WINTER
“What a trying world it is! No sooner do we get out of one trouble than down comes another.”
—Little Women
CASSIDY
“‘Don’t worry about me; I’ll be as prim as I can, and not get into any scrapes if I can help it.’”
“Tell them to hurry,” my mother says as we pull up in front of Walden Middle School. “Book club starts in half an hour.”
“Okay.” I hop out of our minivan and jog to the front door. Inside, the lobby is deserted. School always feels a little weird at night—all those empty, echoing hallways and closed lockers and dark classrooms.
I can hear faint strains of music from the auditorium, and I jog on down the hall, hoping I don’t smell too bad. I’ve just come from hockey practice and haven’t had a chance to shower yet.
After the disaster with the tryouts last month, my mother hauled me off to a shrink. Excuse me, “family counselor.” But Dr. Weisman is really a shrink—I saw the diplomas on his wall. We sat there in his office and right in front of me my mother told him that she thought there was something seriously wrong with me, that ever since Dad died I’d been rebellious and sneaky and mean to her and that she couldn’t handle my snotty attitude anymore. Then she burst into tears.
Dr. Weisman handed her a box of tissues. He sent me out into the waiting room so he could talk to her alone. After a while my mother came out and it was my turn. I thought maybe he was going to yell at me but the two of us just talked. He’s pretty nice, for a shrink. He didn’t ask about my dad, which was a good thing because I wasn’t going to tell him anything anyway. We talked about hockey mostly. Turns out, he’s a Bruins fan.
Dr. Weisman told me that my father’s accident had shaken my mother up really badly, and that it had also made her hypersensitive to danger. He explained that right now what my mother most wanted was to keep her family safe, and that’s why she sees hockey as a threat. He asked me if that made sense. I glared at him. So much for nice. I could see where this was going. He’d just been trying to butter me up with all his talk about the Bruins. He’d been on my mother’s side all along.
“No more hockey forever, right?” I’d snapped.
Dr. Weisman had just smiled and asked me to go get my mother. I did and we all sat down again.
“Dr. Weisman thinks I should let you play hockey,” my mother said stiffly.
I gaped at her, shocked. That was the absolute last thing I’d expected her to say. Then I catapulted out of my chair and punched my fist in the air. “Yes!” I crowed.
“Sit down, Cassidy,” said Dr. Weisman. “Let your mother finish.”
My mom looked down at her lap and twisted her tissue. “Dr. Weisman says that life is full of things that we can’t control.”
Well, duh, I could have told her that. She could have saved herself a lot of money. Shrinks are expensive.
“He says that while it’s normal that I want to keep you safe, I need to be careful not to overdo it,” she continued. “He said we’ve had so much sadness in our lives this past year that I need to think about what might make you happy. That I need to think about what’s best for you, too, and not just what’s best for me.”
Dr. Weisman asked me if I knew what a compromise was. I said yeah, it’s when people agree to give up stuff and do stuff to make other people happy. He said that’s right, and explained that being able to compromise is especially important for families. He asked if I’d be willing to do a few things for my mother in exchange for being able to play hockey.
Was he kidding? I’d do anything to be able to play hockey!
As it turned out, my mother’s conditions weren’t too bad. I’m supposed to work on my attitude, mostly. She wants me to be more polite and respectful and not mouth off to her all the time. She wants me to be more ladylike and have better manners. I wasn’t sure about the ladylike part, but I said I’d try.
Dr. Weisman had my mother and me sign a contract, and we’re supposed to go see him once a month for a while. Just to talk about things.
So that’s why I’m running down the hall at Walden Middle School wearing a Concord Comets uniform and smelling like a laundry hamper.
I open the door to the auditorium and slip into the back. Jessica Delaney is up on stage with Zach Norton. You could have knocked me over with a feather when I found out Zach had tried out for the play. Somehow I never took him for the actor type. He got one of the leads, too—he’s playing Beast. I slip into the back row of seats and listen for a minute as he and Jess practice a duet. Emma was right: Jess has a great voice. Zach’s not bad either.
“I still can’t believe Goat Girl took your part!” I hear somebody whisper. I squint in the darkness and spot Becca Chadwick and the rest of the Fab Four sitting a few rows ahead of me.
Megan nods.
“Well, she only got it because her mother left and Mrs. Adams feels sorry for her,” says Becca.
The other three heads bob in unison. The Fab Four all tried out for the play too, but they only got cast as dishes. Megan’s a dancing plate, Becca’s a cup, and Ashley and Jen are silverware. None of them are happy about this—especially Megan. She wanted to be Belle, and she and Becca have been busy spreading rumors ever since about why Jess got the part instead of her.
“Okay, cast, listen up!” says Mrs. Adams, the drama teacher, clapping her hands to get everyone’s attention. “I want all lines for scenes one through six memorized by practice on Friday! We’ve only got two weeks until winter break, and we’ll need to hit the ground running when we come back in January if this show is going to be ready!”
Jess and Zach hop off the stage. I head down the aisle to meet them. “Jess, we’ve got to hurry,” I tell her. “My mom’s waiting in the parking lot.”
“P-U, Sloane, you stink!” says Zach with a grin, waving his hand in front of his nose.
I grin back and punch him in the arm. “You think you’re telling me something I don’t know?”
“How’s hockey going?” he asks. “You guys had your first game yet?”
I shake my head. “Nope. Saturday’s the big day. You should come. We’re going to wipe the rink with the Vikings.”
“You think I’d miss a chance to see you and Third fall on your butts?”
I punch him in the arm again and we both laugh.
Behind me, I hear giggles. The Fab Four, of course. Like flies to honey—Zach being the honey.
“You have an awesome voice, Zach,” coos Megan.
“Uh, thanks,” says Zach, drifting away. He’s kept his distance from the Fab Four ever since the whole “Zach Attack” thing. And he avoids Emma like the plague.
“We have to go,” I tell Megan. “My mom’s in the car waiting.”
Becca looks me up and down. She wrinkles her nose. “Lucky you, Megan,” she says sarcastically. “Goat Girl AND the Stinkbomb. Wish I was in your book club.”
In response, I grab her in a bear hug and mash her face against my sweaty hockey jersey. “Who’s a stinkbomb now?” I demand as she struggles and squeals. After a minute, I let her go, laughing. Insults rarely bother me, especially when they come from a lamebrain like Becca Chadwick. But I can see that it bothers Jess. She hates it when people call her “Goat Girl.” Too bad she doesn’t stick up for herself more.
“Dumb jock,” Becca snaps, wiping her face with the sleeve of her sweater. “Nice friends, Megan.”
“I told you, they’re not my friends,” says Megan coolly.
The three of us trudge out to the car in silence. Jess and I climb in the back, leaving Megan to sit up front with my mother.
“Hello, girls! How was play practice?” Without waiting for an answer, she turns around and sniffs loudly, like a bloodhound catching a whiff of steak. “Whew,” she says. “Wish we had time to pop you in the shower. Do you have an extra shirt in your hockey bag?”
“Just the one I wore to school today.”
“Well, go ahead and put it on. You’re pretty ripe.”
/> I’m on the brink of saying something snarky when I remember Dr. Weisman’s contract. “Sure thing, Mom,” I reply politely, and she smiles at me in the rearview mirror. As we pull out of the parking lot and head toward town, I crouch low in my seat and remove my smelly hockey jersey.
My mother makes a quick detour to Burger Barn, relaying our orders at the drive-thru window. As she pulls back onto the road, the only sound in the car is the hungry munching of burgers and fries.
“You three are awfully quiet tonight,” says my mother finally.
I take a sip of soda and give Megan a sidelong glance. I can’t resist. “You should hear Jess, Mom, she can really sing,” I say enthusiastically. “She’s going to make a great Belle. And, hey, guess who’s playing the part of Beast?”
“Who?”
“Zach Norton. Remember him? From Little League last summer?”
“Oh, sure—Zach. That cute blond guy who played first base.”
Megan stares out the window, her pale oval face a stony mask. Serves her right. Megan Wong and her friends may think they’re in charge of the entire sixth grade, but that doesn’t mean they are.
We round Monument Square, drive past the Hawthornes’ house, and continue down Lowell Road to a part of town I haven’t seen before. Book club is at Megan’s house tonight, and she lives way out on Strawberry Hill.
“Is this it?” asks my mother, slowing down and peering at the street number on a big stone pillar that marks the entrance to a long drive-way.
Megan nods.
“Wow,” I say, catching a glimpse of her house through the leafless trees. It’s huge and modern and looks like it’s made entirely of glass. “It looks like a spaceship.”
“Doesn’t it,” says my mother politely.
She’s not crazy about modern architecture. “Old houses are the coziest,” she always says. I think Mr. Hawthorne would probably agree with her. I overheard him talking about the Wongs’ house at a barbecue last summer. “A carbuncle upon Concord’s pastoral loveliness,” he called it. I have no idea what a carbuncle is, but I could tell from his tone of voice that it wasn’t something good.
I think the house is cool, though. And the inside is just as amazing as the outside. I try not to stare as Mrs. Wong takes our coats. Behind me, my mother is trying not to stare either. Megan’s living room is seriously huge. Nearly as big as a hockey rink.
It’s a weird shape, too, almost round. And it sticks right out into the middle of the yard, like an escape pod stuck onto the side of a spaceship. Too bad I can’t push a button and fly myself home. The match between the Bruins and the Rangers will be starting soon on ESPN.
The phone rings and Mrs. Wong excuses herself. “Have a seat,” she calls, disappearing down the hallway.
Jess and Mom and I step down into the room. My sneakers sink into the carpet nearly up to my ankles. It’s white, and so is everything else in the room—sofas, chairs, carpets, walls. Even the baby grand piano is white. It’s like being in the middle of a blizzard. I can’t help it, it’s just too tempting. Push—glide, push—glide, push—glide. I skim across the carpet like I’m flying down the rink, bodycheck a white leather chair with my hip, and spin around to see my mother glaring at me.
“Sorry,” I mumble, dropping into the chair.
I sniff my armpit—passable, now that I have an almost-clean shirt on—and start to put my feet up on the coffee table in front of me. My mother catches my eye and I hesitate. She reaches into her purse and pulls out a piece of paper, waving it in the air like a flag. It’s Dr. Weisman’s contract. I heave a sigh and put my feet on the floor instead. She nods, satisfied, and slips the contract back into her purse.
She and Jess sit down on the sofa. There’s no sign of Megan. My mother is dressed all in red tonight—red pants, red sweater, red leather boots—and she stands out against all the white as vividly as a drop of blood on snow. Jess reaches out a tentative finger and strokes the clear glass Christmas tree that sits on the coffee table in front of them. I wonder if there’s another, real tree somewhere in the house, or if this is it.
Mrs. Wong reappears. “We have a live tree out in a planter on the deck,” she says, as if reading my thoughts. “The ornaments are made of birdseed. We’ll plant it in the spring.”
“Ah,” says my mother, nodding. “An environmentally friendly Christmas.” She looks around at the furnishings. “Your home is lovely.”
“Thank you,” Megan’s mother replies. She waves a hand carelessly at the room. “Jerry picked everything out. I’m not much for decorating.”
My mother looks surprised to hear this. Decorating is her life.
I can tell that she and Mrs. Wong are trying extra hard to be polite. They’re getting along again finally, after the big blowup last month. Mrs. Hawthorne asked Mom and Mrs. Wong over to lunch to patch things up. I saw the invitation. It had a quote from Louisa May Alcott on the front: “Birds in their little nests agree.” I guess they’re trying to be good role models for us girls. My mother still hasn’t been back to yoga class, though.
“That was Phoebe,” says Mrs. Wong, glancing at her watch. “She and Emma should be here any minute. They’re running a little late.” She crosses to a small white speaker set into the wall and presses a button beneath it. “Megan!” she calls into it. “It’s time to come join us! Your friends are waiting!”
I let out a snort. I am not Megan Wong’s friend, and she’s not mine. My mother gives me a warning look.
“I’ll get the refreshments,” says Mrs. Wong, and disappears again.
Jess cocks her head, turning her gaze from one side of the room to the other as if measuring it. “It’s a dodecagon,” she announces finally.
“A dodo-what?” I ask.
“A dodecagon,” she repeats, as if that helps. “Twelve windows, see? Set at angles in nearly a perfect circle.”
I stare around the room again. I have absolutely no idea what she’s talking about. Of course, that’s generally the case with Jessica Delaney. She never talks about regular stuff. I’ll bet she doesn’t even know who won the Stanley Cup last year.
I start gnawing at a hangnail. Unladylike, but necessary. Fortunately, the doorbell rings before my mother can start waving the contract at me again. Emma and her mother are here.
Emma makes a beeline for the sofa and plunks herself down next to Jess.
“Clementine!” says Mrs. Hawthorne brightly. “We’ve missed you at yoga.”
My mother inclines her head regally, like a queen greeting a subject. She’s going into full supermodel mode. She can still pull off world-famous “Clementine” when she needs to. “Things have been busy,” she replies in a dignified tone.
Nobody mentions hockey.
Mrs. Wong comes in with a big platter piled high with lumpy gray cookies. “They’re vegan,” she says proudly, setting them down on the coffee table. “No eggs or animal fat. And the chips are carob, not chocolate.”
“Yummy,” says my mother, her forehead creasing with concern. I can’t wait to watch Queen Clementine try and choke down one of those suckers. Next to decorating and gardening, baking is my mother’s favorite activity. Courtney keeps telling her she should start her own TV show. She’s probably right. They could call it “At Home with the Queen.”
“Healthy treats are good treats,” says Mrs. Hawthorne, but she doesn’t look convinced either. I see her and Emma exchange a glance, and the corners of Mrs. Hawthorne’s lips quirk up as she tries to suppress a smile. Emma’s lucky—she and her mom are close. Kind of like my mother and my sister are. I know they love me, but it’s sort of like they’re this little twosome and I don’t quite belong. I just don’t have that much interest in nail polish and fashion magazines. Any interest, actually.
Mrs. Wong looks at her watch again and taps a foot impatiently. “Would you girls please go see if you can pry Megan out of her room? I don’t know what’s gotten into her tonight.”
I follow Emma and Jess out of the living room and down an
adjoining hall. A long, long hall. It’s hard to believe that only three people live in this place. I’ve been in hotels that were smaller. I start skating again (push—glide, push—glide), and about a half a mile later we stop in front of a big white door.
“Megan?” Emma calls, tapping softly.
Pushing past her, I shove the door open and walk in. Like the rest of the house, Megan Wong’s bedroom is huge. It juts out into the yard the same way the living room does. It’s kind of like being in a tree house. I wouldn’t mind a room like this, actually. Well, except for the furniture. Everything is pink and lacy, and the bed has one of those thingies draped over the top of it like a tent. I can’t remember what they’re called. No, wait a sec. A canopy. That’s it. My mother would be delirious if she saw this room. It’s like her dream girl’s bedroom. Me? I would lie down on the floor and croak before I’d let her decorate my room like this. She wanted to get a canopy for my bed when I was little and I said absolutely not, no way. Too girly-girl. Give me a poster of Wayne Gretzky or Sarah Parsons and Team USA any day of the week.
“Hi,” says Emma.
Megan whips around, startled. She must not have heard us come in. She shoves something hastily into her desk drawer. A notebook, maybe. “What do you want?” she demands.
“Um, your mom says it’s time to come join us,” says Emma.
“C’mon, Wong, you’re holding up the show,” I add. “The faster we get started, the faster we can get out of here.” The Bruins match should be starting any second. With any luck, I can catch the second half.
Megan looks at me like I’ve got fleas. “It’s your fault we’re here in the first place,” she says coldly. “If your mother hadn’t changed her mind about dropping out of this stupid club, we wouldn’t have to be here tonight at all.”
“Just hurry up, will you?” I turn around to leave and nearly trip over Emma. She’s kneeling on the carpet, smiling. In front of her is a plastic box of some kind she’s pulled out from underneath Megan’s bed.
“I didn’t know you still; had these!” she says, holding up a doll.