Dear Pen Pal

by Heather Vogel Frederick

  “Dudes, do we have to talk about this again?” Cassidy throws down her fork. “You’re ruining my lunch! You know how I hate all that gooshy stuff.”

  “What gooshy stuff?” asks Becca, setting her tray down next to Megan. Ashley is still at the salad bar—she takes forever making her “creations,” as Becca calls them—and the boys who usually sit at our table haven’t gotten out of PE yet.

  “Kissing,” Megan replies. “I just told Emma she’s probably going to be the first one from our book club to get kissed.”

  “Too late,” says Becca smugly.

  “What?!” squeals Megan, causing everyone within earshot to turn and stare. I kick her under the table and she lowers her voice. “You never told me!” she whispers to Becca. “When did it happen? Who?”

  Next to me, Cassidy sighs noisily. “This is so incredibly lame.”

  She’s probably right, but like Megan, I want to hear more, even though deep down, I’m kind of envious. I guess I’ve been hoping that Megan’s prediction would come true, especially since Stewart and I have come close a couple of times. Does Becca really count? I wonder. Sometimes it’s still weird, thinking of her as part of our book club. Maybe I can still qualify as the first one from our original club to get kissed.

  “It was that weekend at Ashley’s birthday party,” Becca tells us loftily, picking up her sandwich. “You weren’t there, Megan, remember? You were in Boston with your mom at that green-living expo thing.”

  Megan makes a face. She told us that she promised her dad a while ago that she’d try and make an effort to spend more time with her mother. I guess Mrs. Wong’s been feeling a little left out, what with Gigi here and all.

  Cassidy crosses her arms and scowls. Neither of us were at the party either. But that’s because we weren’t invited, not because we were off having mother-daughter time. Ashley is okay and everything, but she’s really more Megan and Becca’s friend than ours. Not that I would have wanted to go anyway, and I’m sure Cassidy could have cared less, but still, it’s not like we enjoy having our noses rubbed in not being invited.

  Becca, however, is oblivious. “We were all downstairs in the Sanborn’s rec room, playing Ping-Pong and listening to music and stuff, and then somebody suggested we play spin the bottle, and Kenny Greenberg—”

  “Wait a minute,” interrupts Cassidy, leaning forward. “Spin the bottle? That doesn’t count. It’s just a stupid game. A boy has to kiss you of his own free will for it to count.”

  “Says who?” snaps Becca.

  “Says me,” Cassidy retorts.

  “How come you get to make up the rules?” Becca fires back.

  Before the argument can really heat up, the cafeteria doors fly open and the eighth-grade boys come swarming in. Zach Norton, Ethan, and Third are at the head of the pack. They’re waving copies of the Walden Woodsman and chanting something.

  “STRIKE! STRIKE! STRIKE!”

  My stomach does a flip-flop as I realize what’s going on. Even though nobody else does, the cafeteria erupts in cheers and howls of encouragement anyway. Looking worried, the lunch monitors scurry off toward the teacher’s lounge for reinforcements.

  Zach heads straight over to us, then bounds onto the tabletop, nearly stepping on Cassidy’s leftover shrimp marinara in the process.

  “Watch it, Norton,” she growls, whisking her lunch to safety.

  “Sorry, Sloane.” Zach grins at her and holds his copy of our student newspaper over his head, then thrusts two fingers into his mouth and gives a shrill whistle. Instantly, the lunchroom falls silent.

  “Hear ye! Hear ye!” he cries, and my stomach lurches again because I know what’s coming.

  Across the table, Becca is staring up at Zach with her mouth open. Cassidy tosses a piece of shrimp at her. “Feeding time at the zoo!”

  Becca gives her a look.

  “A message of great importance from the Walden Woodsman’s esteemed editor, Ms. Emma J. Hawthorne!” Zach bows in my direction, and every eye in the room suddenly turns on me. The butterflies in my stomach turn into a herd of buffalo. I’m not used to being the center of attention.

  How ironic, I think. We learned about irony when we read To Kill a Mockingbird earlier this year in English class, and I’ve been spotting it ever since. Two years ago, I would have been over the moon if Zach Norton had noticed me. And now that he does, I don’t really care. I’m more nervous about what people will think of my editorial.

  “Did you know he was going to do this?” whispers Cassidy. She’s the only other person in the cafeteria who has a clue what’s going on.

  I shake my head. Zach clears his throat and starts to read. My words sound strange, coming from him.

  “A Declaration of Fashion Independence,” he announces, and suddenly I want to crawl under the table. Our class trip to Washington gave me the idea for spoofing the Declaration of Independence, and it seemed like a stroke of genius at the time, but now it just seems ridiculous. It’s too late, though. There’s nothing I can do about it at this point.

  “When in the course of student events, it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the school uniforms which have connected them with another,” he begins, and I stare really hard at my peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Every fiber of my being is fervently hoping that my friends and classmates will get what I’m trying to say. Will they understand what I mean by the importance of preserving the rights of an individual in a democracy, and that government derives its power from the consent of the governed and that if something is unfair, even something as dumb as school uniforms, we have a right to stand up and say so? Will they agree with me that clothing and fashion are a form of freedom of expression, and therefore guaranteed by our constitution?

  I hold my breath as Zach gets to the last part, the part that most closely echoes Thomas Jefferson’s famous words, ones that still ring in my mind from when Mrs. Chadwick recited them aloud to us at the National Archives:

  “We hold these truths to be self-evident,” Zach reads, “that all students are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of fashion happiness.”

  Zach pumps his fist in the air as he reads this last line, and the cafeteria erupts again. Across the room, I see Mrs. Hanford and Mr. Keller stride through the doors. They do not look amused at all, and the buffalo in my stomach circle around for another stampede.

  Mr. Keller blows his coach’s whistle and starts yelling at everybody, but it takes a while for things to settle down. When they finally do, I’m hauled off with the boys to the principal’s office. Naturally, Zach and Ethan and Third think this is a riot, but this is my first time in the principal’s office ever and I just want to die. Especially when Mrs. Hanford calls my father.

  I honestly didn’t mean to start a revolution. I thought my editorial would be amusing, and thought-provoking, and that it just might catch the eye of the school board. But I can hear Mrs. Hanford having a heated conversation just outside her door with Ms. Nielson, the Walden Woodsman’s faculty advisor, and Mr. Keller, whose face is an unusual shade of purple, is sitting across the desk from us muttering darkly to himself about “rabble-rousers” and “suspension.”

  If Cassidy were here I know she’d just laugh and tell me not to listen to some moron who doesn’t even have a neck, but I’ve never been in trouble before and I have no idea what to expect. Can they really expel someone just for writing an article in the school newspaper? I wipe my sweaty palms on my khaki pants.

  A few minutes later my father arrives. Mrs. Hanford makes Zach and Ethan and Third go and wait in the outer office with the secretaries while she ushers my dad inside. He sits down in the chair beside me and gives me a reassuring smile, then takes the paper that Mr. Keller hands him. When he’s finished reading my editorial, he looks up.

  “What seems to be the problem?” he asks calmly.

  My dad is an unassuming guy. He’s medium height with curly b
rown hair, like Darcy and me, only his is thinning on top, and he wears glasses like me. He looks sort of like a professor. He’s quiet, too, like me, and people tend to underestimate him. The thing is, my dad is really, really smart.

  “What do you mean ‘what seems to be the problem?’” says Mr. Keller belligerently. “Your daughter is way out of line here. She has no business making fun of the Declaration of Independence or criticizing the decisions of the administration of this school.”

  “What Mr. Keller means to say,” says Mrs. Hanford smoothly, “is that we consider our student newspaper an integral part of the Walden Middle School community. And that as such it should reflect the views of the community as a whole, not just a single individual. Mr. Keller is right. Emma was extremely disrespectful both to our school community and to our nation.”

  “Interesting point of view,” my father replies. “However, I thought the purpose of a newspaper—any newspaper—was to uphold our First Amendment right to freedom of speech, and that right extends to individuals as well as communities. As for disrespect, it seems to me that Emma learned a great deal while she was on her field trip to our nation’s capital. After all, successful parody means first absorbing the central points of that which one is attempting to satirize, and it’s obvious that Emma has done so with the Declaration of Independence. Otherwise she wouldn’t have been able to articulate her views so clearly and eloquently. Frankly, I suspect Thomas Jefferson would applaud her if he were here.”

  Mr. Keller folds his arms tighter across his chest and scowls, but he doesn’t say a word. How can you argue with Thomas Jefferson? My father looks over at me and gives me an almost imperceptible wink, and the buffalo start to subside. I was worried at first when Mrs. Hanson called him, but now I’m really glad he’s here.

  “And another thing,” my father continues, “Emma makes a really good point. You’re educating middle school students here, not kindergartners. Simply to dictate policies to them doesn’t necessarily serve the highest aim of education. Adolescence is a time for finding one’s footing as an adult in the world, for learning to think like an adult and act like an adult. Wouldn’t it have been a more valuable civics lesson if you had included your students in the planning process of the school uniform decision, and perhaps sought their feedback, thus teaching them how a true community works together?”

  Mrs. Hanford seems flustered. I don’t think she was expecting this. She leans forward. “This is a school newspaper we’re talking about, Mr. Hawthorne, not the national media. The First Amendment doesn’t apply.”

  “I beg to differ,” counters my dad. “And so, perhaps, might the Supreme Court. What was it they once so famously said? That public school students ‘do not shed their constitutional rights to freedom of speech or expression at the schoolhouse gate’?”

  Mrs. Hanford sits back in her chair. She seems at a loss for words. Not that I blame her. I’m feeling that way myself. Where the heck does my dad come up with this stuff?

  “What your daughter did was out of line,” Mr. Keller repeats stubbornly. He’s clutching his coach’s whistle tightly in one of his meaty fists, like maybe he wants to blow it and eject us both out of the game.

  “That’s hardly accurate,” says my father mildly. “Emma didn’t say anything defamatory or inflammatory. She simply wrote an editorial—her personal opinion—and it was clearly marked as such.” He holds up the paper and points to the word “EDITORIAL” in bold type that’s embedded in the column of my text. That was Ms. Nielson’s idea, and I’m suddenly really, really grateful she suggested it.

  The vein in Mr. Keller’s neck is bulging. I can tell he’s not happy with the way this meeting is going. “We’re going to shut this paper down!” he growls, thumping his fist on the desk. “And remove your daughter as editor!”

  “I’m sure the Boston Post would be interested in hearing that,” my father tells him. My dad writes freelance articles for the Post, mostly book reviews and author interviews, and he knows a lot of people in the newsroom. “It would make a great story. Especially since it’s the Walden Woodsman we’re talking about, with its obvious connections to our good friend and neighbor Henry David Thoreau. Not that my daughter’s editorial was in any way an act of civil disobedience such as Thoreau engaged in—far from it—but any reporter worth his salt is bound to make that leap. Why, this might even attract national attention.”

  Mr. Keller and Mrs. Hanford exchange a glance.

  “Perhaps Mr. Keller’s remark was a little hasty,” says Mrs. Hanford.

  She sends my dad and me to the outer office. Zach and the others look over at us curiously. I shrug to let them know nothing’s been decided yet. We can hear our principal and vice principal on the other side of the door, whispering heatedly. My dad takes my hand and squeezes it. I squeeze back. Finally, the door opens, and Mrs. Hanford beckons us inside again.

  “Mr. Hawthorne, Emma,” she says, “since there’s only a month of school left to go, and since Emma’s record at Walden up until today is completely unblemished, Mr. Keller and I have agreed that we’ll be willing to overlook this matter.”

  Coach Keller glowers at me, and somehow I have a feeling that this was Mrs. Hanford’s decision, not his. She doesn’t mention anything about the uniform policy, and I don’t ask. That would probably be pushing it.

  My dad thanks them and shakes their hands, and once we’re back out in the hall he puts his arm around my shoulders. “I’m so proud of you, Emma,” he tells me, his eyes shining behind his wire-rimmed glasses. He kisses the top of my head. “That was a fantastic editorial!”

  I smile up at him. “Thanks, Dad. But you were the one who was fantastic.”

  “My daughter the writer!” he exclaims. “Just wait until your mother hears about this. She’s going to bust her buttons.”

  “Eva Bergson gave me the idea,” I tell him. “She keeps telling me the pen is mightier than the sword.”

  My dad laughs. “And so it is. Another Olympic gold for Mrs. Bergson, rescuer of puppies and inspiration to writers everywhere!”

  Mrs. Bergson ended up adopting Pip. She said that he’s half my dog too, though, and that means I have to help take care of him. I go over to her condo almost every day, and take him for walks when she’s busy at the rink. I’m actually glad that it worked out this way. I have the puppy I’ve always wanted, and Mrs. Bergson has somebody to keep her company.

  The rest of the day is like some kind of a dream. I’ve never gotten this much attention at school before in my entire life. Especially from the boys. Word of what happened in the principal’s office gets around fast, and all afternoon kids I don’t even know are slapping me high fives in the hallways and saying “Way to go, Hawthorne!” and “Free speech rocks!” It’s like invisible me is suddenly on the radar screen. This must be how Megan felt last year, after her Flashlite interview. Or Cassidy when she led the Comets to their back-to-back tournament victories. Or Jess, when she’s onstage singing with the MadriGals or winning a prize at the science fair. Or even Becca—well, just being Becca.

  I really, really wish Jess were here to see this. I know she’d be excited for me. At least I’ll get a chance to tell her all about it later. She called last night to see if she could come over today after school. She’s been feeling pretty low since Saturday night, which was Colonial Academy’s Founder’s Day dance, and she wants to talk. I guess it was pretty much a disaster.

  Jess and Cassidy and Stewart were the only other people I let read my editorial—besides Ms. Nielson, who had to approve it. My thoughts turn to Stewart, and I wonder whether maybe he’ll give me a congratulatory kiss when he finds out what happened. My face gets warm as I ponder that possibility. Personally, I think Cassidy is right, and that it only counts if a boy kisses you of his own free will. So maybe I’m still in the running to be the first from our Mother-Daughter Book Club. Stewart’s been gun-shy in the kissing department, though, ever since Darcy surprised us in the driveway last winter. Somehow I think it’
ll probably end up being Becca Chadwick after all, spin the bottle or no spin the bottle.

  When I get home, there’s a letter waiting for me from Bailey Jacobs, my Wyoming book club pen pal. I set it on the kitchen table, then take some butter out of the fridge to soften. I want to make something for my dad to thank him for helping me out today, and lemon bars are one of his favorites. Placing the butter on the counter, I sit down at the table and start to read:

  Dear Pen Pal,

  I got your postcards from Washington. I liked the one of the Library of Congress best. What a cool building! I hope I get to see it too, someday.

  My mom says to thank your mom for the handouts she’s been sending us. It’s really interesting to learn more about an author. Jean Webster sounds like a lot of fun. Wouldn’t she have been a great roommate? I couldn’t believe it when I found out what happened to her. It’s so sad.

  Hey, maybe you and I will end up going to the same college and being roommates someday, just like Judy Abbott and Sallie McBride, and just like our moms were. Wouldn’t that be amazing? You never know, right?

  Spring has finally arrived here in Gopher Hole. There’s still a lot of snow around, but the green grass is poking through, and there are lambs and calves in lots of the fields around town and on the road to Laramie. Winky Parker says there are three new foals out at her family’s ranch too.

  Remember Zoe Winchester, the mayor’s daughter? The one Becca Chadwick got stuck with for a pen pal? Well, she and Summer Williams got into this big fight at school the other day. Every year we do a fundraiser for our school library, which needs all the help it can get because it’s pretty pathetic, but what can you expect for a two-room schoolhouse? Anyway, Summer came up with a really great idea this year. Her plan is for each student in the school to design a quilt square that represents their favorite book, and then she’ll sew them all together and display it at my mom’s bookstore, where it’ll get auctioned off to the highest bidder. I think Megan inspired her, when she wrote to her about the fashion show you guys had last year. I know Summer is kind of overly crazy about quilting, but I still think this is a really cool idea.