Dear Pen Pal

by Heather Vogel Frederick

  “Ridiculous rule.” Gigi sniffs.

  There’s a knock on the door and my mother pokes her head in. “You two bonding over fashion again?” she says. Her smile looks a little strained. My mother could care less about clothes most of the time, and I think she’s been feeling a little left out.

  “We’re just trying to liven up your daughter’s pitiful school uniform,” Gigi explains. She crosses to her dresser and rummages in her jewelry box. “Why don’t you wear these tomorrow?” she says, handing me a pair of diamond earrings the size of peanuts. My mouth falls open. “The uniform may be a lost cause, but just knowing you’ve got something beautiful to accessorize with will make you feel a whole lot better.”

  “Mother!” says my mom, looking shocked. “Megan can’t wear your diamond earrings to school! What if she loses them?”

  Gigi waves her protest away. “Nonsense, darling, she’s fourteen now—practically a grown-up. She won’t lose them. Besides, I need to be able to spoil my only granddaughter once in a while.”

  I have two boy cousins—my mother’s brother’s sons. They live in Hong Kong too. I put Gigi’s earrings on. They’re absolutely stunning, like twin stars. I turn my head this way and that, staring at my reflection in the mirror on my grandmother’s dressing table. Mirror Megan smiles back at me, as enchanted as I am with the way the earrings sparkle.

  Behind me, my mother says something angrily in Chinese. Gigi responds, and pretty soon they’re having a full-blown argument. I have no clue what they’re saying—I don’t speak much Chinese—but I can tell from the tone of their voices that neither of them is very happy. There’s been a lot of arguing in the weeks since my grandmother got here. My mother and Gigi, my mother and my father—I’m pretty much the only one not arguing these days. Just last night, I overheard my parents quarreling in the living room, after they thought I was asleep. Mom was upset because Gigi had reorganized the kitchen cupboards and drawers, and she couldn’t find anything.

  “Can’t you just let her have fun?” my dad had said. “It’s not like there’s any harm done.”

  “Fun,” my mom had replied sarcastically. “Right. Mother puts the ‘fun’ in ‘dysfunctional.’”

  The problem is, Gigi is fun, and my mom is so serious all the time. It’s like she doesn’t know how to relax. Everything is always life and death for her. Protecting the environment. Being a good steward with Dad’s money by supporting every charitable cause under the sun. Bugging me to good grades so I can get into a good college and have a good career.

  It’s not like she’s not capable of having fun—I’ve actually seen her do it. That time we went to New York with the book club, for instance. And last year, at our fashion show, she was really funny as the emcee. But most of the time, forget it. She can’t even eat a cinnamon roll, for heaven’s sake! I wish she could be a little more like Gigi.

  With one final burst of Chinese, my mother leaves the room, slamming the door behind her. Gigi sighs, shaking her head.

  “Some things never seem to change,” she tells me sadly. “But this is for your mother and me to straighten out, not for you to worry over.” She hands me the smaller of the two packages. “Here.”

  Curious, I open the box and lift out the contents, which have been carefully wrapped in tissue paper. “Wow,” I exclaim.

  “It’s a kei pou,” says Gigi.

  “It’s beautiful.”

  It’s a silk dress, tailored in the traditional Chinese fashion, long and slim through the body and finished with a high notched collar, cap sleeves, frog button closures, and a slit up one side of the hem. The turquoise brocade is richly embroidered with an intricate design in pink and gold and white.

  “Plum blossoms and butterflies—for long life and beauty,” Gigi tells me. “A long time ago this was mine, and then it was your mother’s, and now it’s yours.”

  I hold the dress up against me and run my hand along its soft, sleek surface.

  “Try it on,” coaxes my grandmother.

  I don’t need any encouragement. Slipping out of my khaki pants and polo shirt, I carefully undo the row of knotted buttons and pull it over my head.

  “Perfect,” says Gigi. “Just the right length, too. You can see where I had the hem let down for your mother years ago.”

  I cross to the dressing table to take a look. Mirror Megan beams back at me in approval. The color is incredibly flattering to our ivory skin and dark hair, and the form-fitting, feminine cut makes me look—well, grown-up. “I love it!”

  “Your mother never liked traditional clothes,” my grandmother continues. “When she left for college in Boston she left it behind. She couldn’t wait to be an American girl.”

  “Really?” I knew that my mother went to M.I.T., because that’s where she met my dad. But I didn’t know about the other stuff.

  “I used to love to wear that dress when I was your age,” Gigi continues. “My mother gave it to me for my fourteenth birthday, and I wore it when she took me to tea at the Peninsula Hotel—very fancy.”

  For my fourteenth birthday, my mother gave me a membership in the Sierra Club and bought an acre of rainforest in my name. I give Gigi a sidelong glance, wondering how two such different people could be related. She and Mom are like Mom and me, only in reverse.

  The intercom on the wall crackles. Our house is kind of big, so my dad installed intercoms to keep us from having to holler all the time. “Your friends are starting to arrive, Megan,” my mother says, her words clipped and flat. She’s obviously still mad.

  “Okay, Mom!” I tell her. “I’ll be up in a minute.”

  Gigi hands me the other parcel. I open this one to find three bolts of fabric, all of them richly embroidered Chinese silk brocade just like my new dress, only in different colors and patterns—emerald green with dragonflies, fire-engine red with bamboo leaves and cherry blossoms, and a deep midnight blue covered with peonies.

  “Oh my gosh, Gigi, is this all really for me?”

  She nods, her little bird’s face beaming. “It’s vintage, too, just like the kei pou. I’d forgotten I had it—it must have been my mother’s. I found it when I was cleaning out my apartment to come here. My fashion designer granddaughter needs proper materials to work with.”

  I give her a hug, squeezing her tight. “Thank you,” I whisper.

  She squeezes me back. “You’re welcome.” She places her palms on my cheeks, framing my face. “Those earrings are the perfect accessory,” she tells me, turning my head slightly from one side to the other. “But I think you need a splash of perfume.”

  She douses me with scent, then shoos me out the door. “Now go upstairs and wow your friends. I’d better start cooking the dim sum.”

  I sprint up to my bedroom clutching my new bolts of fabric, which I slide under my bed for now. I want to keep them a secret until I decide what to make with them.

  Becca and Emma are in the living room, waiting for me.

  “Oh my gosh, Megs, you look amazing,” says Emma, her eyes widening.

  I twirl around. “Gigi gave it to me. It used to be hers when she was my age.”

  “Doesn’t that make it a little out of style?” says Becca.

  “Nope, it means it’s vintage, and vintage never goes out of style,” I explain. “Stars wear vintage designer clothes to the Oscars and stuff all the time.”

  “Those aren’t real, are they?” she asks, peering at my earrings.

  I nod, smiling. “They’re just on loan, though.”

  Becca gets really quiet, and I realize that she’s envious. Her grandmother is nice too, but she’s no Gigi.

  The doorbell rings and Cassidy barges in, her hair still all sweaty from hockey practice. At least she changed out of her uniform. She collapses onto the sofa.

  “How’s your mom?” I ask her.

  “Still barfing.”

  “Eeewwwww,” says Becca.

  Emma wrinkles her brow. “I thought morning sickness was only supposed to last the first few months?
”

  “Don’t look at me,” snaps Cassidy. “I’m not the expert.”

  “I think it’s cool she’s expecting,” I tell her. Now I’m the envious one. “A little sister or brother—lucky you!”

  “Can we not talk about it, please?”

  Cassidy’s still really touchy about the baby.

  Jess is the last to arrive. “You look just like a princess in a snow globe,” she tells me, pointing to the window behind me. I look over my shoulder to see that someone—Gigi, I guess—turned on the spotlights in the backyard, illuminating the birch trees and the falling snow. It does kind of look like a snow globe. I fling my arms wide and twirl around again. I’m too old to be twirling, but I don’t care. In this dress I really do feel like a princess.

  “What’s new with Julia?” Becca asks Jess. Like all of us, Becca is completely fascinated with Savannah Sinclair. Savannah, or “Julia” as we mostly call her, is one of our favorite topics of conversation whenever we get together.

  “Ugh,” says Jess. “Don’t ask.”

  “C’mon,” Becca coaxes.

  Jess sighs. “Oh, okay.”

  We all crowd around her so we won’t miss a word.

  “All she can talk about these days is her ski trip to Switzerland next month,” Jess tells us. “She’s taking Peyton with her, and they keep asking me where I’m going for our break.”

  “I thought you just had a vacation?” Cassidy looks puzzled.

  “Private schools are on a different schedule than public schools,” Jess explains. “We had the same break over the holidays that Walden does, but at Colonial Academy there’s a week in February, too, so everyone can go skiing. And another week in the spring, so everybody can go to the Caribbean and work on their tans, I guess.”

  “Sheesh,” says Cassidy. “Lucky you.”

  “It’s not like I’m going anywhere,” Jess retorts. “I’ll be stuck here in Concord, just like you.”

  “Trust Savannah to be going skiing someplace exotic, instead of somewhere normal like New Hampshire or Vermont,” gripes Emma.

  The kitchen door swings open and our moms appear.

  “Oh my goodness, Megan, what a gorgeous dress,” says Mrs. Sloane-Kinkaid, who is looking pretty stunning herself in jeans and a chic peach-colored tunic sweater with a big cowl neck. They must be maternity jeans, because she’s starting to show now. She’s got brown leather boots on and a big slouchy hobo bag to match. I can tell I’m going to have to go back downstairs for my sketchbook.

  Cassidy’s mother crosses to where I’m standing and traces the embroidery with a well-manicured fingertip. “That fabric is absolutely stunning.”

  “It’s vintage,” I tell her.

  “Oh, wow—that makes it even more special.”

  My mother makes a face at Gigi. “Mother, you didn’t give Megan that old thing, did you? I remember when you tried to foist it off on me.”

  “You just don’t appreciate beautiful workmanship,” my grandmother replies.

  “Hmmph,” says my mother. “Sweatshop labor is more likely.”

  “Your grandmother had it made at the finest dress shop in Hong Kong!” Gigi replies indignantly. “Their staff were never underpaid!”

  My mother doesn’t look convinced. Gigi marches back off to the kitchen in a huff and I sit down on the sofa next to Cassidy, who eyes my kei pou.

  “I like the dragonflies,” she says grudgingly.

  We all turn and stare at her.

  She glares back at us. “What?”

  “Uh, nothing,” I reply. “It’s just—you don’t usually care about clothes.”

  Cassidy lifts a shoulder. “Dude, I didn’t say I wanted to marry it or anything, I just said I liked the pattern on the fabric. It’s cool.”

  Mrs. Sloane-Kinkaid chuckles. “So, I am raising a girl after all,” she says, arching an eyebrow at the other moms. Cassidy scowls and scooches up the leg of her sweat pants, then busies herself checking out the bruises on her shins.

  Gigi appears, bearing a tray. “I hope everyone is hungry,” she says, setting it on the coffee table.

  “Dim sum? Gigi, you didn’t!” says Mrs. Hawthorne.

  “I certainly did,” my grandmother replies. “With Megan’s help, that is.” She glances over at me, her dark almond eyes crinkling at the corners, then starts lifting the lids of the bamboo baskets. “This one is Har gau—steamed shrimp dumplings in rice flour wrappers—and this is Caa siu baau—steamed barbecued pork buns—and we also have Cheun gyun, fried spring rolls, and Wu gok, yam puffs.”

  “Don’t forget the No mai chi,” I add, hoping I’m pronouncing it correctly. “They look like snowballs. For dessert.”

  “Oh my word, you’re spoiling us!” cries Mrs. Delaney.

  “I don’t recall Judy Abbott and her friends eating Chinese food,” says Mrs. Chadwick, whom I’d barely noticed until now. She’s dressed from head to toe in white tonight and blends in with our living room rug and furniture. She sounds kind of snippy, which means she’s probably still mad about cornmeal mush night.

  “I’m sure they would have if they’d had someone like Gigi around to cook it for them,” says Mrs. Sloane-Kinkaid, loading up her plate.

  “I made ginger sesame seaweed salad, too,” my mother says in the tight voice I’ve been hearing a lot of lately. She puts a dish of slimy-looking green stuff down on the coffee table next to Gigi’s feast. “It’s high in vitamins and nutriments like iodine. Very good for you.”

  Nobody touches it except her, of course. The dim sum is just so much better.

  “Not gonna barf again, are you, Mom?” says Cassidy, watching as her mother wolfs down a pork bun.

  “Not on your life,” Mrs. Sloane-Kinkaid replies, licking her fingers. “In fact, I think dim sum just might be this baby’s favorite food.” She pats her tummy contentedly.

  “So, shall we get started?” says Mrs. Hawthorne finally.

  I leap to my feet. “Wait! I need my sketchbook!” I race down the hall to my room and grab it, then race back and settle on the floor by the sofa.

  “So, how did everyone like the book?” Mrs. Hawthorne asks.

  Eyes shining, Emma leans forward. “I couldn’t believe it when Judy’s mysterious benefactor turned out to be—”

  Becca claps her hands over her ears. “Don’t tell me!” she shrieks. “I haven’t finished yet!”

  “Rebecca!” her mother chides. “You told me you were done.”

  “Busted,” whispers Cassidy with a grin.

  Becca glares at her. “I can’t help it, I had math homework.”

  “There’s no harm done, Becca,” Mrs. Hawthorne assures her. “And I promise we won’t spoil the surprise, will we, girls?”

  “What are some of your favorite parts of the book besides the ending?” Mrs. Delaney says.

  “I loved Judy’s little drawings,” I reply, my pen swiftly outlining Mrs. Sloane-Kinkaid’s purse.

  “I loved it when she made a window seat out of a bureau with a pillow on top,” says Jess. “I wish I could do that in my dorm room.”

  “Maybe you could do it at home instead,” her mother suggests. “Your dresser is old anyway. We could work on it over your break next month.”

  I look up from my sketch and find myself wishing my mother was a little more like the other mothers. Well, except for Mrs. Chadwick. I love Becca and everything, but I would so not want Mrs. Chadwick for my mother. Mrs. Delaney and Mrs. Hawthorne and Mrs. Sloane-Kinkaid, though, they all know how to have fun.

  “I loved Judy’s descriptions of Lock Willow Farm,” says Emma dreamily. “She made it sound like such a perfect spot for a writer. I’d like to have a place like that to go to in the summer so I could work on a book too.”

  Emma’s determined to be a writer when she grows up. She’s even started looking at colleges that have good writing programs. Things have quieted down for me since the Flashlite article last year, but I’m still pretty sure I want to be a fashion designer, so I keep sketching an
d sewing. I dropped by the library last week and Mrs. Hawthorne helped me do some research about design schools. It’s still kind of far away to think seriously about, but my mother always says it’s good to have a goal.

  I draw Mrs. Sloane-Kinkaid’s baby bump. It’s hard to believe there’s an actual little person growing inside there. I give my mother’s flat stomach a wistful glance, then flip to the sketch I did of Maggie Crandall a few weeks ago when I went over to Colonial Academy again to help Jess babysit. Should I add maternity wear and baby clothes to my future fashion line? I think about this for a moment, then sigh. I have babies on the brain these days. I close my sketchbook and shove it under the sofa.

  “I like the part when Julia’s Uncle Jervis comes to visit, and they ditch Julia and go out for tea and Julia gets mad,” Cassidy says.

  “Yeah,” Becca agrees. “And how he turned out to be so nice and nobody could believe he was an actual Pendleton.”

  “Maybe Savannah has a nice uncle somewhere to redeem the Sinclair name,” says Emma.

  “One that’s called something besides stupid Jervis,” adds Cassidy. “Sheesh.”

  I notice Mrs. Chadwick and Becca exchange a glance, but before I have time to wonder about it, Mrs. Hawthorne reaches into her canvas bag for this month’s handouts.

  FUN FACTS ABOUT JEAN

  1) While an undergraduate at Vassar College, Jean Webster made a name for herself as a “shark at English.” She wrote plays, published stories in the Vassar Miscellany, edited and illustrated her yearbook, and earned $3 a week for a newsy column about college life that she wrote for the local paper, the Poughkeepsie Sunday Courier, at a time when 35 cents would buy a lobster dinner at a local restaurant.

  2) Jean was independent, witty, cheerful, optimistic, modest, and beloved by her friends and family. She was determined to earn her living as a writer, and did exactly that, graduating from college in 1901 and publishing her first novel, When Patty Went to College, in 1903. It was based on some of her experiences at Vassar, and a few years later she went on to write a prequel, Just Patty, based on her exploits at the Lady Jane Grey boarding school.