Emma measures out a teaspoon of vanilla, then another. This is her secret ingredient for chocolate chip cookies—an extra teaspoon of vanilla. I know this because we make chocolate chip cookies at her house at least once a week.
“Which sister do you think you’re most like?” she asks me, popping a handful of chocolate chips into her mouth.
I shrug. “Beth, maybe.”
Emma cocks her head and studies me. “Definitely Beth,” she says. “You love animals and music, and you’re, you know—shy.”
I give her a wry smile. “I wish I was more like Jo. She’s not afraid of anything.”
“I know. I wish I was more like her too. Jo wouldn’t let Becca Chadwick walk all over her.”
“But you are like Jo! You want to be a writer, don’t you?”
Emma dumps the rest of the chocolate chips into the cookie dough. “Yeah, but I think I’m more like Meg in some ways. I’m not as brave as Jo, and I’m kind of a homebody.”
I find chapter 10. “‘As spring came on, a new set of amusements became the fashion,’” I begin, and quickly find myself wrapped up in the antics of the Pickwick Club. I haven’t said a word to anyone, not even Emma, but I really like Little Women. Reading about the March family gives me that same safe feeling as being in my barn and in the Hawthornes’ pink kitchen.
Emma smiles when I get to the part about Laurie setting up a post office in an old birdhouse where he and the March girls can leave one another presents and letters.
“‘The P.O. was a capital little institution, and flourished wonderfully,’” I read, as Emma slides the sheet of cookies into the oven. She passes me a spoonful of dough. I take a nibble, then read on, describing the various surprises the friends leave in the birdhouse. Emma licks her spoon thoughtfully as I read about the gardener who sends a love letter to Hannah, the Marches’ decidedly unromantic housekeeper. “‘How they laughed when the secret came out, never dreaming how many love letters that little post office would hold in the years to come!’”
“Do you think we’ll ever get love letters?” Emma asks. She has a far-away look on her face, and I figure she’s thinking about Zach.
I hesitate. I can’t imagine anybody wanting to write me one, that’s for sure. And Emma? I look at the flour streaked across her round, cheerful face and the smear of chocolate on the front of her shirt. Emma is my best friend in the whole world, but to be honest I can’t imagine anybody writing a love letter to her, either. Especially not Zach Norton. But I don’t tell her that.
“Sure,” I tell her. “We’ll get dozens of love letters someday.”
“I remember the first time I read Little Women,” Emma continues. “I couldn’t wait to find out who would write love letters to Jo!”
I laugh. “And remember how I’d seen the movie and knew what happened?” I recall. “I tried to tell you, but you covered your ears with your hands and screamed.”
“Did I really scream?”
“Oh, yeah. You wouldn’t let me tell you.”
“Nope,” says Emma, shaking her head. “I remember that part. I didn’t want you to spoil it for me. I wanted to read the book and find out for myself.”
I look down at the book, and think about the heartbreak that I know is waiting for the March family and their friends. Just like real life, not all stories end happily. Sometimes friends betray us, and the people we love don’t always love us back. Sometimes people die or leave us. I don’t know yet if there will be a happy ending for me and my family. If life were a book, would I want to skip ahead to the ending? Or would I rather wait and read along to find out, like Emma said? I’m not sure. I close Little Women and set it on the table.
The buzzer goes off and Mr. Hawthorne appears in the doorway, sniffing hopefully. “Is that chocolate chip cookies I smell?”
“Perfect timing,” says Emma, taking the tray out of the oven.
Mr. Hawthorne settles in across the table from me. “Little Women, eh?” he says, picking it up. “A great American classic. I’m more of a Huck Finn kind of guy myself, but I guess it’s a girl thing. I know your mother is having a wonderful time with this book club, Emma. You girls enjoying it too?”
“Sort of,” says Emma, and I nod.
“That’s good. I know it means a lot to your mother, Emma, to be able to spend some time with you.” Mr. Hawthorne pauses and looks over at me, his brown eyes thoughtful. Both of us are suddenly aware that there is a big hole in the conversation. Normally he would have said, “And to your mother too, Jess,” but of course he can’t because she’s not here. After a minute he continues lightly, “I saw your brothers the other day at the grocery store, Jess. They sure are growing up fast. Are they in kindergarten this year?”
“First grade.”
“Holy mackerel! Already?” Mr. Hawthorne shakes his head. “It seems like just last year you girls were in first grade.” He holds his hand out for a cookie. Emma passes him one and he takes a bite. “Mmmmm. Perfect. How about Half Moon Farm? Things going well? How’s your father doing?”
I feel my face grow hot. How does he think my father is doing, for Pete’s sake? I can only imagine how Mr. Hawthorne would be be doing if Mrs. Hawthorne had left and the whole town knew it because her face was plastered all over the TV every afternoon at three thirty. But Mr. Hawthorne isn’t trying to be mean, he’s just being polite, so I don’t say any of that. “Okay, I guess,” I mumble instead.
Mr. Hawthorne reaches across the table and pats my hand gently. He pushes back from the table. “There’s a casserole in the fridge, girls. Would you mind popping it in when you’re done with your baking?” He grabs another cookie as he heads for the door. “I’ll be in my study if you need anything.”
When the cookies are finished, Emma puts the casserole in the oven and we get started on our homework. I’m helping Emma with math when we hear the front door open.
“It’s them!” Emma jumps up and runs out of the kitchen. I’m right behind her.
“I can’t believe the nerve of that man,” Mrs. Hawthorne takes off her coat and gives it an angry shake. “And that woman. Shame on them both.”
“Shame on who both?” asks Mr. Hawthorne, poking his head out of his study again. “What’s going on? Didn’t you make the team, Darcy?”
“Oh, I made it,” says Darcy. He grins. “So did Cassidy.”
Emma whoops and we both rush over to congratulate her. Cassidy slaps us each a high five.
Emma’s father’s eyebrows nearly spring off his forehead. “Cassidy made the boys’ team?”
“That’s the point, dear,” says Mrs. Hawthorne crisply. “There is no girls’ team at the middle school. And until he found out Cassidy was a girl, Coach Danner was all set to let her play.”
“You should see her skate, Dad!” says Darcy. “She’s awesome!”
“Is that right?” Mr. Hawthorne replies, giving Cassidy a bemused look.
“It’s a good thing I arrived when I did to pick up Darcy,” Mrs. Hawthorne continues, pulling a hanger out of the hall closet and jabbing it into the sleeves of her coat. “When I heard what had happened, I reminded Coach Danner in no uncertain terms about Title IX. By federal law, he cannot discriminate on the basis of gender. Cassidy is entitled to a spot on that team.”
“I’ll bet Bob was delighted to hear that,” says Emma’s father under his breath.
Mrs. Hawthorne shoots him a look. “The law is the law.”
“So how come he didn’t know Cassidy was a girl?”
Cassidy holds up Darcy’s old helmet.
“Aha,” says Mr. Hawthorne. “Of course.” He looks at Emma and me. “Do I detect a small conspiracy here? A pair of partners in crime? Wasn’t Cassidy supposed to spend the afternoon here, doing homework with you two?”
I am suddenly fascinated by the pattern in the hall carpet. Emma is staring down at it too.
“‘Oh! What a tangled web we weave,’” Emma’s father continues solemnly. “Sir Walter Scott. However, to be fair—and to quote
yet another literary immortal, Shakespeare this time—‘all’s well that ends well.’”
“And that Calliope Chadwick!” continues Mrs. Hawthorne.
“What did the harpy do this time?”
“Her son Stewart didn’t make the team, and she’s got it in her head that somehow it’s all Cassidy’s fault, that if she would just resign gracefully, Stewart would be put on the team in her place.”
Mr. Hawthorne’s forehead puckers. “Is that true?”
Darcy shakes his head. “No way, Dad. Stewart can barely skate.”
“And then to top it off, that blister of a daughter of hers stole Emma’s journal out of her backpack and read part of it aloud to some boys.”
“So I hear,” Mr. Hawthorne says soberly.
“WHAT?!” Cassidy explodes. “Becca Chadwick is a weasel!”
“Now, Cassidy,” says Mrs. Hawthorne.
“But she is!”
Mrs. Hawthorne sighs. “Well, yes, in this case I would say she certainly exhibited weasel-like behavior. I had a word with her mother about that.”
“Uh-oh,” says Mr. Hawthorne. “And how did Mama Bear feel about having her cub criticized?”
“Let’s just say it didn’t go over very well,” Emma’s mother replies.
The buzzer on the oven goes off again.
“Dinner is served,” announces Mr. Hawthorne.
Emma and I set the table while Cassidy and Darcy quickly shower and change. The dining room is my next-favorite room at the Hawthornes’ house, after the kitchen. There are shelves on all four walls, and they’re lined with books. I’ve never seen a dining room with books in it before. In fact, I’ve never seen a house with so many books in it, period. My house has books too, but not nearly so many. We have more animals, though, and sometimes they wind up in the house, even the ones that shouldn’t. Mom used to hate that.
The only animal the Hawthornes have is Melville, who has followed us into the dining room in hopes of snagging himself a front-row seat at the coming meal. I give him a quick pat as Mr. Hawthorne sets garlic bread and salad on the table with the macaroni and cheese. Everything smells delicious.
“I’m starved,” says Darcy.
“Me, too,” echoes Cassidy, and as we dig in the two of them give us a hilarious blow-by-blow of Stewart Chadwick’s bungled hockey tryout.
“Speaking of tryouts,” says Emma finally, “I have an announcement to make.”
We all look over at her.
“Jess is going to try out for the lead in Beauty and the Beast.”
My fork stops halfway between my plate and my mouth. “Emma!” I protest, mortified. “I told you—the answer is no.”
“The middle school musical? Perfect!” says Mrs. Hawthorne enthusiastically. “With your voice, you’d make a wonderful Belle.”
“She’s right, Jess,” says Darcy. “I remember hearing you at Emma’s chorus concert last spring. That solo you sang? It was really good.”
“Really?” The word comes out a squeak, and I blush.
He reaches over and tugs on my braid. His brown eyes are warm. “Sure.”
“See, Jess?” says Emma smugly. “I told you.”
I stare down at my macaroni and cheese like I’m looking at it through a microscope. I’ve never noticed before how much elbow noodles look like amoebas. I prod at them with my fork. “Maybe,” I say finally.
Before anybody can say anything else, there’s a knock at the door. Mrs. Hawthorne glances at her watch. “The book club!” she exclaims. “I almost forgot.”
“Darcy and I will do the dishes,” says Mr. Hawthorne. “You ladies go join your guests.”
“I hope we’re not too early,” says Mrs. Wong, as Mrs. Hawthorne opens the front door.
“Don’t be silly,” Mrs. Hawthorne replies. “Friends can never be too early. Come on in, we’re just finishing up.”
Megan looks a little surprised to see me and Cassidy sitting at the dinner table. For a second, I catch a flash of another emotion on her face. Disappointment, maybe, but the expression is fleeting. She coolly pulls her cell phone from her purse and taps out a text message while Emma’s mother hangs up their coats.
We’re all moving into the living room when there’s another knock at the door. It’s Clementine Sloane, and she doesn’t even say hello, she just strides in. She does not look happy.
“Did you put her up to this?” she demands, glaring at Emma’s mother.
“Put who up to what?” Mrs. Hawthorne blinks at her, confused.
“Cassidy went behind my back and tried out for the boys’ hockey team,” Mrs. Sloane explains grimly. “No sooner do I get off the phone with Calliope Chadwick, who has her knickers in a twist because Cassidy took her son’s place on the team—or so she tells me—than I get a call from Coach Danner. He said something about Title IX, and that he’d checked and the town librarian was right, that legally Cassidy is entitled to a spot on the team.”
Mrs. Hawthorne looks over at me and Emma and Cassidy, then back at Mrs. Sloane. “I see,” she says slowly. “Clementine, please believe me, I had no idea that Cassidy was at the rink without your permission.”
Mrs. Sloane puts her hands on her hips. “She told me she’d been invited here after school,” she snaps. “You mean to tell me you had no idea about that, either?”
“Of course I knew about that,” says Mrs. Hawthorne. “The girls asked if they could spend the afternoon here before book club. They wanted to do their science homework together and make cookies for our meeting.”
That fleeting expression I spotted earlier reappears on Megan’s face when she hears this. But it disappears just as quickly.
“They were cooking something up all right, but it wasn’t treats for the book club,” retorts Mrs. Sloane.
“But, Mom, I made the team!” Cassidy protests. “The coach said I was one of the best skaters he’d ever seen—before he knew I was a girl, I mean.”
“How did you keep it a secret?”
“The coach couldn’t tell under the helmet.”
“Your helmet’s at home, on the hall bench,” says Mrs. Sloane.
Cassidy’s eyes slide over to the doorway, where Emma’s brother and father are watching. Darcy starts to do a slow fade. “Um, I borrowed a helmet,” she says.
“Borrowed? From whom? From Emma?”
Mr. Hawthorne steps into the room. “From my son, actually,” he says, gripping Darcy firmly by the shoulder and drawing him forward.
“The whole family was in on this?” says Mrs. Sloane, her voice rising.
“Clementine, I told you, Nick and I had no idea that Cassidy went behind your back to do this,” Mrs. Hawthorne says hastily. “As for the kids, well, all I can say is, it won’t happen again.”
“You’re right about that,” snaps Mrs. Sloane. “Cassidy, get your things.”
“Now, Clementine, please—”
Across from Emma and me, Megan is looking like the cat who ate the canary. She’s clearly loving the fact that we’re in trouble and she’s not.
“Excuse me, but did you say something about Title IX?” asks Mrs. Wong.
Megan’s smug smile fades a little. Cassidy’s mother nods.
“But that’s fantastic!” Mrs. Wong exclaims. “This could be a ground-breaking event! Just think of the ripple effect it could have at schools across the state. We’ll have to call the sports editor at the Boston Post. I can see the headlines: ‘Cassidy Sloane: Concord’s Rebel on Skates.’”
Mrs. Sloane narrows her gorgeous blue supermodel eyes. “Lily,” she warns, “stay out of this. My daughter doesn’t need to become the poster child for another one of your causes.”
Megan’s mother looks like she’s been slapped. Megan looks embarrassed.
“But that’s beside the point,” Mrs. Sloane continues. “The point is that nobody should be interfering with my family. Nobody should be going behind my back, aiding and abetting my daughter in flouting my rules.”
“You’re right, Clementine
, of course, and I apologize if that’s what this looks like,” says Mrs. Hawthorne. “Again, I assure you we never would have done any of this if we had known that you didn’t approve.” She hesitates for a moment, giving Cassidy a sidelong glance. Then she continues. “I understand how upset you are, but what’s done is done. And from what I hear, Cassidy certainly proved herself out there on the ice today. Would it be such a terrible thing for her to play hockey?”
“Hockey is dangerous!” cries Mrs. Sloane. “Cassidy could get hurt! You know that as well as I do, Phoebe.”
“Mom, I’ve been playing for years,” Cassidy protests. “Dad never worried about me getting hurt.”
The room falls silent at the mention of Cassidy’s father.
Mrs. Hawthorne lays her hand gently on Clementine Sloane’s arm. “Perhaps we could all sit down and discuss this calmly over cookies?”
“There’s nothing to discuss,” says Mrs. Sloane coldly, pulling away. “Cassidy, get your things.”
“I wish you weren’t my mother!” cries Cassidy, a mutinous look on her face. “I hate you!”
Now Mrs. Sloane is the one who looks like she’s been slapped. Wordlessly, she grips Cassidy by the arm, gathers up her backpack and hockey bag, and marches her out of the room. She pauses by the front door and turns, giving us all one last glance. “I thought you were my friends,” she says bitterly, and slams the door behind her.
Nobody says anything for a long minute. Then Mrs. Hawthorne sighs. “Well, girls, I guess book club is over for tonight.”
“For tonight?” Emma whispers to me, as Megan and Mrs. Wong get their coats. “How about forever?”
She’s probably right. I can’t imagine Mrs. Sloane speaking to any of us again. Not after tonight. The club will probably be disbanded. I’m surprised to find that this makes me sad. I guess I like book club more than I thought I did.
Melville slinks out from under the sofa, where he’s been hiding from all the loud voices. He hops up into my lap again, stretches, and starts to purr. I scratch him under his chin and bury my nose in his fur. At least Mel isn’t angry.
Like I said, animals are a lot less complicated than people.