Megan flies across the room in about two seconds. She kicks the box back out of sight. “Don’t touch my stuff!”
Emma recoils, like a goalie who’s just had the stuffing knocked out of him. “Sorry,” she whispers.
We head back to the living room in silence and take our seats. Mrs. Hawthorne—who has only taken a single bite out of her “healthy treat,” I notice—calls the meeting to order.
“Did everybody get the reading done?” she asks.
Emma and Jess both nod. Megan shrugs. I don’t say a word.
“Cassidy and I read this month’s assignment together,” says my mother, putting her arm around my shoulders and giving me a squeeze. “It was fun, wasn’t it, sweetie?”
About as much fun as the time I got my nose broken with a hockey stick, I almost say, but I remember Dr. Weisman just in time and nod.
“Shall we talk about chapter 13?” says Mrs. Hawthorne. “That’s one of my favorites.”
As everyone opens their books, Megan leans toward me and takes a cookie from the plate. “Your mommy had to read the book to you?” she says in a mocking whisper. “Becca’s right—you are a dumb jock.”
I kick her in the shin. Hard. Mrs. Hawthorne glances over at us sharply. “Cassidy, why don’t you begin by telling us what happens?”
I stare at the chapter heading and try to remember what the heck “Castles in the Air” was about. “Uh, it’s a hot day, and Laurie finds the girls out in the woods knitting socks for the soldiers and stuff, and they get to talking about their dreams.”
“What kinds of dreams?” coaxes Mrs. Hawthorne.
“Um, what they want to be when they grow up—stuff like that.”
“Does anyone remember what those dreams are?”
Emma raises her hand. Of course. It’s like she thinks we’re at school or something.
“Yes, Emma?” says her mother.
“They all want to be rich and famous except Beth, who wants to stay home and take care of her mother and father.’”
Mrs. Hawthorne nods. “That’s right. Let’s read a little bit together, shall we?”
We dutifully read aloud the part where Laurie talks about being a famous musician when he grows up, and Meg tells them she wants a big house and lots of money, and Jo says she wants to be a famous author, and Amy “the best artist in the whole world.”
“How about you girls?” Mrs. Hawthorne asks us. “What are your dreams in life—your ‘castles in the air’?”
We all sit in embarrassed silence. Finally, Mrs. Wong looks over at me. “How about you, Cassidy?” she prods. “What do you want to do with your life?”
“I want to play pro hockey,” I mumble.
My mother bites her lip. Mrs. Wong and Mrs. Hawthorne nod thoughtfully, careful not to look at her. Hockey is still a sore spot.
“Anyone else?” asks Mrs. Wong.
“I’d like to be a writer,” Emma admits shyly.
The mothers pounce on this safe response with relief.
“That’s fabulous, Emma!” enthuses Mrs. Wong. “Writers can do so much good in the world. Maybe you’ll grow up to be an investigative journalist and expose corruption.”
Emma does not look terribly enthusiastic about this possibility.
“You picked a good town to grow up in, if you want to be a writer,” says my mother, smiling at her. “Just think, our very own little Louisa!”
“I want to be a vet,” says Jess out of the blue. Since she normally doesn’t say anything at all at our meetings, the mothers instantly start gushing.
“Wow! That’s great, honey!” says Mrs. Wong.
“Fabulous!” agrees my mother.
“You’d make an amazing veterinarian, Jess,” adds Mrs. Hawthorne, beaming. “And you’re getting a head start, too, by taking care of all the animals on your farm.”
“Goat Girl,” whispers Megan, and I kick her in the shin again. This time, she kicks me back.
Mrs. Hawthorne sees us and lifts an eyebrow. “How about you, Megan?” she asks. “Do you have any ‘castles in the air’?”
Megan shrugs.
“Megan’s going to be an environmental lawyer, aren’t you, Megan?” Mrs. Wong prompts. She turns to look at the other mothers. “She’ll go to MIT, like her dad and I did, and then we thought perhaps on to Harvard for law school.”
Megan leans forward in her chair. She gazes intently at her mother with her dark, almond-shaped eyes. “I am not going to be an environmental lawyer,” she says fiercely. “Ever. That’s your ‘castle in the air,’ Mom. Not mine. I’m going to be a fashion designer.”
This announcement is greeted with stunned silence. If Megan had said she wanted to be a rodeo cowboy we couldn’t have been more surprised.
“You’re too young to know what you want, sweetie,” her mother says dismissively.
“But, Mrs. Wong, Megan’s really good at sewing,” blurts Emma. “She used to make the best clothes for our Barbies. She still has them, under her bed.”
“I remember those clothes!” says Mrs. Hawthorne. “They were wonderful.”
“Fashion is frivolous,” Mrs. Wong objects.
“Not necessarily,” says my mother, tapping the toe of her red leather boot against the coffee table. “I know a lot of fashion designers, and many of them are tremendously talented artists. It can be a great career.”
“Not for my daughter,” says Mrs. Wong, who is beginning to look a little steamed. “Fashion enslaves women. And really, ladies, after last month, I’m surprised I should have to remind you not to interfere in a family affair.”
My mother and Mrs. Hawthorne exchange a guilty glance. I look over at Mrs. Wong and Megan. Mrs. Wong is wearing yoga pants and an “Imagine Whirled Peas” sweatshirt. Megan’s outfit probably came straight off the pages of some teen magazine. I’ll bet they fight about this stuff all the time—just like my mom and me, only the other way around.
“I don’t necessarily think that all fashion is slavery,” my mother says, her voice sounding clipped and tight. “It can be a form of self-expression, you know.”
“Stay out of this, Clementine,” Mrs. Wong warns.
“Shall we get back to Little Women?” Mrs. Hawthorne suggests, and gently steers the conversation away from touchy subjects like fashion and hockey. We talk about the book some more and scrape our teeth on Mrs. Wong’s cookies, which are hard as rocks and taste just as bad as they look.
Finally, it’s time for the handouts. I glance at my watch. Good. If we hurry, I can still catch the last period of the game.
FUN FACTS ABOUT LOUISA
Louisa kept a “mood pillow” shaped like a sausage on the parlor sofa. When she was in a good mood, she stood it on end. When she wasn’t, she placed it flat, and her family gave her some space.
The Alcott family was very poor, and before she became a successful writer Louisa helped support her parents and sisters by working as a teacher, seam-stress, governess, and household servant, and as a volunteer nurse during the Civil War.
In addition to books for young people, Louisa also wrote for adults. Sometimes she wrote under pseudonyms, including Flora Fairfield, Tribulation Periwinkle, and A. M. Barnard, under which alias she published what she called “blood and thunder” thrillers.
“How come we don’t read one of those?” I ask. “‘Blood and thunder’ sounds a lot better than stupid Little Women.”
My mother shoots me a look. Then she brightens. “You know,” she says, “this discussion tonight has given me an idea.”
Uh-oh, I automatically think. I know from experience that there’s no telling what will happen when my mother gets an idea.
“Why don’t we have a Little Women Christmas party?” she continues. “We could dress up in nineteenth-century fashions.” She glances slyly at Mrs. Wong. “Fashion is an important part of history, after all. We can each pick the character we think we’re most like, and come dressed as her.”
“What a marvelous idea!” cries Mrs. Hawthorne. “It sounds like great fun
. Don’t you think so, Lily?”
Mrs. Wong looks like she’s trying to find a reason to disapprove, but finally she gives a reluctant nod. “I suppose so,” she says.
“I’m too old to play dress-up,” I tell them, trying to nip the plan in the bud. No way am I going to a party dressed as dumb Amy or Beth or any one of the sisters. Not even Jo. No way.
But it’s too late. Mrs. Hawthorne and Mrs. Wong and my mother ignore me. The idea has caught fire.
“We can serve food from the book!” says my mother.
“The Alcotts were vegetarians,” Mrs. Wong reminds us.
“But the March family wasn’t,” my mother counters.
Mrs. Hawthorne comes up with a compromise. “How about we make apple slump? That was one of the Alcotts’ favorite desserts, plus it was Louisa’s nickname for Orchard House.”
“Why the heck did she call it that?” I ask.
“Because she had to spend so much money repairing it all the time,” Mrs. Hawthorne tells me.
Mrs. Wong likes this idea. “I’ll bring organic apples,” she says happily “Their food would have been organic back them. Historically, I mean,” she adds, with a significant glance at my mother.
This is getting worse by the minute. I check my watch. Too late—the hockey game is over. I heave a sigh. Maybe it’s not too late for me to weasel out of the party, though.
“We can have it at my house,” my mother offers, looking around the living room. I know exactly what she’s thinking. She’s thinking that the Wongs and their dumb birdseed tree don’t measure up in the holiday cheer department. Our house, on the other hand, looked like something out of a magazine by the day after Thanksgiving. It always does. “At Home with the Queen: The Holiday Special!”
My mother pulls her calendar out of her purse and scans it, frowning. “How about the Sunday afternoon before Christmas? Does that work for everyone? Plan to bring your families, of course.”
Jess’s face gets all anxious-looking, the way it does whenever anyone mentions her family. She probably feels the same way about her missing mother as I do about my dad. She has no reason to complain, though—at least her mom is still alive.
I stand up. “I just have one thing to say,” I announce. Six pairs of eyes look at me expectantly. “No one, and I mean no one”—I glare at my mother—“is going to get me into a dress.”
My mother smiles. She draws herself up into her regal supermodel pose. She reaches into her purse again, removes Dr. Weisman’s contract, and waves it at me.
My first hockey game is a week away I slump back down in the white leather chair. Resistance is futile. “Fine.”
My mother inclines her head, looking pleased.
Final Score: Queen Clementine—1, Cassidy—0.
Emma
“I wish it was Christmas or New Year’s all the time; wouldn’t it be fun?”
I love snow days.
It’s not fair when they happen during winter break, though. A real snow day means you get to miss school.
The storm started last night right before bedtime, the first flakes drifting down like tiny stars from the dark sky. It wasn’t supposed to be a storm at all—only flurries were predicted. But something must have happened during the night, because when I woke up this morning and looked out my bedroom window our split-rail fence had vanished, and so had the mailbox and the road and all the shrubs in the front yard.
“Blizzard Breakfast!” my dad shouted up the stairs.
Dad always makes pancakes on snow days, and afterward Darcy and I always put on our snow gear and go outside. This morning we made snow angels and built a fort under the rhododendrons, just like we used to when we were little. Dad even came out and joined us for a snowball fight. He says a good snowstorm brings out the kid in everyone.
The only problem is that today is the day of our Little Women Christmas Party. Mom says that since it’s still snowing we’ll probably have to cancel, because the snowplows can’t keep up and the roads are all blocked.
I have to admit I’m kind of disappointed. Mom and I baked ginger-bread people for everyone and we bought long dresses at the thrift store to wear and everything.
Right now we’re camped out in the living room, trying to stay warm. The electricity went off about an hour ago, along with the phones, and Dad built a roaring fire and closed off all the doors to keep the heat in. It’s snug and peaceful, like Christmas morning, even though it’s afternoon and Christmas is still a week away. Our tree is in the corner, and although the lights aren’t working it looks pretty. It smells good, too, the satisfying aroma of evergreen mingling with the scent of wood smoke and wet wool from our mittens and hats sizzling themselves dry on the fireplace screen. My father is stretched out on the sofa reading a book about Thoreau that he’s supposed to review, and my mom is wrapped in a quilt on the window seat rereading Persuasion (a Jane Austen novel, of course). Darcy and I are in our pajamas sprawled out on the hearth, playing Monopoly.
My mother’s cell phone rings, and we all jump.
“Hello?” she says. “Yes, Clementine. Yes, I agree. There’s really no other choice under the circumstances. Such a shame. Do you think we can reschedule for next week? It’s such a fun idea, and I’m sure the girls are all really looking forward to it. I know Emma is.”
She hangs up, and almost immediately the phone rings again. This time it’s Mrs. Wong.
“Yes, Lily, I just got the news too,” my mother says. “But we’re going to try and reschedule. Clementine’s calling the Delaneys right now. Are you staying warm enough out there? Oh, you do? Really? Wow, that’s great.”
“What’s great?” asks my father when she hangs up.
“The Wongs have a generator, so everything’s up and running.”
“Figures,” says my dad, a twinge of envy in his voice. He’s been wanting a generator for a while now, but they’re expensive, and besides, my mom always tells him, a generator is one of those things you only need once in a blue moon.
“But when the moon is blue, you sure wish you had one,” Dad always counters.
Everything’s quiet again for a while, then, just as Darcy puts a hotel on Park Place, the cell phone rings a third time. “Heavens, I’m the belle of the ball this afternoon!” says my mother. I can’t tell who’s on the other end of the line this time. “Uh-huh,” she keeps repeating, then, “Nope, I won’t breathe a word. Promise.”
“Who was that?” I ask, curious.
“You’ll see,” she says loftily, which is mom-code for “I know something you don’t and I’m not going to tell you.”
“Come on, Mom,” I wheedle.
She shakes her head and leaves the room, smiling to herself. I can hear her in the kitchen, rustling around. Something is definitely up.
“What’s going on?” I ask my father.
“Haven’t the foggiest,” he replies, without looking up from his book. “Like your mother says, you’ll see.”
Parents can be so annoying sometimes.
A few minutes later, just as I’m about to collect double rent from Darcy for landing on Pennsylvania Railroad, my mother pokes her head back in the room. “You all need to get warm clothes on,” she announces. “We’ll be leaving soon.”
“Leaving? For where?” I ask.
“The party, of course.”
“But I thought it was cancelled.”
My mother shakes her head. “Plans have changed—it’s back on.”
“How are we supposed to get there?” Darcy complains. He flaps his arms. “Fly?”
Mom smiles that smug smile again. “You’ll see.”
My father peers at her over the top of his book. “Let me guess,” he says. “Jerry Wong rented a snowplow No, wait—he bought a snowplow.”
“Nicholas Hawthorne, behave yourself!” scolds my mother, but her eyes are twinkling so I can tell she’s not really angry. “Jerry earned every cent of his money, and he has the right to spend it any way he wants to. Besides, don’t forget all the ch
arities they support. The Wongs are doing a great deal of good in this world.”
Dad gets up off the sofa and kisses her cheek penitently. “You’re right, as always,” he says. “But for the record, I was just joking.”
Mom swats him with a pair of mittens, which she then passes to me. “Put your warmest things on, okay? And make it snappy!”
By now I’m practically boiling over with curiosity. What has Mom got up her sleeve? Maybe Dad’s right, maybe the Wongs really did buy a snowplow.
And then, in the distance, I hear something. A faint sound that is definitely not a snowplow. I run to the front window and look out. Lowell Road is still deserted. I hear the sound again. Bells? I frown, puzzled. A minute later my eyes nearly pop out of my head and the puzzle is solved when I spot Led and Zep, the Delaney’s big Belgian draft horses, over the tops of the snowdrifts.
“It’s a sleigh!” I cry in delight, running to the front door and throwing it open. “The Delaneys brought their sleigh!”
“Are you serious?” says Darcy, rushing to join me. Mom and Dad are right behind him. We all wave, and the Delaneys wave back.
None of us have ever ridden in a sleigh before. We watch, entranced, as Mr. Delaney pulls up across the street. The sleigh bells on the horses’ harnesses really do jingle, just like in the Christmas carols.
“All aboard!” shouts Mr. Delaney.
We don’t need to be asked twice. My brother grabs the duffel bag with our costumes in it and I grab the container with the gingerbread people and we skid down the front steps and the front walk and wade across the road through the snow. Jess and her brothers are in the back of the sleigh, huddled under mounds of blankets and sleeping bags. Jess scoots over and flips back a corner of one of the blankets.
“Can we all fit?” asks my mother.
“It’ll be close quarters, but you’ll stay warm,” Mr. Delaney tells her. “When we get to the Wongs’, maybe you can put Ryan on your lap, Jess, okay? And Darcy, I thought you might like to ride up here with me.”
“No fair, Dad! I want to ride with you!” protests Dylan. Or maybe it’s Ryan—even after five years I have a hard time telling them apart.
The Mother-Daughter Book Club Page 8
