“Okay. Don’t forget your sweater.”
“Not a chance. You’re going to faint when you see it.”
I smile at him. “Not if you faint first.” Cassidy’s mom’s TV special this year is going to feature fun Christmas party themes—white elephant gifts, holiday karaoke, ugly sweaters, that sort of thing. We’re supposed to wear the wildest, most hideous Christmas sweater we can find.
I hop out of the car and wave good-bye, then slip inside the back door. Pip, our sweet golden Labrador, hears me enter and scrabbles across the kitchen floor in a lather of excitement. You can always count on your dog to be the first to greet you when you come home.
For a moment, I half expect to see Melville trail in behind him, but of course he doesn’t. Our cat’s been gone since early October. My father found him sleeping in a patch of sun in his office one afternoon, only he wasn’t sleeping. Mom told us we shouldn’t be sad, that Melville had a long and happy life just like Mrs. Bergson, but I really miss him a lot. We all do. Pip is great company, but he doesn’t snuggle the way Melville did. He’s way too big to fit in my lap, for one thing—not that that stops him from trying.
Surprisingly, it’s my mom who misses Melville the most. He was always kind of my dad’s cat, but after he was gone my mother moped around for weeks. She still hasn’t let us put his kitty basket away. It’s by the radiator in the living room, filled with Pip’s chew toys. At least Melville waited until after we came home from England. It would have been much harder to lose him while we were away.
I lean down and scratch Pip’s ears, then kiss him on the nose. “I’m glad you’re not going anywhere, boy. Especially not to dumb old New Hampshire for Christmas.”
I hear voices in the living room, and I hang up my jacket and go to check in with my parents. They’re having a spirited discussion about the recent crop of Jane Austen mash-ups—novels mixing her plots with werewolves and vampires and zombies and stuff. My father loathes them and calls them “an abomination,” but my mother, oddly enough, since she’s the real Jane Austen freak in the family, loves them. She says it’s a fresh and fun way to keep Jane relevant, and to keep young readers interested in her books.
“If they read the mash-up, they’re eventually going to want to read the original,” she says. “Otherwise, they’re not going to get the jokes, and everybody wants to be in on the jokes.”
I tell my parents that Darcy will be home as soon as he’s done dropping everybody off, and assure them that Jess is fine.
“Well, except for the fact that she’s going to New Hampshire for Christmas,” I add morosely.
“How fun for her!” exclaims my father.
I lift a shoulder. “Yeah, but not for me.”
My mother gives me a keen look. “You were looking forward to hanging out with her this year, weren’t you?” she says, and I nod. My mother’s always been able to read me like a book.
“Do you want to hang out with us?” asks my father, patting the sofa cushion beside him. “We could watch a movie.”
I smile and shake my head. “No thanks,” I tell him. “I think I’ll go read.”
The truth is, I just feel like being alone for a while. And the best place to be alone is in my bedroom.
I love my room. I love the old-fashioned wallpaper covered with yellow roses that my mother and I hung after we read Anne of Green Gables, and I love the bird’s-eye maple bookcase filled with all my favorite books, just waiting there on the shelves for me like old friends. And Mrs. Bergson’s skates! She wore them when she won the Olympic gold, and she left them to me when she passed away. They don’t look like much, but they’re one of my most treasured possessions. Mom and I found this cool old curio cabinet at a flea market, and the silver blades glint at me from behind its glass doors, reminding me of the special friendship that Mrs. Bergson and I shared.
More than anything, though, I love the rolltop desk that used to belong to Mom’s grandfather. It’s the perfect desk for a writer, because it has all sorts of little drawers and compartments for supplies. Plus, if I don’t want anybody messing with my stuff, I can pull the top closed and lock it with a key.
Mom has started calling it “Uncle Keith’s trunk” in honor of the Betsy-Tacy books, after the trunk that Betsy Ray’s mother gives her to use as a desk in Betsy and Tacy Go Downtown. Unlike Betsy, though, I don’t actually write at my desk very often. Mostly, I write curled up on my bed, just as I’m about to do now.
I turn off my cell phone, which is a trick I learned from my dad. It works wonders. Without the constant interruptions of text messages and calls, I can focus a lot better. It’s just me and my pen and paper and a steady stream of thoughts.
I have to finish my boring article about our high school’s boring cafeteria renovation so that I’ll be ready to swap it for Stewart’s column tomorrow, plus I owe letters to Rupert and to Bailey Jacobs, my pen pal from Wyoming. Then, if there’s still time, I might work on some poetry, or the story I started last week.
But first, some inspiration.
I read the opening stanzas of Tennyson’s New Year’s poem “Ring Out, Wild Bells,” which I stumbled on in Betsy in Spite of Herself. I tracked the rest of it down in a book on my mother’s poetry shelf.
Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,
The flying cloud, the frosty light;
The year is dying in the night;
Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.
Ring out the old, ring in the new,
Ring, happy bells, across the snow:
The year is going, let him go;
Ring out the false, ring in the true.
There’s more, but the first bit is my favorite, especially the first stanza. It gets me every time. I love the way a poem can pierce my heart like that—all it takes is just the right words in just the right order and bang! I’m a total goner. I puzzle over it for a while—is it the repetition of the word “wild” that sings to me? Or the alliteration of “flying” and “frosty”? I can’t exactly put my finger on it. There’s a mystery to poetry, which is part of what makes it so irresistible.
I set the poem aside finally and rifle through the piles on my desk—even with all the drawers and compartments, I can’t always manage to keep things organized—until I find the notebook that I keep for things I want to remember. Fragments of poems like this one, or great quotes about writing, or names for characters or bits of dialogue I overhear or passages from books that I’m reading—stuff like that. Lately, most of those passages have been from the Betsy-Tacy books, because I’ve spent so much of my fall with them. I’ve read the entire series twice.
I still can’t believe I’d never heard of these books. Finding them was like finding buried treasure. I’ve loved all the books that our book club has read—especially Pride and Prejudice, which is probably my all-time favorite—but Betsy’s world is almost like an alternate reality. Some books you feel like you could walk into and instantly be friends with all the characters, and that’s how the Betsy-Tacy books feel to me. Not that I couldn’t be friends with, say, Elizabeth Bennet, but I’d probably be a little intimidated by her wit. Betsy, on the other hand, well, let’s just say that anyone who has a weakness for “fresh new notebooks and finely sharpened pencils” is a friend of mine.
If Betsy showed up at Alcott High, we’d work on the school newspaper together, and we’d hang out and debate the relative merits of Tony and Joe, and she’d stress about the space between her front teeth and her straight hair that she’s always desperately trying to curl with her Magic Wavers curlers, and I’d stress about my curly brown hair that I’d so much rather was thick and blond like Jess’s or silky straight like Megan’s, and about whether I’m getting chunky again because I’m not skating as much this year as I used to, now that Eva Bergson is gone.
And then we’d go out for a banana split at Heinz’s. Or in Concord’s case, at Kimball’s Farm.
Plus, Betsy is a total kindred spirit because she longs to be a writer, the same
way I do. And she articulates that longing—she talks about it and thinks about it. Or at least Maud Hart Lovelace makes her talk about it and think about it. Like in Heaven to Betsy, when Betsy wonders what life would be like without her writing. I glance down at the sentence I added to my notebook last month: “Writing filled her life with beauty and mystery, gave it purpose . . . and promise.”
That’s exactly how I feel.
There’s another Betsy quote from Betsy and Joe on the opening page of my notebook, as a reminder: “She had already discovered that poems and stories came most readily from the deep well of solitude.”
The deep well of solitude. I lie back on my pile of pillows and gaze around my room, filled with contentment. The lamp by my bed casts a deep pool of light, setting the yellow roses on the walls aglow. This is my deep well of solitude, right here.
Turning the pages in my notebook, I savor more of my favorite bits. Maud has a gift for quick descriptions, like when she writes about the “snowy Niagara” of an old man’s beard. Just two words, but they instantly bring to mind a picture of that flowing white beard. Perfect! And when she describes Mrs. Ray as “slim as a breeze,” or the letters that fly back and forth between Betsy and her friend Tib “like fat, gossipy birds.” I look over at my bedside table, where Bailey’s latest letter to me from Wyoming is awaiting my reply. Perfect again! And another time, in Betsy and Tacy Go Downtown, she writes, “Like a kettle boiling over, the room foamed with laughter.”
I close the notebook with a deep sigh. Maybe, just maybe, if I work hard enough at it, I’ll be a great writer someday like Maud, and like Jane Austen and Louisa May Alcott and all the other authors I admire.
I glance at the clock. It’s nearly ten o’clock. I’d better get a move on. I open up the netbook my friends got me last year when I went to England so we could video-chat, and plod my way through the article about the cafeteria renovation. There’s just no way to spark up such a dull topic, so I have to lower my literary standards and settle for accuracy, which is something at least. After that, I type a short letter to Rupert (short because I don’t want to encourage him too much) and print it out, and then I write another letter to his aunt—handwritten this time, because she’s kind of old-fashioned and I want to make a good impression, especially since she’s looking into getting a story of mine published. Finally I write a “fat, gossipy bird” to Bailey, filling her in on the weekend’s activities. I don’t put it in an envelope yet, though—I’ll add some more tomorrow night, after the ugly sweater party. I’m sure there will be some fun details to share with her from that.
By the time I’m done, it’s ten thirty. I hear Darcy and my parents come upstairs, and then a soft tap on the door. My mother pokes her head in.
“Don’t stay up too late, sweetie,” she says, as Pip pushes his way past her and heads for his dog bed in the corner. “You want to look fresh for Clementine’s show tomorrow.”
“I won’t, Mom,” I assure her, and she blows me a kiss and closes the door again.
But I’ve still got the itch to write. So I do, adding a new chapter to the story I’ve been working on this fall, about an English village and all the odd characters who live there. After that, I fiddle with a poem that’s been giving me fits. I can feel it circling my mind like a bright fish that I can see but can’t quite catch. It’s frustrating, but that’s the way it goes with poetry, at least for me. Sometimes, all a writer can do is keep fishing.
When I finally crawl under the covers and turn out the light, it’s really late, after midnight, and the house is completely silent. I lie there in the dark, thinking about my to-do list—that’s another way Betsy and I are alike, we both love to make lists—which includes shopping for Secret Santa gifts. Eventually I roll over and pull the comforter up under my chin, and just as I’m about to drift off, I remember my cell phone. I decide to check it, just in case Stewart called. I grope around on my nightstand for it and turn it on. Nothing from Stewart, but there’s a text message from Jess: AUNT BRIDGET CALLED BACK. WANT TO GO TO NEW HAMPSHIRE WITH US FOR CHRISTMAS?
I sit bolt upright in the dark. My fingers start to fly across the keypad, but then I stop. Jess just broke her leg; she needs her sleep. I can’t text her now. I’ll have to wait until morning. And I’ll have to wait until morning to ask my parents, too.
I hug my knees in excitement. Christmas in the White Mountains! That would be so amazing!
There’s just one thing, though.
We’ve always spent Christmas together as a family. It’s my mom’s favorite holiday, and kind of a big deal at our house.
There’s no way my parents are going to let me go. Not in a million years.
CASSIDY
“It was fortunate that November was cold, with snow on the ground and an icy bite in the air, for the Rays had to create some early Christmas spirit.”
—Betsy and Joe
“Allegra! I’m open!”
My teammate’s saucer pass lands on my stick perfectly. I fake left, dodging the Yankee Clipper defense. The blades of my skates slice across the ice, their driving rhythm echoed in every beat of my heart. The roar of the crowd fuels my will, and I push myself even harder, feeling the adrenaline kick in as I race toward the far end of the rink. The Lady Shawmuts are ahead at this tournament, and if we win this one, we take home the trophy.
And I really, really want that trophy.
The sound of the crowd fades away as I draw closer to the goal. My world shrinks to one thing and one thing only: taking the shot. The Clipper wing rushes me, but I brush her off and circle around, watching for my opening. There it is! I fire a snap shot, smacking down so hard on the ice I feel the impact in my bones. The puck goes flying, and the goalie launches herself toward it . . . reaches for it—and misses! It’s in!
“Yes!” I jab my stick in the air and glance at the clock. My goal tied the score; all we need is one more to win. It’s going to be tough to do with less than a minute to go, though.
Our coach gives the signal for a time-out. The ref blows the whistle, and I skate over to join my teammates, glancing up into the stands as I pass our cheering section.
“Way to go, Cassidy!” shouts my sister.
My whole family is here, along with Courtney’s boyfriend, Grant, who waggles the tassels on his red-and-white-striped scarf at me. Chloe is dressed in our team colors too, and she’s bouncing up and down on Stanley’s lap, waving her red-and-white pennant wildly.
My baby sister has been really, really good this weekend. Tournaments can be pretty grueling; we’ve been here since early Friday morning. Fortunately, there’s an indoor pool at the hotel, and between games my mom and stepfather have taken turns going back with her for swims, naps, a little TV—whatever it takes to keep her happy. It can’t be easy for a toddler to sit still for hours and hours, watching a bunch of people she doesn’t know play hockey.
It can’t be easy for anyone who’s not a complete hockey nut, actually. None of my book club friends are here this weekend, although two of my Chicks with Sticks players came down with their families to watch their older sisters compete. Little Katie Angelino spots me and comes rushing down to the edge of the rink, and we high-five each other through the Plexiglas barrier as I pass by. Katie’s doing really well this fall. Last year, when she first joined the club, she could barely stand up on her skates, but now she’s one of my rising stars. I’ve nicknamed her “The Mosquito” because she’s scrappy and strong and persistent, and I’m encouraging her parents to let her try out for a Pee Wee team.
Emma texted me last night about the tobogganing accident. Poor Jess. I know how much she was looking forward to her trip to Switzerland. Emma told me about Megan and Simon, too. Bummer. I haven’t heard a word from Megan directly, though, or from Becca. Not that I expected to. I know they’ve been busy with their shopping spree. I don’t do shopping. I’m allergic to malls—all those stupid crowds, and stupid stores, and trying on stupid clothes. It’s a big fat waste of time, as far as I’m
concerned. Time I could spend doing things I’d much rather be doing. Like playing hockey.
“Nice job!” says Zach Norton, slapping my helmet as I glide to a stop beside him.
“Thanks.” He hands me a water bottle, and I take a long swig. I’m not exactly sure what’s going on with Zach these days. He’s been spending a lot of time at the rink in Concord this fall, watching me coach Chicks with Sticks, and sometimes we hang out afterward. I thought he was cool with us just being friends, but then he went and volunteered to come along to the tournament this weekend as equipment manager. Which is great and everything, since our old one quit, but it seems a little over the top.
Maybe I’m just being too sensitive, though. He’s certainly been taking his duties seriously, and he’s not treating me any different from the rest of my teammates, which is good. Coach Larson doesn’t put up with boyfriend drama, and when Zach volunteered, she was a little suspicious at first, even though I told her we were just friends.
My right elbow is feeling the effects of that last hit, and I massage it as I listen to her pep talk. She cuts a glance over at me and frowns, and when she’s done she comes over to check me out.
“I’m fine,” I insist. “It’s just a little tender.”
She slaps me on the back. “Okay, then, let’s show ’em how it’s done.”
She jerks her chin toward the far side of the rink, where the scouts are sitting in the stands in the corner. I knew they’d be at the tournament—there’s usually at least a couple at every tournament—but this weekend they’re out in full force. It’s a little nerve-racking. College is still a couple of years away, of course, but this is when the recruiters start to sit up and take notice.
I haven’t thought too much about where I might want to go, but the University of Wisconsin is a definite possibility. I can see myself as a Badger. One of the coaches at last summer’s skills clinic was a Badger, and she talked up the program there. UNH is another possibility, and so is Boston University. Courtney thinks I should try for a school in California, so I can be near her. A lot of my teammates are shooting for one of the Ivy League schools, but I don’t have the GPA for that.
Home for the Holidays Page 9
