Wish You Were Eyre

by Heather Vogel Frederick

  We pull into the garage and she shuts off the engine, then looks over at me. “Let me talk to Megan first,” she says. “She’s not going to be happy about this.”

  No kidding. Megan flipped out over “Handcuffs Wong” the first time around.

  Inside, Coco greets us at the door.

  “Hi, cutie!” I coo, picking her up and kissing her fuzzy little face. As Mrs. Wong heads down the hallway to Megan’s room, I take off my jacket and hang it up, drop my backpack by the dining room table—official headquarters for the Lily Wong for Mayor campaign—and plop down on one of the sofas in the living room.

  I don’t have to wait long. Mrs. Wong reappears a couple of minutes later shaking her head. “Be forewarned,” she says. “My darling daughter is not a happy camper. Maybe you can help calm her down.”

  Taking Coco with me, I head for Megan’s room. I find her lying on her bed, staring up at the ceiling.

  “Why did my mother have to run for mayor?” she moans as I come in.

  “You mean Handcuffs Wong?” I reply as cheerfully as I can, figuring that maybe humor is the best way to defuse the situation.

  Megan shoots me a look. “Don’t, okay?”

  “C’mon, Megs, it’s not the end of the world.”

  “Your world, maybe. You don’t live in mine. I’m the one whose family is on display for everyone to laugh at. As if I didn’t have enough to think about, now that I’m living with Mademoiselle Everybody Likes Me Better Than You Including Your Kitten.”

  I cross the room and put Coco down on her stomach. “Voilà le kitten,” I tell her. “While Sophie’s away, the mice will play.”

  “You’re not going to run for mayor, too, are you?” she asks Coco, scratching her under the chin.

  “Shove over,” I tell her, and Megan scoots to the other side of the bed. I perch on the edge, gazing around the room. “Looks like maybe somebody’s going to Paris.” There are maps and posters and guidebooks piled on just about every surface, and a framed print of the Eiffel Tower that I’m pretty sure wasn’t there last time I was here is hanging on the wall above her desk. “Nice,” I say, gesturing at it. “New?”

  Megan nods. “Gigi. Practically every time I come in here I find something else she’s left for me. I think she’s more excited about our trip than I am, if that’s possible.” She rolls over on her side, propping her head in her hand. “The thing is, Emma, this was supposed to be a really happy time for me, you know? All the anticipation, the planning, the dreaming. You remember what it was like when you found out you were moving to England, right?”

  “Of course.”

  “I mean, Paris! I’ve wanted to go there since I was, like, two! And, instead, all I can think about is stupid Sophie Fairfax. And now, on top of that, Handcuffs Wong.”

  “It totally stinks,” I agree.

  “Yeah.”

  We’re quiet for a bit.

  “Here’s the thing, though,” I tell her. “Shouldn’t all this stuff make you even more excited about going to Paris? Just think, you won’t have to give either of them a single thought while you’re there! Paris is a Sophie-free, Handcuffs Wong–free zone. You’ll be able to just relax and have fun.”

  “I hadn’t thought of it that way.”

  “Plus, Simon is going to be there!” I grin at her.

  “Good point.”

  The garage door rumbles and Coco’s ears prick up. She listens for a second, then hops down off the bed and scampers out the door. Megan gives me a rueful smile. “Looks like you-know-who is home.”

  I don’t say much at dinner. The conversation flows around me as I eat my pizza and consider the new wrinkle in the campaign. Something Mrs. Bergson told me once, that the pen is mightier than the sword, comes to mind.

  “So,” says Mrs. Wong, looking at Stewart and me. “What do my campaign managers suggest? Time to fight fire with fire?”

  “Yes,” says Stewart, at the same time that I say “no.”

  “I vote with Stewart,” says Sophie quickly.

  Obvious, much? I’d be tempted to laugh if she wasn’t so annoying. Or so fixated on my boyfriend.

  “I think we need to hear what Emma has to say before we take a vote,” says Gigi.

  “Agreed,” says Mr. Wong.

  “It just seems to me that fighting fire with fire is exactly what their camp is expecting,” I tell them. “It’s almost like they’re baiting us. But if we do, this whole campaign will end up as some big mudslinging contest. I’d like to see us do something to set us apart from run-of-the-mill politics, and give voters something positive to latch on to.”

  “Like what?” says Stewart.

  “Well, for starters, we need to remember that we have a secret weapon.”

  “We do?” Mrs. Wong looks surprised to hear this.

  “Sure we do—your sense of humor.”

  Mrs. Wong blinks at me.

  “Remember back in middle school, when you emceed our fashion show?” She nods slowly. “You were funny, Mrs. Wong—really funny. I think that instead of fighting fire with fire, we should fight it with laughter. What if we just turn around and make ‘Handcuffs Wong’ the centerpiece of your campaign?”

  “Are you kidding me?” Megan looks aghast at the idea.

  “No, Megs—think about it. What slogan could possibly be catchier than ‘Handcuffs Wong for Mayor?’ Who’s not going to want that bumper sticker, especially when they find out about the kind of never-give-up attitude that earned your mother the nickname in the first place?” I turn to Mrs. Wong. “Your commitment and passion is just what this town needs, and I think the opposition just handed you the job on a platter.”

  Stewart stares at me, openmouthed with admiration. “Emma, you’re brilliant.”

  I can feel myself blush. “Thank you.” I flick a glance at Sophie. Take that, Mademoiselle Velcro! “Mrs. Bergson used to tell me that the pen is mightier than the sword,” I continue, “so let’s use the pen. You’re going to write a letter to the editor in response, Mrs. Wong, a humorous one poking fun at yourself, while at the same time painting yourself as the candidate voters can count on to stick with something and see it through to the end. Someone who puts her handcuffs where her mouth is, so to speak, and stays true to her principles and values—the same principles and values this town needs.”

  Mrs. Wong is frowning thoughtfully. Stewart’s pen flies across the page as he jots down the ideas I’m spouting off the top of my head.

  “I see what you’re driving at, Emma,” Mr. Wong says. “I like it.”

  “Me too,” says Gigi.

  Mrs. Wong still doesn’t look convinced. “I’m not sure if I can pull off a humorous letter.”

  “That’s what Stewart and I are here for,” I tell her. Stewart and I. It has such a nice ring to it. I flick another glance at Sophie, hoping she’s listening up. She seems more enthralled with picking lint off her sweater than with paying attention to me, but I note with satisfaction a slight flush on her perfectly sculpted cheekbones. Stewart’s praise must have annoyed her, I note with satisfaction.

  We all sit around the table for a while brainstorming, and pretty soon we have lists of what we’re going to need in terms of bumper stickers, buttons, placards, and posters. Stewart and I flesh out some talking points for the upcoming debate, and we discuss the mailing we want to get out before it takes place. By the time we’re done, everyone’s fired up about the whole Handcuffs Wong idea.

  “Maybe Sophie could take pictures of you handcuffed to things around town, Lily,” suggests Gigi. “The Old North Bridge, oui? To symbolize your devotion to Concord’s heritage.”

  “Great idea,” I tell her, feeling generous.

  “Stewart can help me,” Sophie replies, instantly souring the milk of my human kindness. “He knows where everything is.”

  “Sure,” Stewart replies, looking pleased. “I’d be happy to.”

  “Oh, this could be fun!” says Mrs. Wong. “Let’s plan on setting at least one shoot at the water
treatment plant—it’s in need of an upgrade, and I’d like to make that one of the key platforms in my campaign.” She looks over at Megan, who hasn’t said a word this whole time. “Are you okay with this? The whole Handcuffs Wong thing, I mean?”

  Megan shrugs.

  “I know how kids at school can be—you’re probably going to get teased if I go with this strategy,” her mother continues. “I don’t want this election to be torture for you, honey, so if you want me to try something different, just say the word.”

  Megan shakes her head, her dark hair rippling like a waterfall. “No, Mom—what Emma says makes sense. Go for it. I’ll be okay.”

  “All right, then,” says Mrs. Wong. “Full speed ahead with Handcuffs Wong for Mayor.” She grins. “I can’t believe I just said that.”

  I glance at my watch and jump up, grabbing my backpack. “Gotta go,” I announce. “I’m due at the rink in fifteen minutes to help Cassidy.”

  Stewart gets up too, since he’s driving me.

  “I’ve heard so much about Chicks with Sticks,” says Sophie, pronouncing it “Cheeks with Steeks.” It sounds adorable, of course. “May I come watch?”

  I stare at her. Unbelievable! Of all the nerve! She knows very well I can’t just tell her not to tag along—that would make me look like a big jerk.

  “Fine,” I reply shortly.

  Not that she’s asking my permission. Her eyes are glued to Stewart, as usual.

  As we’re leaving, Megan holds up two fingers in the V-is-for-Velcro salute. I flash one back at her.

  “Hang in there,” she whispers as she gives me a hug good-bye.

  “I will if you will,” I reply.

  At least Stewart doesn’t let Sophie sit in the front. She keeps up a steady stream of chatter from the backseat, though, and I pretend to be engrossed in my campaign notebook, watching the two of them out of the corner of my eye. From what I can tell, Becca is right; Stewart is oblivious to Sophie’s tactics. On the other hand, it doesn’t really make a difference. It still hurts.

  “Stew-rat on the prowl again?” Cassidy asks a little while later as I skate out onto the ice. She jerks her thumb toward the bench where Stewart and Sophie have taken a seat.

  “Don’t call him that,” I tell her. “He’s just not thinking, that’s all.”

  She gives me a shrewd glance. “If it looks like a duck and quacks like a duck . . .”

  I give her a little shove and she goes sprawling. She picks herself up, laughing, and hands me a stack of orange cones. “Set these up for me, okay? And then if you could take the three youngest players and just work with them on stopping and starting, keeping steady on their feet and all, that would be great.”

  If Mrs. Bergson could only see me now, I think to myself a few minutes later as I lead Ivy Angelino and a few of the other newest players out onto the ice. I’ve come a long way from the complete klutz who started lessons with Mrs. Bergson back in middle school. I may not be the most graceful of skaters, and I’m still not totally comfortable with the hockey skates Cassidy got me as a thank-you for agreeing to help her—they don’t have toe picks in the front, for one thing, which means I still spend a lot of time sitting on the ice—but I have what it takes to get the job done, thanks to Mrs. Bergson.

  I glance over at the bench a few times during the practice session. Once, Stewart waves. The other times, though, he’s too busy talking to Sophie. So much for her line about “I want to watch Chicks with Sticks.” It seems all she really wants to watch is Stewart.

  One of the best perks for helping Cassidy is extra rink time. The rink closes at nine on most weeknights, but Cassidy’s brought in so much new business with her youth program and she logs so many hours here that the owner gave her a key, and he allows her to close the rink down on Tuesday and Thursday nights. Which means we have the place to ourselves after Chicks with Sticks any time we want. We’ve had some good times here, just the two of us. Cassidy’s taught me a little hockey, as well as some dance moves from when she trained with Tristan Berkeley, and I get in a little extra practice for figure skating. And sometimes we just race each other around the rink at top-speed, laughing our heads off. It’s a great way to let off steam.

  And I’ve had a lot to let off lately.

  But tonight I don’t want to hang around afterward. Tonight I want go home with Stewart. By myself.

  Unfortunately, I promised my mother I’d walk her home.

  “Can I give you a ride to the library?” Stewart asks when we’re outside in the parking lot.

  “Thank you; I’ll walk,” I tell him stiffly. My generosity has evaporated. I stand there, hoping he’ll insist. I mentally will him to take my hand and pull me into the car.

  He doesn’t.

  “Um, okay,” he says, not sounding too sure. We stand there awkwardly for a moment or two. “Well, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

  “Yeah, I guess so.”

  Sophie shivers, stamping her feet. “I’m cold. Let’s go, Stewart. Ciao, Emma.”

  Stewart waves as they drive away. I give him a halfhearted wave in response, then turn and trudge down the street.

  “You’re awfully quiet tonight,” my mother says as she shuts and locks the main door to the library a few minutes later. We head down the wide stone steps together. “Cat got your tongue?”

  I snort. Langue du chat. “Yeah.”

  She frowns at me. “C’mon, Emma, out with it. I can read you like a book, remember?”

  I sigh. “You know in Jane Eyre, when all the guests come to Thornfield for the house party?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Well, I’m getting really sick of one of the guests.”

  She levels a shrewd glance at me. “A little too much Blanche Ingram, I’m guessing? Or is it annoying plot device Adele Varens?”

  “A bit of both,” I tell her, grateful that she understands my literary shorthand. It helps having a librarian for a mother.

  “What you need,” she says, “is a nice cup of tea.” She slips her arm through mine and tows me briskly toward Concord’s downtown coffee shop, where she orders us a pot of Earl Grey to share. “It’s not Pies and Prejudice,” she whispers, “but it will do in a pinch.”

  Even though I still have homework to do, and even though I’m dying to write in my journal—which is the best place in the world to unload when I’m feeling unhappy—right now an even better place to be is right here, drinking tea with my mother.

  “Tell me everything,” she says, and I do, spilling the beans about the whole Stew-rat/Mademoiselle Velcro mess.

  “Sophie is a mighty attractive young lady,” my mother says when I’m done.

  “Um, you’re not making me feel better, Mom.”

  She laughs. “Don’t misunderstand me, sweetheart—it’s not that you aren’t attractive. In fact, you’re infinitely more so, in this totally unbiased librarian’s opinion.” She sips her tea. “But Sophie’s a novelty. She’s flavor of the month, and Stewart is just a little giddy with all the attention she’s showering on him. My advice is to wait and see. This will likely all blow over, and if it doesn’t, well, don’t forget, Stewart is your first boyfriend, but he may not be your last. He’s going away to college in the fall, after all.”

  “Now you’re really not making me feel better!”

  She smiles and pats my hand. “The thing is, Emma, you two are so young—too young, really, to be pairing off like this. Life holds so many surprises, and you don’t want to close yourself off to them too soon.”

  “I wish Sophie Fairfax had never come to Concord,” I tell her flatly.

  “Wishing her away won’t fix things,” my mother replies. She holds up a finger, the way she often does when she’s about to quote something. “‘Never grow a wishbone, daughter, where your backbone ought to be.’”

  I give her a sidelong glance. “Charlotte Brontë?”

  “Clementine Paddleford, early twentieth-century American food writer. Charlotte would have liked her, though. And
so would Jane.”

  “Austen?”

  “Eyre. That girl has backbone to spare.”

  “Yeah, good point.” Every time I read Jane Eyre I’m amazed at the hardships she has to endure. It would seem over the top if Charlotte Brontë wasn’t such a great writer. She makes it all totally believable.

  “Have you tried talking to Stewart?”

  “Not yet,” I mumble.

  “Maybe it’s time to get your Jane on and do it. That’s probably a good place to start.”

  I sit up a little straighter. As usual, my mother is right. Like Jane Eyre, I do have a backbone. And it’s time to use it.

  Jess

  “ . . . a weapon of defence must be prepared—I whetted my tongue.”

  —Jane Eyre

  The conference table is a mile long.

  At least it feels that way.

  I’m sitting alone at one end, gazing down its length at the solemn-faced members of the Community Justice Board. Savannah and the other students are seated at the far end, flanked by two faculty mentors—an English teacher and a soccer coach I’ve seen around campus but don’t know personally. Mrs. Duffy, our headmistress, and the Battleaxe are sitting off to the side.

  I have no idea what to expect. My heart is thudding at twice its normal rate, and I’m wishing fervently that my parents were here with me, but school rules are clear: only students and staff are allowed at Community Justice Board hearings.

  My parents came to the first meeting with Mrs. Duffy a couple of weeks ago, of course. They listened quietly as Mrs. Adler repeated her charge against me, providing details that left my mouth hanging open. All I did was drop my pen on the floor and whisper “sorry” to the person sitting next to me! The way she made it sound, I was habitually late to class, deliberately skipped the review sessions and, as a result, came underprepared and scheming to cheat.

  When it was my turn to respond, I did the best I could, but it’s intimidating sitting in the headmistress’s office with someone like the Battleaxe glaring at you, and I was rattled. As I stammered out my explanation, it sounded lame even to my ears. I kept thinking of the last time I got hauled in here, after all that trouble with Savannah the first time we shared a room back in eighth grade.