an overbite.”
Our heads all swivel as we turn to inspect Rebecca, who glares at us.
Cassidy grins, revealing perfectly straight teeth. “Tough luck.”
“Metal-mouth,” I whisper softly, so Mrs. Chadwick can’t hear.
My mother hears, though. She gives me the evil-witch-mother eye of death, and I sigh and turn around and face front again.
“Any vacation plans this summer?” asks my mother.
“Cleveland,” barks Mrs. Chadwick.
“Ah,” says Mrs. Hawthorne. “That’s a very, uh, educational place, from what I hear.”
Mrs. Chadwick nods smugly. “Much more appropriate for young girls than”—she pauses and gives a delicate shudder, or as delicate a shudder as someone the size of an orca can manage—“New York.”
“Lots of museums in Cleveland,” says Mrs. Hawthorne.
“And of course the symphony,” adds my mother.
“Indeed,” agrees Mrs. Chadwick. “Becca and Stewart will be exposed to a wide range of cultural activities in Cleveland.”
Cassidy and Jess and Emma and I all turn around and grin at Becca, who looks like she just swallowed a jar of pickle juice.
“Mmm,” says Mrs. Hawthorne, winking at Emma. “Cultural activities are always very edifying.”
Emma perks up. “That’s right, Mrs. Chadwick,” she chirps. “So instructive.”
“Broadening,” adds my mother.
“Uplifting,” offers Mrs. Sloane, smiling broadly.
“Dull,” whispers Cassidy wickedly, slanting a glance over the seat at Becca, who shoots her a murderous look in return.
“Yawn,” breathes Jess.
“Snoozer,” I add softly, rubbing it in.
“Nothing frivolous about Cleveland, no sirree,” says Mrs. Sloane cheerfully, whipping out our itinerary. “Nothing as uneducational as—let’s see, what is it we’re doing again? Oh, yes. Visiting the fashion director at Flash, one of the magazines where I used to model; going to a ballgame at Yankee Stadium; having lunch on the set of HeartBeats; and getting makeovers by their stylist before we head to Broadway for a show.”
“Don’t forget shopping,” says Mrs. Hawthorne.
“Or staying at a fancy hotel,” says my mother.
Mrs. Chadwick gives a haughty sniff and heaves herself out of her seat. “Come along, Becca,” she orders. “I’m sure we can find seats near a better class of passengers.”
“Now, that’s what I’d call a caboose,” says Mrs. Hawthorne quietly, eyeing Mrs. Chadwick’s retreating hindquarters.
“Why, Phoebe Hawthorne!” cries Mrs. Sloane in delight. “I didn’t know you had it in you!”
Mrs. Hawthorne blushes, then giggles. “Neither did I,” she replies. She gives Emma a guilty glance. “Don’t tell your father.”
We’re all still laughing when our train pulls into the station. Outside on the platform, we pass the Chadwicks.
“Have fun in Cleveland!” I call to Becca.
“And at the orthodontist!” adds Cassidy, baring her teeth again as Mrs. Chadwick waddles away, towing a deflated-looking Becca behind her.
Our spirits high—the trip to New York is off to a good start—we find our train and the first-class car. Our mothers quickly settle into conversation. Emma gets out a book, Cassidy practices her hook shot by tossing balls of crumpled-up paper into a trash can, and Jess looks out the window and hums happily to herself. I pull out my sketchbook and start designing new outfits for my friends.
For Emma, who is wearing shorts that are too tight and a flower-splashed blouse that is just as ugly as it was when she wore it last summer, I dream up a graceful sundress whose flowing lines conceal her round tummy. I leave her halo of brown curls just the way it is, as the style suits her. The first thing I do for Jess, on the other hand is release her hair from its usual thick braid and let it settle around her shoulders. Then I draw her in a short, sassy skirt with a scoop-necked polka-dot blouse. I eye it critically then add a ruffle to the neckline. Perfect.
It has to be pants for Cassidy, of course, so I create a pair of chic overall shorts and pair them with a sailor-style shirt boyish enough that Cassidy might actually wear it, yet still feminine. As for her hair, I choose a sleek bob cut just below her jawline, a huge improvement over the tangled mass she usually just scrapes back into a ponytail.
I’m so absorbed in my task that the trip passes quickly, and before we know it we’re in New York and Mrs. Delaney is running alongside the train, tapping on the window and waving wildly to Jess.
Mrs. Delaney is really pretty. She looks a lot like Jess—same blue eyes, same slender build—but her hair is dark instead of blonde. She’s dressed a lot differently than I remember, too. Last time I saw her, she was wearing jeans and a T-shirt and a baseball cap. Now, she’s dressed in crisply tailored pink linen capris a
nd an ultrafeminine sheer white blouse. Like Mrs. Sloane, she’s wearing strappy sandals, only hers are white instead of black. I make a mental note to add her to my sketchbook at the hotel.
A quick cab ride uptown gets us to our destination, where a bellhop takes our luggage and whisks us upstairs to our room.
Rooms, actually Mrs. Delaney has booked two of them, one for the moms and one for us, with a connecting door between them.
“Wow,” whispers Emma as she looks around, awed.
“I made sure you had a view of Central Park,” says Mrs. Delaney proudly, pulling back the curtains.
“It’s perfect, Shannon, just perfect,” says Mrs. Hawthorne, sinking into an armchair with a contented sigh and gazing dreamily at the green oasis spread out below us.
Cassidy leaps gleefully onto one of the luxurious beds and starts jumping up and down. “I could stay here forever!” she crows.
“Cassidy Ann, behave yourself,” snaps her mother.
Next stop is Mrs. Delaney’s apartment for lunch. It’s just a few blocks away in a neighborhood she calls the Upper West Side. It’s tiny, but it has a view of the Hudson River. Spice, the Delaney’s’ other sheltie, goes nuts when she sees Jess.
“You miss your sister, don’t you?” murmurs Jess. She gives Spice a kiss. “That’s from Sugar. She misses you, too.”
After lunch, it’s time for shopping. As we walk over to Fifth Avenue, my head is practically swiveling. Everywhere I turn I see something I want to sketch. I can’t shop and draw at the same time, though, so I leave my sketchbook in my purse and gawk instead. New York is teeming with sleek, elegant women—some of them just have to be models—and the store windows are amazing, all of them crammed with incredibly fashionable clothes that must cost a fortune.
Mrs. Sloane and Mrs. Delaney know all the good places to shop, and they run our legs off for three solid hours. Finally, loaded with bags and parcels, we stuff ourselves into a pair of taxis and head downtown.