I gasp in disbelief.
The pocket is full of white fur. White fur that’s attached to a kitten! Reaching in again gently, I draw out a mewing ball of fluff.
“Omigosh—you little angel!” I whisper, holding it—him? her?—up to my cheek. It’s the softest thing I’ve ever felt. As I kiss its little nose, I spot something out of the corner of my eye, and look over to see the lens of a camcorder peeking around the edge of the closet door. My father is behind it. He’s not even trying to hide his broad smile now.
“Surprise!” he and my mother shout.
“Is it really mine?” I exclaim, still stunned. “To keep?”
“It’s a she, actually, and yes, she is,” my mother replies.
“Happy early birthday, sweetheart,” adds my father.
“How . . . when . . .,” I stammer. I’ve been asking for a pet—or for a sister or brother—for, well, forever. The answer has always been no. My mother’s all into zero population growth, plus both of my parents are neat freaks, especially my dad, and they’ve always said they don’t do pets.
“It’s all your grandmother’s doing,” my mother tells me. “She and Shannon Delaney have been twisting our arms ever since the party at Half Moon Farm.”
The Hawthornes lost their cat, Melville, last fall, and Jess’s family gave them a kitten on New Year’s Eve.
My kitten is definitely cuter, though. It yawns and pats at my face with a tiny paw, and I bury my nose in her soft fur again. “This is the best present ever!” I mean it too. A kitten is way better than a car.
“There’s more!” says my father. “Come and see.”
“More kittens?” I reply, gaping at him.
He grins. “No, silly. More kitten stuff.” He herds me down the hall toward my room, then opens the door to the guest room across from it. “Ta-da!”
It looks like Pet Zone made a house call. There’s not one but two baskets with pillows in them for snoozing, a pole covered in carpet and what look like branches sticking out of it—some sort of a combination climbing tree/scratching post, I’m guessing—a feeding station, and another basket full of toys.
“And her box will go in your bathroom,” my mother says, grabbing something that looks like a big plastic suitcase by the handle and carrying it back across the hall to my bedroom. “I found ecologically friendly cat litter for it.”
Of course she did. That’s my mother in a nutshell—saving the world, one litter box at a time.
We stand there, my parents both talking at once as they try to film me, pat the kitten, gauge my reaction, and tell me how they managed to keep it a secret all at the same time. They’re both so excited that you’d think they were the ones getting a kitten, not me.
“What made you change your mind?” I ask, perching on the edge of my bed and cradling the kitten against my shoulder. I hear the rumbling of a tiny purr as she burrows into my neck, then starts kneading the collar of my sweatshirt.
“I think it was when Shannon sent us the e-mail with her picture, wasn’t it, Jerry?” my mother replies, glancing at my father. “She was the last one left in the litter.”
He nods. “Shannon said she figured a white kitten couldn’t do all that much damage to an all-white house.”
I have to smile at this. Trust my parents to pick a cat to match our decor. Our house is really modern, and from the carpets to the furniture almost everything in it is white.
The three of us sit there playing with my new pet until she tires out and curls in a little ball in my lap and goes to sleep. She’s so totally adorable I can hardly stand it. I feel like I’m going to burst with happiness. This is shaping up to be the best birthday weekend ever.
My dad is still clutching the camcorder, of course. I think my entire life is preserved somewhere on DVDs.
“What are you going to call her?” asks my mother.
“How about Snowball?” suggests my father.
I shake my head. “Too boring. I’m thinking Coco, after Coco Chanel.”
“Cute,” says my father.
“Perfect!” says my mother. “Your grandmother will love it.”
Coco Chanel is Gigi’s favorite fashion designer. I figure it’s a fitting tribute, since my grandmother is the one who talked my parents into getting me a pet.
My mother reaches out a forefinger and strokes the kitten’s ears. “Do you remember when Cassidy’s little sister Chloe was born, and your grandmother tried to get Clementine and Stanley to name her Coco?”
I nod, grinning. “That’s what gave me the idea.”
A few minutes later my mother stands up reluctantly. “Well, I guess I’d better get dinner started. Why don’t you put Coco in her basket, and come keep me company?”
“Do you think she’ll be okay by herself?” my father asks anxiously. “Maybe I should install a video monitor so we can keep an eye on her.”
My mother winks at me. “She’ll be fine,” she says. “Leave your door open, Megan. Cats are smart—if she needs us, she’ll come find us.”
The three of us gather all the pet supplies from the guest room and get Coco settled. As we head back down the hall, my father pulls out his cell phone and taps away at the screen, making notes for himself. “We’ll need another basket in the kitchen,” he mutters. “And I think we could probably use one in the living room, too. And another one of those climbing things.”
My mother and I smile at each other. Whenever my father decides to do something, he always does it in a big way.
Just as we reach the living room, I hear the scrape of a key in the lock and the front door flies open.
“Bonsoir!” trills my grandmother. She trots in, towing a petite dark-haired girl I’m sure I’ve never seen before, but who still looks vaguely familiar. On the doorstep behind them is a huge pile of luggage.
“Uh, hello,” says my mother cautiously.
“This is Sophie,” announces Gigi. “She just arrived from France and she’s going to live with us!”
My father blinks. Mom looks from my grandmother to the French girl and back again. Then she reaches for Gigi’s arm. “Mother, may I speak to you in the kitchen for a moment?”
The two of them disappear, leaving my father and me standing in the middle of the living room with . . . Sophie? Was that her name?
She regards us coldly. I can’t tell if she’s unhappy to be here specifically, or just unhappy generally. She doesn’t say a word, just looks around the room with her eyebrows raised. Her gaze lingers on our white baby grand piano, and I can tell she’s impressed. Then she looks at me, and I can see that she’s not impressed anymore. My hand creeps up to my hair, which I’m deeply regretting scraping back in a ponytail, and I’m very conscious of the fact that my ancient sweats are not just ancient, but also now covered in white cat hair.
Sophie, on the other hand, looks like she’s just breezed in from a photo shoot. Her curly hair is perfectly tousled, and her outfit is stunning. Simple, understated, but stunning. She’s wearing jeans, knee-high black leather boots, a white turtleneck sweater, and a black peacoat, topped with a white cashmere scarf knotted artfully around her neck. Everything about her screams I am French! I am très chic!
Which I am most definitely not.
The discussion in the kitchen is getting heated. My mother doesn’t like surprises, and she doesn’t do houseguests. Add the two things together and it’s a surefire recipe for disaster.
“I couldn’t just leave her standing there like an orphan!” I hear Gigi wail.
“You could have at least called first!” My mother sounds furious. She’s got a point, actually. My grandmother is kind of impulsive sometimes. “This is not your decision to make!”
Sparks are practically flying out from under the kitchen door, and my father gives it a nervous glance. “So, Sophie,” he asks. “Do you speak English?”
The French girl shrugs. “Mais bien sûr, but of course.”
“Right,” he says, and vanishes into the kitchen just as I hear Gigi protest, “She was
supposed to stay with Peter and Polly Perkins, but after what happened today, they had to drop out of the exchange program!”
A moment later the voices subside. Sophie’s lips curl up in a hint of a smile. Not a particularly friendly smile. A minute ticks awkwardly by. She examines her fingernails. Then the kitchen door opens and my mother and father and Gigi appear. “It’s settled, then,” says my grandmother. “You’ll stay with us.”
“Merci,” says Sophie politely.
“I’m sure you’re tired after your long trip,” my mother adds, a little stiffly. “Megan will show you to the guest room. It’s Sophie, right?”
The French girl nods. “Oui. Sophie Fairfax.”
We all stare at her. My heart sinks as I suddenly realize where the resemblance comes from.
“No relation to Annabelle Fairfax, are you?” my mother asks.
Sophie nods. “Elle est ma cousine.”
Stinkerbelle has a cousin? I gape at Sophie, stunned. No way. Absolutely no way.
There’s a small mewing noise behind me, and I look around to see my new kitten hesitating in the living room doorway. I kneel down and stretch out my hand toward her, waggling my fingers. Beside me, Sophie Fairfax does the same.
Coco hesitates for a moment, her tiny tail twitching. Then she scampers straight to the French girl.
I take it all back. This is shaping up to be the worst birthday weekend ever.
Becca
“She was very showy, but she was not genuine . . .”
—Jane Eyre
Flipping on the radio on my bedside table, I dump the bills and coins out of my pockets and onto my bedspread, then flop down on my stomach to sort and count it all. Then I count again to be sure. Twenty-nine dollars in tips! Add that to the regular wages I’m earning, and the total is—well, not bad at all for three hours of work.
Carefully dividing everything into two piles, I deposit it into the pair of big glass jars sitting on my dresser. One is for me—I’m saving for a car, among other things—and the other jar is for my family. My parents are really reluctant to take money from me, but I like being able to help out. It’s amazing how quickly it adds up. I started working right after New Year’s, just one night a week at first, helping out with Gigi’s cooking classes, and I’ve already contributed nearly a hundred and fifty dollars to our family budget. Now that I’m waitressing and earning tips, too, I’ll be able to contribute even more.
My dad is still out of work. He had some promising job interviews this month, but no offers so far. He’s trying not to let it show, but I can tell he’s getting kind of anxious, especially with college acceptance letters due to start arriving pretty soon. My brother, Stewart, applied to nearly a dozen schools, and tuition is really expensive, even though he’s smart and will probably qualify for a bunch of scholarships.
Grabbing one of the yummy little French cookies that Gigi sent home with me—mmm, salted caramel!—I change out of my waitressing uniform and head for the shower. Another nice perk from Pies & Prejudice is the leftovers. My family is happy about that. Tonight we’re having the tea shop’s chili with homemade croissants, plus more macarons for dessert.
Which reminds me, I promised to get dinner started while my mother drove Gigi home. I glance at the clock and hustle down the hall to the shower. I need to get a move on if I don’t want to be late for the hockey game tonight. The rink is the place to see and be seen on Friday nights, especially when Alcott High is playing Dracut, our archrivals.
My cell phone is buzzing frantically when I return to my room. I pick it up and see that Megan has sent me a bunch of messages: CALL ME ASAP! WHERE ARE YOU? CALL ME!!!!!
I text her back: WHAT’S UP?
Two seconds later my phone rings. “My life is ruined,” she whispers.
“Why are you whispering?” I ask her.
“So she won’t hear me.”
“She who?”
“Sophie.”
“Who’s Sophie?” I suppress a wild urge to laugh. This sounds like a bad comedy routine.
“Sophie Fairfax. As in Stinkerbelle Fairfax’s cousin!”
I gasp. “No way! What’s she doing at your house?”
“She’s going to live with us for the rest of the school year.”
“What! Why?”
“She’s part of that exchange program—you know, the one Alcott High does every year. Something happened with the family she was supposed to stay with, and Gigi showed up on our doorstep with her half an hour ago, like she was a stray dog or something.”
“Sheesh.”
“No kidding,” says Megan glumly. “She’s unpacking in the guest room across the hall right now.”
“That stinks! You never know, though, maybe she’s nicer than Annabelle.”
Megan snorts. “I don’t think so. She’s barely said two words to any of us, and the worst part is that my kitten likes her better than she likes me!” Megan’s whisper rises to a wail.
I sit down slowly on the edge of my bed, clutching my towel to my chest. “Wait a minute—what kitten?”
“The one my parents got me for my birthday!”
I’m stunned into silence. Megan’s parents don’t do pets. “Your parents got you a kitten?”
“Uh-huh.” Megan sniffles. “Gigi finally talked them into it. I named her Coco. Wait until you see her, Becca—she’s adorable. Only, now Sophie’s here and she’s ruined EVERYTHING!”
I can hear the panic in her voice. “Stay calm,” I tell her. “We’ll figure something out. Maybe there’s a different family she can stay with.”
“You think?” Megan sniffles again, but there’s a tendril of hope in her voice.
“There’s got to be. I tell you what—I’m going to call an emergency meeting of the mother-daughter book club. We can duck out of the game for a few minutes at the rink tonight, okay?”
“Okay. Thanks, Becca.”
We hang up, and I quickly dry off and get dressed, then head downstairs to the kitchen to heat up the chili. I’m setting the table when my mother walks in. She’s on her cell phone.
“Uh-huh,” I hear her say. “Unbelievable.” She peers into the pot on the stove, then leans over to me and whispers, “Smells good!”
“Chili,” I whisper back.
“You’re kidding,” she says, but not to me this time. “He didn’t! Really?” She looks over at the table, then shakes her head and holds up three fingers. Your brother’s already at the rink, she mouths, and I nod as she wanders off down the hall toward the coat closet, still making shocked noises into her phone.
I take away one of the place settings, then put together a salad and grate some cheese to go on the chili. Working at the tea shop has really upped my skills in the cooking department, that’s for sure. I’m just taking the croissants out of the oven where they’ve been warming as my father comes in through the back door.
“Mmm-mmm,” he says, spotting them.
“We’re having Gigi’s chili, too,” I tell him. “Your favorite.”
He sets his briefcase down on the floor and hangs his scarf on a peg by the back door.
“Did you have another interview today?” I ask as he shrugs off his coat.
“Yep,” he replies. He doesn’t say any more, and I figure it’s probably better not to ask. He’s been trying to keep his spirits up through this whole unemployment thing, but I can tell by his body language that he’s feeling a little discouraged tonight.
“Henry, did you hear the news?” my mother calls, trotting back to join us. She’s breathless with excitement. My mother loves it when she has a tidbit of gossip to share.
“Nope,” he replies, taking a seat. “Enlighten me.”
“Mayor Perkins was caught embezzling!”
We stare at her. This really is news.
“You can’t be serious,” says my father. “Peter Perkins?”
My mother nods. “I know! Absolutely unbelievable. Poor Polly.”
Polly Perkins and my mother went to Colonial A
cademy together a zillion years ago. Their daughter used to babysit for my brother and me when we were little. Good thing she’s away at college now, I think. How embarrassing to have your father caught stealing!
“What happened?” my father asks. “How did they find out?”
“I just got off the phone with Ginny Harper from the town council. Apparently they’ve been suspicious for a while, but they had to hire a forensic accountant to prove it.”
I frown. “What’s a forensic accountant? Is that anything like those shows on TV?”
My mother shakes her head. “Not really, honey. Well, kind of, I guess. Only, they solve financial crimes, instead of the other kind.”
“What a shame,” says my father.
“It’s a mess,” my mother agrees, sitting down across from him as I dish up the chili. “You wouldn’t believe the shock waves it’s causing. At the high school, even! Just this evening a French girl who arrived today nearly got stranded when the Perkinses had to pull out of the exchange program. There was a last-minute scramble to find her a spot.”
My mother was talking about Sophie Fairfax!
“Sandra Dearborn called to see if we could take her,” she continues. “She was practically in tears. She works so hard organizing everything, you know. Anyway, I came this close to agreeing to do it”—she holds up her thumb and forefinger—“but I figured with you out of work, this probably wasn’t the best time.”
We could have had Stinkerbelle’s cousin living with us? I shudder, grateful for the very first time that my father is unemployed.
“Yeah, probably wouldn’t have been such a good idea,” he replies. “Where did she end up?”
“I was in the car driving Gigi home when I got the call,” my mother explains. “When she heard what had happened, she made me drive right over to the school and get her. She said Lily and Jerry have plenty of room.”
“That’s certainly true,” says my father, reaching for a croissant.
I reach for one, too.
“It’s the perfect solution, actually, since Gigi speaks French,” my mother continues. “She put the girl right at ease in what was a terribly awkward situation. It’ll be nice for Megan, too—almost like having a sister.”
Wish You Were Eyre Page 2
