Mrs. Hawthorne laughs. “In your case, we’d be happy to make an exception. The main point of the club is for parents and daughters to share some quality time together.”
Mr. Delaney nods. “I’ll think about it,” he says. “But I don’t know if it’s my cup of tea.”
“Well, the door is always open,” Mrs. Hawthorne tells him. “Feel free to join us any time.”
Mr. Delaney leaves and Jess looks anxiously at the empty chair beside her. Mrs. Hawthorne gets up and whisks it away.
“As you know, girls,” she says brightly, taking her seat again, “we moms got to talking after yoga class a few weeks ago and decided that we wanted to do something special with you this year. Something more grown-up, now that you’re in middle school. Mrs. Sloane came up with the idea of a mother-daughter book club, and we all agreed that it was the perfect thing.”
She and Mrs. Sloane and my mother all beam at us like they’ve just won the Nobel Prize or something. None of us beam back.
Mrs. Sloane rummages in her big leather bag, which is the exact same pink as her fingernails and toenails and very expensive-looking. I automatically reach for my sketchbook again, but stop myself just in time. Instead, I try and memorize the bag’s design and make a mental note to myself to add purses to my first fashion line.
Mrs. Sloane pulls out a paperback and holds it up. “The first book we’re going to read together is Little Women by Louisa May Alcott.”
Cassidy groans. I start to groan too, but stop because my mother is giving me the look. The one that says don’t you dare, not if you want to live. The evil-witch-mother eye of death, my dad calls it.
I pull out my cell phone instead and text Becca again: LAME LAME LAME! GOAT GIRL IS HERE. P-U. WE HAVE TO READ LITTLE WOMEN. I think about snapping a picture of Jess but add a frowny face instead and press send.
My mother reaches over and plucks the phone out of my hand. I start to protest, but she gives me the look again.
Mrs. Sloane continues, “We thought that since Louisa lived right here in town and wrote the book at Orchard House and is such a famous Concord author and everything, Little Women would be the perfect choice to kick off our new club.”
“You’ve got to be joking!” Cassidy takes the book from her mother and hefts it like a dumbbell. “This sucker is huge!” She riffles through the pages and looks up in disbelief. “It’s over seven hundred pages long!”
Mrs. Hawthorne laughs. “It is a long book, Cassidy, you’re right. But I think you’ll find it’s a good one. And don’t worry, we’ve got all year to read it.”
My mouth drops open. A whole year? I turn and stare at my mother. I shake my head, No way. She nods and smiles, Yes way. We communicate like this sometimes, without words.
“How am I supposed to have time to read this thing plus do my homework plus skate?” Cassidy demands.
“I didn’t know you were a skater, Cassidy!” gushes my mother, flicking me a glance. “Figure skating is such a lovely sport.”
Yet another of my mother’s major disappointments in life is that I quit figure skating. For a while there, before she decided I should become an environmental lawyer, she had plans for me to be the next Michelle Kwan.
“Are you taking lessons with Eva Bergson?” my mother continues. Eva Bergson is one of Concord’s most famous residents. Almost as famous as Louisa May Alcott. She won a gold medal in the Olympics about a hundred years ago, and now she runs a skating school.
“I play hockey,” Cassidy says flatly.
“There’s no need to be rude,” scolds Mrs. Sloane. She turns to my mother. “You’ll have to excuse her, Lily,” she says apologetically. “Cassidy played on a girls’ team in California, and I’m afraid she was terribly disappointed to find that there isn’t one at the middle school here in Concord.”
“What about the Merrimac League?” asks Mrs. Hawthorne.
Mrs. Sloane shakes her head ruefully. “I looked into it but the commitment is way too intense for a single mother like me—all those practices, national tournaments, travel. There’s no way I could swing that.”
Cassidy shoots her a sour look.
“And classes with Eva?”
“Cassidy’s not interested, and Eva’s all booked up anyway,” Mrs. Sloane tells her.
My mother whips her planner out of her purse and jots down a note to herself. “I’m co-chairing the new rec center fundraiser with Eva,” she tells Mrs. Sloane. “I’ll put in a good word for you, if you’d like. She’s a marvelous teacher.” She smiles at Cassidy, who folds her arms defiantly across her chest.
“I play hockey,” she repeats.
“Well,” says Mrs. Hawthorne smoothly. “Let’s get started, shall we? Since we obviously haven’t read any of the book yet, I thought that tonight we’d talk about the club rules and learn a few fun facts about Louisa, then go out for ice cream.”
I slouch down in my chair. This is getting worse by the minute. Ice cream? What if someone from school sees all of us together? They’ll think we’re friends. What if Zach Norton is there?
The door to the conference room flies open and Becca Chadwick’s mother barges in. She has brown hair like Mrs. Hawthorne, but unlike Emma’s mother, who wears hers in a ponytail, Mrs. Chadwick’s is styled into one of those poufy bouffants that looks sort of like a football helmet. Her eyes are blue, like Becca’s, but much paler. Pale as robins’ eggs, but piercing, which is a weird combination.
“Aha!” she says, looking at Mrs. Hawthorne accusingly. “Caught you! I thought I made myself quite clear this afternoon, Phoebe. No exclusive clubs are allowed to meet on public property.”
Mrs. Hawthorne sighs. “Calliope, for one thing, we’re not exclusive, just private. And for another, I couldn’t change our meeting place on such short notice. We were just about to take a vote on a new location and then we’ll be leaving, I promise you.”
Mrs. Chadwick’s sour expression softens when she spots me. “So sorry you can’t join the girls and me tonight, Megan. I know Becca is disappointed.” She glares at my mother. “But apparently SOME people prefer to let their daughters join EXCLUSIVE CLUBS instead of engaging in wholesome recreational activities with their dearest FRIENDS!”
She looks around the table dismissively at Emma and Jess and Cassidy, who she clearly feels don’t fall into this category. I can’t say I disagree.
My mother presses her lips together firmly and doesn’t reply. My mother doesn’t like Mrs. Chadwick. Actually, most people in Concord don’t like Mrs. Chadwick, on account of her temper. My father calls her “the snapping turtle.”
With a final sniff of disapproval, Mrs. Chadwick waddles out.
My mother looks ruefully at Mrs. Hawthorne. “Maybe we should have invited—”
“No,” Emma’s mother says firmly. “We have every right to form a group of our own choosing. And Calliope has no right to try and make us feel guilty.”
“Should we vote about where we want to meet?” asks Mrs. Sloane.
How about nowhere, I want to say, but don’t.
“We could take turns hosting the meetings at our homes,” says Mrs. Hawthorne. “Or if you’d all prefer, I can reserve a room at the Arts Center.”
“No, let’s meet in our homes,” says Cassidy’s mother. “It’s cozier that way.”
The mothers all nod in agreement.
“Girls?” asks Mrs. Hawthorne.
None of us say a word. Emma gives a half shrug.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” her mother says briskly. “It’s settled. We’ll take turns hosting.”
Jess Delaney gets that anxious look on her face again. Mrs. Hawthorne gives her shoulder an encouraging pat. “Of course, if someone is unable to host for any reason, that’s not a problem.”
“I volunteer for next month,” says Mrs. Sloane.
Cassidy glares at her. Mrs. Hawthorne passes out rose-patterned folders. “THE MOTHER-DAUGHTER BOOK CLUB” is written on each one in fancy calligraphy. Cassidy holds hers gingerly betw
een her thumb and forefinger. She looks like she’s been handed a dead cat.
“This is to keep your handouts in,” explains Mrs. Hawthorne. “And here’s your first one.”
At the top is printed “RULES FOR THE MOTHER-DAUGHTER BOOK CLUB,” followed by a long list. We go over it quickly. Finish each month’s assigned reading. Come prepared to discuss the questions. Respect your fellow club members. Don’t interrupt. Be positive and supportive of one another’s ideas. Blah, blah, blah.
Mrs. Hawthorne passes out two more sheets of paper. “This is your assignment for October’s meeting, plus a little information about the author.”
I scan the assignment. Six chapters a month? Forget it! I stuff it inside my folder along with the club rules and look at the next sheet.
FUN FACTS ABOUT LOUISA
Louisa May Alcott was born in 1832.
She had three sisters, and loosely based Little Women on her own family. Bronson and Abba Alcott, her parents, became Mr. and Mrs. March. Her older sister Anna became the character Meg, Louisa herself was Jo, May was Amy, and Elizabeth (“Lizzie”) was Beth.
Little Women was originally written as two books, but over the years the volumes were combined. It’s been translated into many languages around the world and has also been performed as a stage play and a musical. At least six movie versions of the story have been made.
“Why don’t we just watch one of the movies instead?” suggests Cassidy. “This dumb book is way too long.”
“The whole point is to spend time reading together, honey,” says her mother with a pained smile. “It wouldn’t hurt you to do something cultured once in a while, something ladylike.”
Cassidy gives a very unladylike grunt in reply.
Mrs. Hawthorne stands up. “So, are we ready to go to Kimball Farm?”
Beside me, Emma perks up. “Likes to eat” would be at the top of any “Fun Facts About Emma Hawthorne” list. Not that I mind a trip to Kimball Farm. They have the best strawberry ice cream in the world. But the idea of going there with this group is enough to make anyone lose their appetite.
Out in the car, my mother fastens her seatbelt, humming happily to herself. “Such nice girls,” she says. “This is going to be fun. Don’t you think so?”
I look over at her and shake my head. Fun? She’s got to be kidding. Going to the mall with Becca and Ashley and Jen would have been fun. But I don’t say a word. Instead, I promise myself I will find a way out. There’s no way I’m staying in a book club with Emma Hawthorne and Cassidy Sloane and Goat Girl. No way at all.
CASSIDY
“A quick temper, sharp tongue, and restless spirit were always getting her into scrapes …”
I fling open the front door. It bangs against the wall, announcing my arrival.
“Hi, honey!” my mother calls from the kitchen.
I shrug my backpack onto the entry hall bench and glance over at the grandfather clock opposite. It’s three fifteen. If I hustle, I can grab some ice time before our dumb book club meeting. It’s here at my house tonight. Right before the party.
My mother appears, carrying a platter of cupcakes. They’re covered with orange frosting and decorated with licorice to look like little jack-o’-lanterns. “What do you think?” she asks.
“They look radioactive,” I tell her, wrinkling my nose. It’s true. Nothing in nature is that shade of orange except maybe some rare fungus.
She shoots me a look. “You don’t have to be rude about it. I’m just trying to do something nice for you.”
“Nice?” I snap. “Nice is not inviting my entire class to our house for a Halloween party without asking me first.”
My mother sighs. “Honey, I’m just trying to help you make friends.”
“I don’t need your help.” I open the hall closet and rummage noisily through my hockey equipment. My voice is as sharp as the blades on my skates, but I don’t care. The book club was bad enough, but now this?
“I just thought, what with you being so disappointed about no hockey team here …” My mother’s voice trails off.
I back out of the closet and turn to face her. “You’re probably thrilled there isn’t a team! You never wanted me to play anyway!”
A hurt expression creeps over her face. “That’s not fair, Cassidy. It’s not that I don’t want you to play, it’s just that it’s dangerous and—”
“And what? Unladylike? Dad never cared about that.”
My mother’s eyes fill with tears at the mention of my father. Silently, she takes her cupcakes and retreats to the kitchen. The ruckus has brought my older sister Courtney down from her bedroom. She leans over the banister and glares at me.
“What’s the matter with you?” she says. “Why do you always have to be so mean to Mom?”
“I wasn’t trying to be mean!” I protest. “It’s true—she doesn’t want me to play hockey. She probably picked Concord on purpose when she found out they don’t have a girls’ team at the middle school!”
“That’s ridiculous, and you know it,” my sister scoffs. “You know as well as I do that we moved here to be near Nana and Grampie after Dad died.”
Courtney is a sophomore in high school and thinks she knows everything. Her words make me squirm inwardly, though, because she’s right. “You wouldn’t understand,” I say bitterly.
“Did it ever occur to you that it wasn’t easy for Mom to leave California either? Maybe she’s trying to make some new friends, too.”
I gesture at the hallway, which is draped with fake cobwebs and spiders and stuff. “How, by making them think we’re the Addams family?”
Courtney shakes her head in disgust. “Grow up, Cassidy” She disappears back upstairs. I sling my skates over my shoulder and head out the door to get my bike.
An hour on the ice clears my head. It always does. For once free skate is not too crowded and I fly up and down the rink, free as a bird, practicing crossovers and sprints and turns and working up a pretty good sweat in the process.
“Hey, you’re not bad.”
Startled, I skate to a stop and look up to see a tall boy with curly brown hair standing in front of me. It’s Darcy Hawthorne, Emma’s older brother. I recognize him from Little League.
“Thanks.”
Darcy flicks me a smile and skates off. I watch him go. He’s not bad either. Nice foot work, nice technique. Lucky, too. He’s a boy, so he has a team to play on. As he sails down the ice, I feel a stab of envy. Life is so unfair! Hockey was what got me through those awful months after Dad died. And now I’ve lost it, too.
The shine’s gone off my ice time. I stump away toward the benches to unlace my skates, and a few minutes later I’m on my bike heading home. As I turn down Waiden Street toward Hubbard, I pass Zach and Ethan and Third sitting on the steps of the bank.
“See you tonight!” Zach shouts, and the black cloud hanging over me lifts a little. Maybe the party won’t be so awful. Most of my baseball team will be there, and I can hang out with them.
But first I have to get through book club.
They’re all clustered in the front hall when I arrive. My mom is talking with the other moms, and Megan and Emma and Jess are staring at the decorations. Piles and piles of decorations. Our house is practically encrusted with them. Tombstones line the staircase; huge black rubber tarantulas are scattered along the banister and the hall-way bench; a family of vampires (mannequins dressed in black capes—who knows where Mom dug them up) is sitting at the dining room table, and absolutely everything is covered in fake cobwebs. When it comes to decorating for the holidays—any holiday—give my mother an inch and she’ll take a mile.
“Hey, Cassidy,” says Emma. She’s in her costume already. I think she’s a vegetable of some kind—an eggplant, maybe?
“Hey, Emma.”
“I’m a Concord grape,” she explains, noting my puzzled look. I nod. Unbelievably lame.
“How about you, Jess?” I ask, checking out her white lab coat and crazy white wig. “You loo
k like your hair exploded.”
She smiles shyly. “Albert Einstein,” she whispers.
Megan Wong snorts. “Figures. You two will definitely win for stupidest costumes.”
Jess’s smile disappears, and Emma shifts uncomfortably in her green tights. I glare at Megan, but she ignores me and puts on more lip gloss. I knew girls like her back in California. Mean as snakes, for no reason.
“Cassidy, why don’t you put your skates away and we’ll get started,” says my mother. “I thought we’d have our meeting in the turret.” Her voice sounds overly cheery and I feel a prickle of guilt. Obviously, her feelings are still hurt.
“The turret? Cool!” Emma exclaims.
Megan rolls her eyes, which are heavily made up with blue eye-shadow. She’s dressed as a pop singer, which means she looks pretty much the same way she does most days at school, only a little flashier.
My mother, who is dressed as a witch, complete with green face paint and a huge fake wart on her nose, leads the way upstairs. I throw my skates into the closet and follow. The turret is on the third floor of our Victorian house, off an attic that would have been my dad’s study if he were still alive. Which he isn’t.
“This is awesome!” Emma says as we all crowd into the circular room. She sighs. “I wish our house had a turret. You’re so lucky, Cassidy.”
“Lucky” is not the word I’d use to describe my life, but Emma’s right about the turret. It is pretty awesome, even if it makes our house look like something out of a horror movie. My mom calls it her thinking room. There’s a window seat that runs all the way around, and the windows above it are crisscrossed in little diamond shapes. Underneath the seat are bookcases filled with all our family photo albums, plus my mom’s gardening and decorating and cooking books.
I would never in a million years tell my mother this, but sometimes I come up here when she’s not around and look through our photo albums. She and my dad took zillions of pictures of us when we were little. Courtney looks just like my mom, blonde and perfect. I look like my dad. He had red hair too, and gray eyes like mine. It’s been over a year since the accident, and I still can’t look at his pictures without wanting to cry. Dad was the one who taught me how to skate, and catch a ball, and ride a bike, and surf, and do all the things I love to do. He was the best.