“So Becca told me tomorrow is ‘Donuts with Dads,’” says Stewart.
“Uh-huh.”
“I wish they had that at Alcott. I sure miss those pumpkin donuts.”
Walden Middle School is big on traditions, and “Donuts with Dads” has been around forever. Every year, a couple of weeks before Halloween, we’re all invited to bring our fathers to school for breakfast. In the winter we have “Granola with Grandparents”—which I never get to go to, because my dad’s parents aren’t alive anymore, and my mom’s parents live so far away—and then in the spring there’s “Muffins with Moms.” They’re pretty nerdy traditions, I suppose, but like Stewart, I’ll probably miss them too, when I move up to high school next year.
I glance around my dad’s office as Stewart and I launch into a discussion about our favorite donuts. My father is a writer—book reviews and author interviews and feature articles for newspapers and magazines, mostly. He’s working on a novel of his own, though, too. I want an office like his someday, with bookshelves everywhere and a comfortable chair like the one I’m sitting in, and a desk cluttered with slips of paper with interesting things written on them like “character arc” and “put real plums in the imaginary cake” and “Zelda Malone.” That last one is probably a name for a character, I’m guessing.
Right now, my office is a notebook. I carry it with me just about everywhere I go, to keep track of stuff I overhear people say, things that might make good bits of dialogue, plus interesting words I learn, descriptions of things, lines of poetry, good names for characters—that sort of thing. I’m careful not to keep my finished poems in it, though. Not after what happened in sixth grade. That’s when Becca Chadwick got ahold of one of my notebooks and read a poem aloud that I’d written about Zach Norton, my former crush. She read it right in front of him, and it still makes me squirm to think about it. These days Stewart and my dad are the main ones that I let read my finished poems, along with my mom and Jess, of course.
Not that I’ve seen much of Jess lately. She stays really busy during the week with homework and her singing and riding lessons. She’s made a couple of new friends, too—some girl from San Francisco named Adele and another one from New York named Francesca, who goes by Frankie. This is great, of course, especially since she’s stuck with such a loser roommate. I’m not jealous, it’s just that I miss her a lot. I didn’t think it would be that big of a deal, Jess going to boarding school, especially since Colonial Academy is right here in Concord. But it is. It still feels strange not having my best friend with me at Walden. I keep looking for her in the hallways, and expecting her to sit beside me in homeroom and at lunch. School’s just not as much fun without her there, even though I get to see her on the weekends and talk to her almost every weeknight. Jess’s parents got her a cell phone so she can keep in touch with them and with all of us, plus Colonial Academy issues all of its students laptop computers. That almost makes me want to go there, except of course my family couldn’t afford it and I doubt I’d qualify for a scholarship. So for now I’m stuck sharing the computer in the kitchen with Mom and Darcy.
Behind me, the office door opens a crack and my mom pokes her head in. “Emma, it’s past bedtime,” she says. “You have an early morning tomorrow with your dad. Better say good night to Stewart now.”
“Okay,” I reply. She closes the door again and I relay her message to Stewart.
“I’ll see you tomorrow after school, then,” he says, and we say good-bye and hang up.
I’m smiling as I head upstairs to my room. Talking to Stewart always makes me happy, plus there’s the prospect of pumpkin donuts for breakfast and the possibility of hand-holding on the bus ride home tomorrow.
That happy feeling lasts until exactly 8:37 the next morning.
“There you are, Emma!” Mrs. Hanford, our principal, swoops down on me as I’m standing in line for my donuts and juice. She’s holding one of the orange programs they handed out at the door. “I’ve been looking all over for you! Are you ready? We need to get started.”
I stare at her blankly. “Ready for what?”
“Oh my.” Mrs. Hanford looks surprised. “Didn’t Ms. Nielson tell you? As our school newspaper’s new editor, you’re supposed to give a little welcome speech this morning.”
Pure, hot terror spikes through me. “What?!”
My dad, who is across the buffet table drinking coffee and chatting with Mr. Wong, glances over and lifts an eyebrow.
“Uh, Rosalie?” Mrs. Hanford turns and crooks her finger at Ms. Nielson, who is deep in conversation with Becca Chadwick’s father. Ms. Nielson’s smile fades when she spots me.
“Oh my goodness, Emma!” she gasps. “I completely forgot!”
“This is not good.” Mrs. Hanford looks from Ms. Nielson to me and back again. “Not good at all. It’s already printed on the program.” She flaps the piece of orange paper back and forth like a distress signal.
The two of them stand there, looking worried. Not half as worried as me, though. I feel like I’m going to cry.
“You’ll just have to wing it,” Mrs. Hanford says firmly. Before I can protest, she grips me by the shoulder and propels me toward the makeshift stage that’s set up at the far end of the cafeteria. I throw my dad a desperate glance and point frantically at the program he’s holding. He looks down at it, frowning.
Ms. Nielson trots along beside us. “You’ll be fine, Emma,” she whispers. “Keep it short and sweet, and just mention three things—school spirit, the importance of student involvement, and our special offer for Woodsman subscribers if they sign up today. It’s a good fundraiser, and the dads are always happy to chip in.”
Three things, I think to myself, just three things.
“Good morning, everyone!” The microphone Mrs. Hanford is holding squeals, and I cringe, along with everyone else in the cafeteria. Mr. Keller, who’s not only our vice principal and football coach but also the one in charge of all the A/V stuff, rushes to fix the feedback.
I stare out at the crowded cafeteria as all sorts of crazy thoughts rush through my mind. Like Stewart riding in on a white horse and carrying me away. Or maybe Cassidy picking up the mental message I’m trying to send her to pull the fire alarm. I don’t care how much trouble we’d be in, anything would be better than a slow, humiliating death in front of the entire school. Which is exactly what’s going to happen to me in about thirty seconds. It’s not that I’m shy, like Jess—although she’s nowhere near as bad as she used to be—it’s just that I really, really hate public speaking. I’ve always dreaded oral reports, and I don’t like being the center of attention. I’m a writer. Writers are the quiet ones, my dad always says. The observers. We’re not happy being thrust into the spotlight.
I glance over at the table where all my friends are sitting, completely oblivious to my plight. Megan and Becca and Ashley are talking and laughing, and Cassidy is busy pelting Zach and Ethan and Third with bits of donut. Third is sitting beside his dad, Cranfield Bartlett II, and for a split second I wonder whether people call him “Second.” Next to Mr. Bartlett is Kevin Mullins, who’s got his finger up his nose. Nice.
Except for the finger, Kevin looks exactly like his dad. They’re both really pale, with dark hair worn in identical bowl cuts and big, owlish glasses. Mr. Mullins is pretty shrimpy too. Cassidy’s started referring to Kevin as “the world’s smallest stalker,” after Jess and I explained how he’s been loitering around Half Moon Farm. He developed a big crush on Jess over the summer, and he hardly knows what to do with himself now that she’s at Colonial Academy.
Mr. Keller finishes fiddling with the amplifier and gives Mrs. Hanford a nod. She taps the microphone, then lifts it to her mouth again. “Is everyone enjoying the donuts?”
The response is deafening. The boys all stamp their feet and everybody claps and cheers. Over by the buffet table, I see my dad and Mr. Wong hoist their coffee cups in a salute.
Mrs. Hanford beams. “Wonderful,” she says. “I’d like to
thank the PTA for organizing this year’s event. It’s always such a treat to spend time with our Walden families.”
She blabs on for a while about the importance of parents being involved in their children’s education, and what a fine school Walden is, and how the new school uniform policy has already proved a great success.
Megan catches my eye and makes a face when she hears this. I grimace back at her. Success according to the school board, maybe, but it’s been a huge failure as far as we’re all concerned. It still makes me mad that none of the students were asked for their input. Couldn’t they have let us vote or something?
“Here to help me welcome you all this morning, and with a few announcements of her own, is the new editor of our school newspaper, Emma Hawthorne!”
Just three things. I cling desperately to Ms. Nielson’s words as Mrs. Hanford passes me the microphone. The applause dies down and I take a deep breath, trying to quell the rising tide of panic that’s threatening to drown me. For the life of me, I can’t remember what the three things are I’m supposed to talk about. School uniforms, maybe? No, that wasn’t it.
“Uh, good morning,” I say, my voice sounding unnaturally loud. I wince and lower the microphone a little.
“Good morning!” everyone choruses back.
“Welcome to Walden Middle School.” There’s a long pause while I try to think of something else to say. “I’m Emma Hawthorne.”
I’m stalling for time, and it shows. Across the room, someone snickers. I force myself to smile. “Uh . . .” My face is bright red by now, and my palms are slick with perspiration. I grip the microphone more tightly.
Then I remember! I’m supposed to say something about the paper. A few more seconds tick by as I try and remember exactly what. “I, uh, really hope you’ll read our school newspaper. I’m the editor. It’s called the Walden Woodsman.”
Like they don’t know its name. There’s a polite patter of applause, which would be encouraging if it wasn’t so pathetic. Even Kevin Mullins looks like he feels sorry for me, which is about as sad as it gets. I wish the floor would open and swallow me up.
I stand there like a lump. A lump in a ridiculously ugly school uniform—why oh why did I decide to wear the gold polo today of all days? This must be how Jerusha Abbott felt in Daddy-Long-Legs when she had to wear the John Grier Home’s horrible blue-and-white gingham orphanage dresses that she hated so much. There’s nothing helpful about feeling ugly.
“Uh . . .” My mind is a complete and utter blank. I try to think of something else to say but I can’t. I flick a glance at Mrs. Hanford. Her lips are pressed together, and her arms are folded tightly across her chest. Mr. Keller’s arms are like that too, but that’s his usual stance. Still, he looks a little more belligerent than usual. Even Ms. Nielson’s smile looks like it’s been plastered onto her face.
Squirming inside, I cast around frantically for something else to say. Did Ms. Nielson mention something about school spirit?
“Go, Walden!” I finish weakly.
Mrs. Hanford lunges for the microphone, and I hand it to her in relief. Somehow I manage to stumble back to where my dad is still standing with Mr. Wong. I can’t face my friends right now.
“It’s not my fault!” I whisper. “They didn’t tell me I was supposed to make a speech!”
My dad puts his arm around me and gives me a squeeze. “It wasn’t that bad,” he whispers back, which is a complete lie.
“It was a train wreck,” I moan, my eyes filling with tears.
My dad gives me another squeeze. “Okay, so you tanked. Big deal. It happens to the best of us.”
I shake my head. “I’m never going to live this down.”
After my dad leaves, the day spirals from bad to worse. As if it’s not humiliating enough that half the school is doing imitations of my big nosedive, I get a B minus on the English paper I worked really, really hard on and thought for sure would earn an A.
At lunch, my friends can see how upset I still am, and they’re nice enough not to mention my speech. Even Becca manages to resist the temptation, and Cassidy tries to cheer me up by offering me her dessert.
“It’s pie week,” she announces, passing me a plastic container.
Zach stares at her, incredulous. “Your mom is doing an entire show on pie?”
“Yeah,” says Cassidy. “So what?”
“So what?” echoes Zach. “So what kinds of pie?”
Cassidy shrugs. “I dunno. Coconut cream, I think, and strawberry rhubarb. Apple, cherry, lemon meringue, and maybe blueberry streusel, too.”
Normally I’d be drooling like crazy at a list like this, but today my stomach’s so tied up in knots it doesn’t even register.
Zach scoots back from the table and runs around to where Cassidy is sitting. Everybody near us stops talking and cranes to look as he gets down on one knee and reaches for her hand. Cassidy snatches it away, scowling, so Zach clasps both of his hands together instead and folds them to his chest. “Cassidy,” he begs, “can I come live at your house?”
Everybody laughs except me, and as the conversation picks up again Zach goes back to his seat. I slide the container over to him without comment.
“Really?” he says, amazed at his luck.
I nod and he opens the container. “Mmm, cherry! Emma, you are the best! Thanks!”
If Zach had told me last year that I was the best, I’d have been over the moon. Today I don’t even care.
At our editorial meeting after school, I can barely look Ms. Nielson in the eye. It’s not that I’m mad at her, exactly—especially since she’s apologized about a hundred times—it’s just that every time I look at her I feel embarrassed all over again. She keeps our meeting short and sweet, just like my speech should have been, and I barely get a chance to talk to Stewart. Right as the meeting finishes Mrs. Chadwick shows up to take him to a dentist appointment, which means I won’t get to ride the bus home with him like we’d planned, and it turns out he won’t be at the rink later either.
“Sorry, Em,” he says. “I promised Mom I’d help her and Becca get ready for tonight.”
At least I have book club to look forward to. It’s our first one ever at the Chadwicks’.
Becca gets a funny look on her face, and it occurs to me that she’s worried her mother will embarrass her, which she probably will. I look over at Mrs. Chadwick. I’d be embarrassed too, if my mother showed up at school in a zebra-print jumpsuit.
“It’ll be fine,” I whisper to her. “Relax.”
Becca shoots me a look. “You are so clueless sometimes, Emma,” she tells me, and stomps out after Stewart and her mother.
Puzzled and hurt, I head for the school bus, which lets me off at the skating rink. My dismal day continues, because I have absolutely the worst skating lesson ever. I spend most of the time sitting on the ice, and not on purpose. Finally, when I manage to stay upright for more than ten seconds, I catch my toe and stumble, sending my glasses flying and me flying after them. As I land, I hear a crunch.
“Oh, no!” I cry. Glasses are expensive. My parents are not going to be thrilled about this.
Mrs. Bergson puts her hands on her hips and shakes her head. “This just isn’t your day, is it?” she says, but not unkindly.
The tears, which I’ve been fighting all day, finally start to spill over.
“Oh, dear,” says Mrs. Bergson. She fishes in the pocket of her fleece jacket and pulls out a hankie. A real cloth one, with flowers on it. I didn’t know anybody even used that kind any more. But then, Mrs. Bergson is really old. “I’ll trade you,” she says, taking my broken glasses from me. “Wipe your tears, now. It’s nothing to get upset about. We all have an off day every now and then.”
I find myself pouring out my tale of woe to her, and when I’m done she pats me on the shoulder. “You’ve had enough skating for today,” she says. “What you need is some cocoa.”
She leads me over to the snack bar and buys me a cup of hot chocolate, and we sit side by
side in the mostly empty bleachers. I slant a glance at her as she tinkers with my glasses. Mrs. Bergson has short white hair and wrinkled skin that looks tan all year long and really bright blue eyes. My dad calls her “spry,” which is a good word to describe her. I remind myself to add it to my notebook later.
Free skate starts, and some hockey players start to drift in, including my brother. I spot him out on the ice and he waves his hockey stick at me. I give him a halfhearted wave back.
“Better?” asks Mrs. Bergson after I finish my cocoa.
I nod.
“Good. You take it easy now, and I’ll see you next week.” She passes me back my glasses, which she’s managed to repair with a little duct tape.
I offer her the soggy hankie in return, but she waves it away. “Keep it,” she tells me. “Maybe it will help bring you better luck.”
But it doesn’t.
I promised to pick Jess up at school on the way from the rink to our book club meeting, and when I get to her dorm the very first person I run into is Savannah Sinclair.
“Oh, it’s you,” she says, looking at me as if I was something icky she just stepped in. I’m suddenly acutely aware of my duct-taped glasses, which probably make me look even dorkier than Kevin Mullins, and the fact that my hair is all sweaty from skating and the long walk over here, and that it’s stuck every which way to my head. Savannah, of course, looks like she just stepped off the front cover of some glossy magazine. “Jess isn’t here,” she tells me, crossing the entry hall toward the stairs. “She’s finishing up down at the stable.”
I retreat to Mrs. Crandall’s office.
“Well, hello, Emma,” she says, looking up from some forms she’s filling out and smiling at me. “Nice to see you. Waiting for Jess?”
Dear Pen Pal Page 5
