Dear Pen Pal

by Heather Vogel Frederick

  “You did? Oh, good—I’m so glad to hear that girls are still reading that wonderful book. It was one of my favorites when I was your age. So amusing and clever! And of course you know what they say, if you have books, you have friends.”

  She takes another sip of tea, and I put the book back and sit down again. It occurs to me that maybe Eva Bergson is a little bit lonely. Maybe that’s why Mom suggested I invite her to Granola with Grandparents. I look around for a cat or a hamster or something, but from what I can tell she doesn’t seem to have a pet.

  “Mrs. Bergson,” I say slowly, as an idea dawns on me, “why don’t you join our Mother-Daughter Book Club?”

  She looks surprised. “Me? But I’m not a mother, and I don’t have a daughter.”

  “No, but you like the same kinds of books that we do, and you’re sort of my adopted grandmother now. Megan Wong’s grandmother comes to our meetings.”

  “Really? Well, now, that would be fun, wouldn’t it?” She smiles at me. “It’s very kind of you to think of inviting me, Emma, but I think perhaps you’d better check with your mother and your friends first, to see how they feel about it.”

  I promise her that I will, and we eat a few more cookies and drink some more tea and then she brings out her photo albums from when she was in the Olympics, and from all the years she’s spent coaching and teaching. She even lets me hold her Olympic medal. It sits solidly in my palm, cool to the touch, and I’m surprised at how heavy it is.

  “Is it real gold?” I ask, tracing the design on it with my finger.

  Mrs. Bergson shakes her head. “They were until 1912, but after that they started making them out of silver, with a gold coating.”

  “Wow.”

  “Here, why don’t you try it on to see how it feels.”

  Mrs. Bergson slips the loop of ribbon over my head.

  “This is probably as close as I’ll ever get to being in the Olympics,” I tell her with a grin.

  “You’ve come a long way since your first lesson, Emma,” she replies, smiling back at me. “I won’t lie to you, it’s true you probably won’t be making the Olympic team anytime soon, but there’s more to life than just competition. There’s also the joy of doing something just for the sheer love of it.”

  Our conversation turns to school, and I tell her about Jess going away to Colonial Academy this year, and how hard that’s been, and about working on the school newspaper, and about Walden’s stupid school uniform policy.

  “I still can’t believe we have to wear them,” I finish. “And I really wish they’d asked the students what we thought before springing the decision on us.”

  Mrs. Bergson sips her tea and regards me thoughtfully. “Didn’t you just tell me that you’re the editor of your school newspaper this year?”

  I nod.

  “Well, for goodness sake, Emma, the pen is far mightier than the sword and always has been.” Mrs. Bergson puts down her teacup and leans forward in her chair. “I should think a smart girl like you would be able to do something about the uniforms, if you set your mind to it.”

  “Me?” I stare at her. “What can I do?”

  “You’re a writer—write!”

  “But I already ran an article reporting on the whole thing right after school started.”

  “There’s a difference between reporting and editorializing,” Mrs. Bergson tells me. “To change minds, you’ll need to write a persuasive opinion piece, perhaps, or do some investigative reporting. Maybe you could look into the effect of school uniforms on grades at Walden, and see if there’s really been a change. Or how about family budgets? Surely it’s an extra expense for many families to have to buy uniforms.”

  I look at her, astonished. Mrs. Bergson is way different than I thought she’d be. She’s much more than just a skating teacher, for one thing. She’s smart and she’s funny and she likes to read the same kinds of things I do—she’s a kindred spirit, like Anne Shirley and Judy Abbott and Jo March.

  And she’s right about the family budget angle. We’re not poor or anything, but my dad doesn’t make much money as an aspiring novelist and my family relies mostly on my mother’s librarian salary. My parents weren’t too thrilled to have to buy me a whole new wardrobe this year, even if it was mostly just khakis and polos. I hear their conversations when they think I’m not listening, and I know how expensive it is to live in Concord. I know about the high property taxes, and I know about the leak in the attic roof and the dry rot in the basement and the engine trouble in our beat-up station wagon that’s almost as old as Melville. And I know they’re trying to save for college for me and my brother on top of everything else. My parents worry a lot about money. I guess all parents do, except for maybe the Wongs. School uniforms would have been hard on the Delaneys, too, if Jess hadn’t gotten a scholarship to Colonial Academy. Her family’s always joking around about how they live on “Ramshackle Farm.”

  I whip out my notebook and jot down a few ideas about this possible new story idea. Across the tea table from me, Mrs. Bergson smiles to herself.

  I’m completely taken by surprise when the clock on the mantel chimes five. I had no idea two hours could fly by so fast.

  “My friend Stewart will be here any minute to pick me up,” I tell Mrs. Bergson.

  “Stewart?”

  “Chadwick. You’ve probably seen him at the rink. He’s tall and skinny and has dark hair and sometimes wears glasses. He plays hockey on the rec team.”

  “Ah. That Stewart.” Mrs. Bergson gives me an impish look, and we both start to giggle. Stewart is terrible at hockey. He admits it too. The thing is, though, he really likes to play. So he just keeps on trying. “You’ve got to admire his spirit,” says Mrs. Bergson, as if she’d read my thoughts. I nod, and we giggle again.

  The doorbell rings and Mrs. Bergson gets up to buzz Stewart in. He looks surprised when I greet him at the door with the Olympic medal around my neck.

  “Is that—?”

  “Yup,” I tell him.

  “I’ll trade you,” Mrs. Bergson says to me, holding out my coat and nodding at the medal.

  Stewart grins. “I don’t know, Emma,” he says. “Maybe you should just let her keep the coat.”

  Mrs. Bergson laughs. I hand her back her medal and she lets Stewart try it on while I’m getting my things, and then she gives us some cookies to take home with us.

  “I’ll let you know what the rest of the book club thinks about my idea,” I tell her as we head out the door.

  “Thank you, Emma.”

  “What idea?” Stewart asks once we’re outside.

  I explain about having Mrs. Bergson join our book club, and then I tell him what she said about the pen being mightier than the sword and all the ideas she had for the school newspaper.

  “Good point,” says Stewart. He takes my hand. We’re both wearing mittens but it still feels nice. We walk fast, because it’s cold. Passing the entrance gates to Colonial Academy on the way to Keyes Road and the shortcut home, I spot Adele and Frankie on the quad. I call out to them and wave.

  They hurry over, glancing curiously at Stewart.

  I wonder what Jess has told them about me—and about Stewart. He’s not looking much like male model material tonight. For one thing, he’s got his old glasses on, because he’s just come from hockey practice at the rink and he always wears them to play in since he doesn’t care if something happens to them. For another, his hockey stick is sticking up out of his backpack and he’s wearing this goofy hat with earflaps that looks like maybe it used to belong to Elmer Fudd.

  “Uh, Stewart, this is Adele Bixby and Frankie—Francesca—Norris,” I say politely, introducing him to Jess’s friends. “Adele and Frankie, this is Stewart Chadwick.”

  They both get really giggly all of a sudden, which is totally not like them, and that tells me that Jess must have explained about Stewart. She probably showed them one of his pictures, too, in Flashlite. I sigh. I suppose I should be used to this reaction from other girls by
now, but mostly I just find it annoying. Sure, Stewart is cute and everything—even his dorky glasses and hockey stick and hat can’t hide that fact completely—but he’s still just Stewart.

  We stand there chatting for a while, and then I hear boots scuffing on the snowy sidewalk behind me and turn to see Savannah Sinclair and her friend Peyton Winslow approaching. They stop talking when they spot us.

  “You’re Jess’s friend, right?” Savannah says, but it’s a statement more than a question.

  I nod.

  “The one she makes cheese with every weekend?” Savannah looks over at Peyton and smirks when she says the word “cheese.”

  “Uh, yeah.”

  “My, what exciting lives you two lead.” She glances at Adele and Frankie. “Sure makes you wish you were a townie, right, girls?”

  “Um, I should probably get going,” says Adele, inching away. She clearly doesn’t want to tangle with Savannah. Not that I blame her.

  “Me too,” adds Frankie. “Later, guys.”

  As Jess’s friends retreat back to safety beyond the academy’s iron gates, Savannah turns her attention to Stewart. “So who’s this?” she asks rudely.

  “Stewart Chadwick,” I tell her reluctantly. “Stewart, this is Savannah Sinclair.”

  “Do you make cheese too?” Savannah asks him.

  Stewart shakes his head, setting his earflaps flapping. “Alas, that is not one of my talents, although I do enjoy consuming it now and then.”

  I cringe slightly inside. Stewart always gets really formal and ultra-dorky when he’s nervous, and I can tell Savannah is making him nervous.

  Savannah’s eyes narrow. “Wait a minute, aren’t you that guy Jess told me about? The Flashlite guy?”

  Thanks, Jess, I think to myself.

  “Uh,” says Stewart.

  Savannah purses her lips as she looks him up and down, then smirks at Peyton again. “They must really be scraping the bottom of the barrel at Flashlite these days.”

  “Funny,” I retort, glaring at her, “I was just saying the same thing to Stewart about Colonial Academy. It’s amazing the kinds of students who manage to get admitted.”

  Savannah’s face turns an ugly shade of red, and I grab Stewart and pull him down the sidewalk before she can fire back. As I hustle him around the corner of Keyes Road he looks over at me admiringly. “The kitten has claws!” he says. “Go, Emma! Way to stick up for your man!”

  Now I’m the one blushing. Is that how Stewart thinks of himself? As my man? We don’t talk much about that kind of stuff when we’re together. Embarrassed but happy, I break into a jog and we run, laughing, the rest of the way to my house.

  We’re breathless by the time we get there.

  “I can’t see a thing,” I complain. “My glasses are all fogged up.”

  “Mine, too,” Stewart replies. “It’s the blind leading the blind.”

  Reaching over his shoulder and grabbing his hockey stick out of his backpack, he starts tapping it back and forth in the driveway. I giggle as he leads me to the back door.

  The porch light must have burned out, because it’s dark by the steps. I hear my dad rattling around inside in the kitchen, getting dinner ready. Stewart usually gives me a hug good-bye, but tonight it lasts longer than usual.

  “Thanks for being my hero back there,” he whispers.

  I can feel his heart thudding against my jacket and my heart starts to beat a little faster, too. Is this it? Is he finally going to kiss me? With a sudden flash of panic, I wish I’d had time to brush my teeth after having tea with Mrs. Bergson. I wish I knew what to do, too. A first kiss isn’t like the Olympics or anything—it’s not like you can train for it.

  And then suddenly we’re standing in a spotlight, or what feels like a spotlight. I raise up on tiptoe and peer over Stewart’s shoulder to see our station wagon pulling into the driveway. Darcy’s home from the movies. He starts honking wildly, and Stewart drops his arms and steps away from me.

  “What is your problem?!” I holler at my brother, furious.

  He pokes his head out the window. “Just giving the lovebirds a little encouragement!” he calls back, and then he and Kyle both start laughing like maniacs.

  I stand there feeling foolish, and so embarrassed I want to cry.

  Stewart gives my hand a squeeze. “I’ll see you at the editorial meeting after school tomorrow, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  He jogs off toward home. Disappointed, humiliated, and boiling mad, I rush inside, slamming the door behind me.

  “What on earth is the matter?” asks my dad, blinking in surprise.

  “Nothing!”

  “Did you have a nice time with Mrs. Bergson?”

  “Yes!”

  “Emma, what’s going on?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it!” I reply, then blurt out, “Darcy is a moron!”

  Sometimes my brother can be completely clueless. How can Jess possibly like him? Feeling my father’s puzzled gaze on my back, I stomp out of the kitchen and upstairs to my room.

  Cassidy

  “I am going to pretend that all life is just a game which I must play as skillfully and fairly as I can. If I lose, I am going to shrug my shoulders and laugh—also if I win.”

  —Daddy-Long-Legs

  One minute left in the third period, the score is tied, and the Minutemen are out for blood. We’ve snatched the championship away from them the last two years in a row, and they’re breathing fire trying to turn this semifinal game around. If they beat us today, they advance to the final round. If we beat them, we have another shot at the championship and it’s good-bye Minutemen, see you next year.

  I’m voting for good-bye and see you next year.

  Up in the stands, Mom and Courtney and Stanley are on their feet screaming their heads off. So is the rest of the Mother-Daughter Book Club. Even Mrs. Chadwick, who is wearing a huge fake fur coat and matching hat, is jumping up and down like some sort of deranged wombat.

  “CASS-I-DY! CASS-I-DY!” The Concord Comet fans are chanting my name. I wave my hockey stick and they cheer.

  “It’s all yours, Sloane,” says Coach Danner with a grin. He slaps me on the back. “Go get ’em, girl.”

  I take one final drink of water and sprint out onto the ice.

  “Over here!” I shout to Third, who shoots me the puck. I take it and fly down the ice toward the goal. This is my moment and I know it. I rocket past the Minutemen defense like they don’t even exist, the cheering of the crowd fueling my skates. I have the net in my sights and I’m racing for it, my hockey stick thudding its relentless rhythm against the ice as I drive the puck forward. Closer, closer. There’s fear in the goalie’s eye. He knows he doesn’t stand a chance against—

  A Minuteman wingman whips in past my blind spot. He cuts in front of me, his hockey stick snaking out to scoop away the puck. He steals it!

  I scramble for position, trying to steal it back, but he’s got the momentum now and he streaks past me as I stare after him in disbelief. This can’t be happening!

  But it is, and the wingman whips the puck back down the ice to his teammate, who takes a shot just as the buzzer goes off. Heart racing, I look up at the scoreboard. It confirms what I already know in my gut: We just lost the game.

  The Minutemen and their fans go berserk, screaming and shouting and pounding each other on the back. Out on the ice, the players start dogpiling on their goalie. I skate slowly back toward our bench, furious. I can’t believe we just lost! Worse, it was all my fault. I got too cocky. I should have been more alert. I shouldn’t have let this happen!

  My eyes fill with angry tears. I blink them back. No way am I going to cry. Team captains don’t cry. Especially when they’re the only girl on the team. It takes every ounce of willpower I have not to, though. I really, really hate to lose.

  “Circle up, Comets!” says Coach Danner, pulling us into a huddle. None of my teammates will look me in the eye, but Coach doesn’t say a word about my bo
tched job out there. He just gives us the old standard “it’s not about whether you win or lose, it’s how you play the game” speech. This doesn’t help a bit, of course. It stinks to have the rug pulled out from under us at the last minute, and it especially stinks to be the one responsible.

  After he’s done, we slump off to the showers, my teammates peeling off toward the boys’ locker room, while I have to skate back across the ice to the girls’. It’s a long, lonely stretch this afternoon, especially since I have to go right past the Minutemen.

  “Hey, princess, looks like you lost your magic wand!” one of them jeers.

  “Shut up, jerkazoid!” Zach Norton vaults over the railing onto the ice beside me and glares at him.

  “Settle down now, boys,” says the Minutemen’s coach.

  Ignoring them all, I continue on down the rink. Zach slip-slides after me, finally catching up by the entrance to the girls’ locker room.

  “Tough luck out there, huh, Sloane?” he says.

  “Luck had nothing to do with it,” I retort. “I blew it.”

  “Yeah, well, you win some, you lose some.” He gives me a rueful smile.

  I can’t muster one in return. “It’s so not fair,” I tell him hotly. “I had that shot.”

  He nods. “I know. It really stinks.”

  Zach and I play Little League together, and he feels the same way about losing that I do, so I know he understands exactly what I’m going through. Zach is a good guy. He comes to all our hockey games to support Third, who is one of his best friends. And I guess he comes to see me play too.

  “Oh, Zach, there you are!”

  It’s Becca, who obviously doesn’t know when to take no for an answer. Zach is so not into her—not that I really notice that kind of stuff, but even I can tell it’s true. It doesn’t seem to matter with Becca, though. She still keeps sniffing around. I honestly don’t get why all the girls are so crazy about Zach Norton. Mr. Blond Hair and Blue Eyes—oooo! Big deal.

  “We’re going downtown for pizza,” Becca says, leaning her forearms on the railing. Her blond hair falls forward, hiding her face. Behind her, Ashley giggles. “Want to come?”