Dear Pen Pal

by Heather Vogel Frederick

  “Yeah,” I agree. “I’d love to live at the White House.”

  “You practically do! I mean, your house isn’t that big, but it’s white—on the inside, anyway.”

  I laugh quietly. “I guess you’re right. And hey, we might not have five chefs, but we have Gigi.”

  “Have you heard anything from Jess?” Becca asks, changing the subject. “I wonder how Pip is doing without all of us there to help take care of him.”

  I sit bolt upright in bed. We’ve been so busy I completely forgot to check! I grab my cell phone off the bedside table and quickly send a text. A minute later my cell phone lights up, and I flip it open and whisper Jess’s reply aloud to Becca: “Pip with Stewart 2nite, with us again 2morrow. All fine.”

  “Good,” says Becca, and rolls over to go to sleep.

  My cell phone lights up again—it’s another text from Jess. R U HAVING FUN?

  I lean back against my pillow and text her back. NOT PARIS, BUT YEAH. WISH U WERE HERE. I look back down at my cell phone and attach the picture of me and Zach and Kevin at the Air and Space Museum and press send.

  Jess would have loved everything, even when Mrs. Chadwick got all dramatic and struck a pose right in the middle of the National Archives and started to recite the Declaration of Independence. I thought Becca was going to die. Still, it was pretty cool to see all the original signatures at the bottom, people like John Adams and John Hancock and Thomas Jefferson and Benjamin Franklin and the others we’ve been learning about all year. Third got really excited when he saw Josiah Bartlett’s name. I guess he’s some ancient relative of his.

  The light on my cell phone blinks. U 2 LOOK GOOD 2GETHER, Jess’s text reads. B NICE 2 KEVIN, K?

  K! I text back, and put my phone away. I don’t know why she’s so protective of that little pest.

  The next evening, after a full day going to more museums, we’re in our hotel room getting dressed for the river cruise.

  “Hurry up!” Emma calls through the open connecting door. “We’re supposed to be downstairs in the lobby in five minutes!”

  Of course she and Cassidy are ready—they could care less about clothes. At least Emma made an effort. I might not have chosen the sandals she’s wearing, but her lavender T-shirt looks nice with the black cotton cardigan sweater she put with it, and plays up her purple glasses. Dressy casual is a good look for Emma. Cassidy, though—well, if her mother were here, I’m sure she’d make her change, but she’s not and I know my mom won’t notice and probably Mrs. Chadwick won’t say anything either. And there’s no way I’m going to pick that fight. At least she’s changed out of the baseball warm-up pants she was wearing earlier today.

  “Megs, do you have something that will go with this?” Becca pleads. Like Ashley and me, she’s changed about half a dozen times already.

  I give her outfit the once-over. Cute capris and strappy sandals, and the gathered scoop-neck top she has on is the perfect shade of aqua to set off her eyes. “How about these hoop earrings?” I ask, fishing them out of my jewelry bag and holding them up.

  “Perfect! Thanks!” She grabs them from me, and we both give ourselves one last look in the mirror and tell Ashley that red is definitely her color and finally it’s time to go.

  Down in the lobby, the boys are already milling around in a big group. “Dressing up” for them means mostly that they’ve traded their jeans for khaki pants—I guess they don’t hate our school uniforms as much as we do—and white shirts or polos. I see Zach and wave, and he waves back, which makes me ridiculously happy. Maybe I can figure out a way to sit next to him at dinner. Feeling a little self-conscious all of a sudden, I smooth the hem of my short white skirt and wonder if the ruffle I added at the bottom is too much, or if the shell pink swiss-dot cotton I chose for my shirt is as pretty as I thought it was at the fabric store.

  The elevator doors ding behind us and out walk Mrs. Chadwick and my mother. Mrs. Chadwick is looking pretty conservative, considering all the wild outfits she’s been through this year. This evening she’s wearing a cream-colored pantsuit with a spring green blouse, and she must have put her contact lenses in because there are no glasses, leopard-print or otherwise, in sight. My mother has ditched the tracksuit and trail shoes she wore around the city today for normal-looking black pants, black ballet flats, and a maroon short-sleeve silk shirt that I recognize as the ultra-chic designer one that Gigi had wanted me to wear to school instead of my ugly polo. My grandmother must have loaned it to her. She’s even got pearl earrings on, which is a shock, because my mother almost never accessorizes.

  We have to wait a couple minutes more for Kevin and his dad, who finally appear wearing identical suits.

  “Wow! A perfect ten on the Dork-o-Meter,” Becca mutters to me under her breath. “He’s worse than Stewart.”

  If I thought Washington was cool during the day, it’s gorgeous at night. Our boat drifts down the Potomac River past buildings and monuments lit with spotlights, including the Lincoln Memorial, which looks amazing.

  Dinner is really good too, some kind of pasta salad and chicken, and there’s a toffee crunch cake for dessert. Since there are other people on board besides just our school group, Mr. Keller and Mr. Romero and Ms. Flanagan are on patrol to make sure everybody behaves themselves and we do, mostly, although I spot a short food fight two tables over, which is quickly squashed.

  Since it’s a warm night, we all go upstairs onto the deck afterward and line the rails to watch the scenery in the distance.

  Some music comes over the loudspeakers, and here and there a few people pair off and start to dance, grown-ups who aren’t with our group, mostly, because the music isn’t like anything we’d ever want to dance to. A little ways down the rail, Ashley and Third are holding hands.

  “What’s up with that?” I ask Becca, who is standing beside me with her back to the view of the Washington Monument. She’s more interested in watching the boys instead. “Ashley never said anything to me about liking Third.”

  Becca gives me a sidelong glance. “You weren’t at her birthday party,” she replies. “It kind of started then.”

  I look over at my friends again. They make a nice couple, actually. Ashley is from Guatemala—she’s adopted—and her warm brown skin and glossy black hair practically glow beside Third, who’s almost as pale as I am. In another month or so, he’ll be bright red—he’s on the baseball team, and he’s got that kind of freckly skin that sunburns easily, like Cassidy’s. Third used to be a whole lot shorter, but he really shot up this year. He’s changed.

  Everything’s changing, I think. Watching Ashley and Third gives me a funny feeling, like maybe there’s a race underway and I’m behind or something. Emma has Stewart now, and it looks like Ashley has a boyfriend too. I’m glad for them all and everything, but what if I never have a boyfriend? What if nobody ever likes me that way? I look around for Zach, wondering what he’s up to, but he’s nowhere to be seen. Probably trying to keep away from Becca, who has been making a pest of herself this entire trip.

  “Hey, Megan,” chirps a small voice, and I look down to see Kevin, who comes up to about my armpit. He’s looking up at me through his big glasses, very serious in his tiny suit.

  “Hey, Kevin,” I reply.

  “Nice view, huh?” he squeaks.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Do you want to dance?”

  “Nope.”

  “Okay.” Kevin’s shoulders droop and he starts to walk away.

  I sigh, remembering my promise to Jess. “Hey, Kev—it’s just that my feet are really tired from walking around all day.” Which is the truth, although they’d probably perk right up if Zach suddenly appeared and asked me the same question. “Try Emma. I’ll bet she’ll dance with you.”

  Kevin brightens at this. “Good idea,” he says, and trots away.

  Becca looks over at me and we both start to laugh.

  “That kid is so annoying!” she says.

  “C’mon, he’s not that bad,” I
reply. “Don’t forget he’s only eleven.”

  The two of us scope out the boys for a while. A bunch of them are standing around mimicking the adults on the dance floor. Mr. Keller spots them and tells them to cut it out. Ethan, who’s looking pretty good tonight in a black polo and khakis, is on the other side of the deck talking to Cassidy. She keeps reaching up and patting his face, and at first I wonder if something’s going on between them but then I realize she’s making fun of his whiskers. Some of the guys in our class, including Ethan, are already starting to shave, but I guess they’re not used to it yet because they mostly forget to do it.

  Zach finally appears, and beside me Becca goes on full alert. She slides her lip gloss furtively out of her purse and gives her mouth a swipe. Like that’s going to do anything, I want to tell her, but I don’t. I don’t want to pick a fight and ruin things. Not tonight, when we’re having such a good time. Zach sees Ethan and Cassidy and breezes past Becca and me without so much as a glance in our direction.

  “I might as well be invisible,” Becca grumbles.

  “Join the club,” I tell her, and she looks over at me, startled, then laughs. “Let’s go get some soda.”

  Later, as the boat’s heading back to the dock, my mother breaks away from the group of teachers and chaperones she’s been talking to and comes over to me. She leans against the deck rail, her shoulder pressing against mine. “Having a good time, honey?”

  I nod.

  “I’m glad.” She gives me a squeeze. “Look at this amazing city! Paris couldn’t hold a candle to it.”

  I stiffen slightly, wishing she hadn’t brought up Paris. Even though I probably would have regretted not coming on this trip—you only get one eighth-grade field trip per lifetime, after all, and Gigi promised me that Paris would always be there—still, I don’t really want to be reminded of what I’m missing.

  And I don’t want to ruin my last night here either, so I shove Paris out of my mind, where it stays until two days later, when we’re back in Concord again and my mom and I drive into Boston to pick Gigi up.

  Logan Airport is jammed, and by the time we find a parking place and make our way inside the international terminal, my grandmother’s flight has already landed.

  “She said she’d meet us by the baggage claim,” my mother tells me as we thread our way through the crowd.

  “There she is!” I cry, dodging past a young couple with backpacks.

  Gigi’s face lights up when she sees me, and she gives me a big hug. My mother kisses her on the cheek, then turns and stares at huge pile of luggage beside her. My grandmother came home with a whole lot more stuff than she took with her. Clothes, I’m guessing.

  Turns out I’m right.

  “Since Megan couldn’t go to Paris, Paris has come to Megan,” she says, gesturing at the pile of bags with a flourish.

  My mother sighs. I know she thinks Gigi spends way too much money on clothes—money that could go to good charitable causes—but I for one can’t wait to see what my grandmother brought back.

  It takes two luggage carts to haul all of the stuff back to our car. The suitcases barely fit in our little hybrid, and I’m wedged in the backseat between the bags there’s no room for in the trunk.

  “So what did I miss?” says Gigi, fastening her seat belt. “Tell me all about your trip.”

  “Washington?” I reply. “It was fun. I took a bunch of pictures to show you. But we want to hear about Paris! Who did you see?”

  Gigi rattles off a long list of famous designers and movie stars, and spends the next half hour chattering happily about fashion trends and gossip she picked up at the runway shows. Hemlines are down, necklines are up, ruffles are out, feminine silhouettes are in, the Pacific Rim is hot, animal prints have cooled off, pink is the new black, coats are bigger and bolder, and handbags are shrinking. I grab my sketchbook out of my purse and start taking notes so I don’t miss anything.

  We’re almost home when my grandmother drops her bombshell.

  “I almost forgot!” she says. “I sold one of Megan’s designs.”

  Our car nearly swerves off the road. “You did what?” my mother exclaims.

  “I sold one of Megan’s designs,” repeats Gigi, beaming at us.

  “Which one?” I ask, my mind racing as I try to picture all the things I’ve designed so far. “Was it one of the ones from last summer’s Flashlite spread? Who bought it?”

  “Bébé Soleil,” Gigi tells me proudly.

  I frown, trying to recall who they are. Someone important, I’m sure, if they were at Paris Fashion Week.

  “Baby Sunshine?” says my mother, who took French in high school.

  I’ve never heard of them, but that doesn’t mean anything. New fashion designers are cropping up all the time.

  Gigi nods. “I called up Kate Crandall before I left and borrowed that little pair of overalls you made for Maggie for her birthday,” she explains. “The designers at Bébé Soleil went crazy for them.”

  My heart sinks. Baby clothes? My grandmother picks one of my designs to take to Paris, the fashion capitol of the entire universe, and it’s baby clothes? So much for fame and glory.

  “You’re not happy about this?” Gigi looks worried. “It’s just a first step—a way to get your toe in the door. Besides, I couldn’t pass up the opportunity. I had a good feeling about those overalls the minute I saw them. With all the interest in the Pacific Rim this season, the timing was perfect.”

  My mother pulls into the driveway and shuts off the engine. She turns to Gigi. “Mother, why would you do this without asking? You’re always interfering.”

  Gigi looks hurt. “I thought you’d be pleased.” She pulls an envelope out of her purse and hands it to my mother. “Maybe this will make you feel better.”

  My mother opens the envelope and pulls out a check. She gasps. I crane my neck over the backseat to take a look. I gasp too. There’s a number on the check with a whole lot of zeroes after it.

  “I’m a tough negotiator,” Gigi tells us proudly. “The contract is in there too. You’ll need to sign it and get it back to Bébé Soleil, Megan.”

  My mother shakes her head. “Well, I suppose there’s nothing we can do about it now,” she says. “This will go into your college account, Megan.”

  “Remember what I used to tell you when you were growing up, Lily? That a woman should always have a little money of her own to do with as she pleases?” My grandmother extends a finger and places it under my chin. “Surely Megan can have a little bit to celebrate with.”

  I’m thinking maybe I’ll buy a digital camera. Becca says I should start a fashion blog, and post pictures of my designs and stuff.

  “May I have a word with you in private, Mother?” my mom says, in that super-polite voice she uses when she’s really, really angry.

  They disappear into the house and I haul all the suitcases inside, then head to the kitchen for a snack. Hearing voices, I realize that someone left the intercom on. I know I should probably turn it off, but I can’t help myself; I stand there and listen to every word. My mom and Gigi are downstairs in Gigi’s room, and they’re speaking a mishmash of Chinese and English. I only catch every few words or so, but it’s easy enough to figure out what they’re talking about. My mom keeps saying stuff like “interfering” and “you’re treating me like a child” and Gigi says stuff like “ridiculous fuss” and “nonsense,” and then my mom says, “I feel like you’re driving a wedge between Megan and me,” and she bursts into tears.

  I flip the intercom off, feeling guilty. I can’t ever remember hearing my mother cry.

  I think I’m beginning to figure this all out. It’s not so much the fashion thing—my mother has pretty much already given up on me ever becoming an engineer or environmental lawyer or the kind of citizen she thinks is useful. She knows how much I love clothes and design, even though it doesn’t thrill her, and I’m sure she gets it that this is something my grandmother and I have in common. I think the problem is that m
y mother feels like she and Gigi are competing for me, and she’s losing.

  How can I make my mother understand that just because Gigi and I speak the same language, it doesn’t mean that I don’t love her, too. Haven’t I been careful to make time to do things with her, the way Dad said? Didn’t I go with her to that stupid green-living expo, instead of to Ashley’s birthday party? And didn’t we spend lots of time together while we were in Washington?

  Things are still pretty frosty between my mother and Gigi by the time our next book club meeting rolls around. This month it’s at Emma’s house, and the two of them barely speak on the drive over. As usual, my mom hasn’t bothered dressing up, but is wearing loose cotton pants and a T-shirt with THINK GLOBAL, BUY LOCAL on it. My grandmother, on the other hand, looks like she’s going to Buckingham Palace for tea. She’s all decked out in one of the couture outfits she brought back from Paris, a sleek little lemon-colored sheath dress in raw silk. She’s wearing heels, of course, plus her diamond earrings, a matching bracelet, and a strand of pearls.

  You’d never know it to look at Gigi now, but my mother didn’t grow up rich. Her family was pretty average from what I’ve heard, just like Dad’s. It was only after Mom was out of college that things changed. When my grandfather passed away, Gigi took the money from his life insurance policy and bought an apartment building in an up-and-coming section of Hong Kong. I guess it was a really good investment, and a few years later she sold it and used the profit to buy two more. Kind of like Monopoly or something. Dad says Gigi’s a shrewd businesswoman and deserves every speck of the success she’s had. Mom says Gigi is irresponsible and throws her money away instead of saving for the future or making a difference in the world. Gigi says she is making a difference, she’s making a lot of fashion designers happy and what’s the point of working hard anyway if you can’t enjoy life?

  “You’re always so serious, Lily,” she keeps scolding. “You always have been. You need to kick up your heels once in a while. It’s okay to spend a little money on yourself now and then. Get a facial; have a massage; wear something besides those ridiculous yoga pants.”