The Mother-Daughter Book Club

by Heather Vogel Frederick

  But the ripple becomes a tidal wave and the music grinds to a halt and I turn around to see a goat skitter across the stage.

  “Sundance?” I whisper, incredulous. “How did you get out of the truck?”

  My pet’s left foreleg is wrapped tightly in a white bandage and she’s limping. She spots me and comes trotting over.

  “Maaaa-aaaa,” she bleats.

  The audience hoots with laughter.

  Sundance butts her head softly against me. “Maaa-aaaa,” she bleats again, her sweet little voice muffled by the fabric of my long dress. But it can’t muffle her fear. She’s scared by all the lights and people.

  “Goat Girl,” calls Megan in a stage whisper, and she and the Fab Four start to laugh. So does the rest of the cast. Mrs. Adams chooses this unfortunate moment to rush onto the stage waving her clipboard, which startles Sundance. Sundance takes off again, and pretty soon all the boys in the cast are chasing her and all the girls are scattering, their squeals blending with my pet’s frantic bleats.

  “Leave her alone!” I cry. “She’s scared!”

  No one can hear me above the pandemonium. No one but Sundance, that is. She tries to dodge a couple of villagers to reach me, but one of them grabs hold of her tail as she darts past and she stumbles and falls.

  “You’re hurting her! Stop it!” I scream.

  “Go, Goat Girl!” cries Becca, and she and the Fab Four break into an impromptu cancan. The audience loves it. No one’s paying the least bit of attention to me.

  It’s Darcy Hawthorne who saves the day. He jumps up onto the stage from the front row just as Sundance wobbles back up onto her legs and makes another bid for freedom. Standing quietly till she scoots past, he throws his coat over her and whisks her up in his arms.

  I rush over to them both, sobbing.

  “It’s okay, Jess, it’s okay,” Darcy assures me. “I’ve got her—she’s safe.”

  Mrs. Adams gestures frantically at Emma and the backstage crew and the curtain comes down, mercifully concealing my humiliation from the flabbergasted audience.

  And as it does, all I can think is, I’m so glad my mother wasn’t here to see this.

  Megan

  “The storm cleared up below, for Mrs. March came home, and having heard the story, soon brought Amy to a sense of the wrong she had done her sister.”

  I still don’t get what the big deal is.

  I mean, it was just a joke, for Pete’s sake! You can’t tell me they didn’t think it was funny—everyone thought it was funny. The whole audience cracked up. And it’s not like it ruined the play or anything. Once Darcy and Mr. Delaney put Jess’s goat back in the truck, we just started the scene over and everything was fine. But you’d think I was some kind of a criminal, the way people have been treating me. I’m grounded for the rest of the month, and Mrs. Adams yanked Becca and me out of the play when she found out we were behind “the goat stunt,” as she put it. Zach Norton and the other boys are barely talking to us, and of course Emma and Cassidy are making a point of ignoring us as well. As for Jess—well, Jess just mopes around like she always does, looking all hurt and wounded. She practically cringes every time I walk by, like maybe I’m going to hit her or something. It’s all so stupid. And so unfair. Becca says everyone’s way overreacting, and I agree.

  “I expect your full cooperation tonight,” says my mother.

  We’re on our way to the library. I’ve been temporarily paroled from house arrest for an emergency session of the Mother-Daughter Book Club. My mother is worried I’m going to get kicked out. I told her that would be just fine with me. It’s not as if I ever wanted to be in it in the first place.

  Deep down, though, that would be so humiliating. Rejected by the rejects! I can just imagine what Becca would have to say about that. I slump in my seat and stare glumly out the window. Sometimes it’s tiring, always having to worry about what Becca Chadwick will think or say. The one good thing about this stupid book club is that I can be myself. Mostly, anyway.

  We pull into the parking lot. We were supposed to meet at the Delaneys’, but at the last minute Mrs. Hawthorne changed it to the library instead. Neutral territory, I guess. I’m just as glad. I’d rather not share a living room with a bunch of chickens. And I’d just as soon not see another goat as long as I live.

  The others are already gathered in the conference room. Mrs. Hawthorne is sitting at the head of the table. Emma is to her right, then Jess, and across from them are Cassidy and her mother. There’s no sign of Mr. Delaney.

  “Have a seat, Megan,” says Mrs. Hawthorne. Her tone is cool.

  My mother takes a seat at the far end opposite Mrs. Hawthorne, which means I’m stuck next to Cassidy, facing Jess. Well, facing the top of her head. She’s intently inspecting the table, and doesn’t look up when I sit down.

  “As you can see, I asked the others to arrive a little before you,” Emma’s mother continues. “We were planning to take a vote and see whether we should allow you to remain in the book club, but we got to talking and decided that a vote would be a little premature. We did come to one conclusion, which I’ll get to in a minute, but meanwhile there are some things we feel are only fair to discuss with you directly before voting.”

  This is all so embarrassing. It’s like I’m on trial or something. And Mrs. Hawthorne sounds so serious! I want to tell her to lighten up, for Pete’s sake.

  “Megan, do you remember chapter 8 in the book?” asks Mrs. Sloane. “The one called ‘Jo Meets Apollyon’?”

  I can’t help it, I take mental notes of her outfit. Black wool pants, gleaming black leather boots, pink sweater (probably cashmere), and a chic silk scarf with a geometric pattern in black, pink, and white. Straight out of Vogue magazine.

  “Megan?”

  “Um, yeah, I guess so. I kind of remember it.”

  “That’s the chapter where Amy burns Jo’s manuscript,” says Emma helpfully.

  “That’s right,” says Mrs. Sloane.

  So what’s your point? I want to say, but one glance at my mother’s stony face tells me it’s better to keep my mouth shut. Unless I want to be grounded for life.

  “Megan, you did to Jess exactly what Amy did to Jo,” says Mrs. Hawthorne. “You destroyed something of great value to her.”

  “I didn’t destroy anything!” I say indignantly. “It was just a joke!”

  “A cruel and hurtful joke,” says Mrs. Hawthorne.

  “Kind of like calling someone ‘Goat Girl,’” adds Cassidy. “You and the Fab Four are always talking about everybody behind their backs.”

  “Like you don’t,” I retort.

  “The point is, you destroyed what should have been a happy memory for Jess,” Mrs. Hawthorne explains. “Her first opening night, her first big role. And you ruined it.”

  “Plus, you scared Sundance!” says Emma.

  I open my mouth to reply, then close it again. Who cares about a stupid goat? Everyone is looking at me, waiting for me to say something. If they’re expecting me to beg for forgiveness or something, they can forget it. No way. It’s not my fault that Jess got all upset at a silly practical joke.

  My mother’s expression is completely blank, which means she’s either embarrassed or angry, or both. Probably both.

  “It wasn’t even my idea,” I mumble. “It was Becca’s.”

  Mrs. Hawthorne raises an eyebrow. “Just like it was Becca’s idea to read Emma’s diary at the ice rink?” she asks. “I was hoping perhaps that incident would have made an impression on you, Megan. Character is about the choices we make in life, and I’m disappointed that you didn’t think more carefully about hurting someone else’s feelings, or have the courage to stick up for your friend.”

  Emma’s not my friend, I want to tell her, but then I look at Emma and feel a stab of guilt. We were friends once. We used to have a lot of fun together, back then.

  “Yeah,” says Emma. “How would you like it if someone took your fashion design notebook and showed it to everybody an
d made fun of it?”

  If looks could kill, Emma Hawthorne would be six feet under in Sleepy Hollow Cemetery right now. The happy memories that had tiptoed in for a few seconds go flying right out the window. She has no right to bring that up.

  “You still have a fashion design notebook?” my mother says, looking at me in surprise.

  “She keeps it in the bottom drawer of her desk,” Emma says triumphantly. “Under the paper for her computer printer.”

  Mrs. Hawthorne sighs. “Girls, girls,” she says. “Please. Our book club is in peril here. We’re a community, and a community only works if it’s based on trust and respect. It’s the same with friendship.”

  “Friendship?” The word bursts out of me unbidden. “What friendship? They’re always leaving me out.” I look at Emma and Jess and Cassidy accusingly. “You get together and hang out and bake cookies and have sleepovers and I’m never invited.”

  “You wouldn’t have come even if we had invited you!” counters Emma, which is probably true, but still it’s beside the point. “And maybe if you weren’t so mean to everybody all the time, you would have been invited.”

  Something inside me snaps. “You’re just jealous!” I yell at her. “Ever since my dad struck it rich and we moved out to Strawberry Hill you’ve been jealous of me. I see the way you look at my cell phone and my clothes and our cars—but it’s not my fault you have to wear Nicole Patterson’s hand-me-downs!”

  “Megan!” says my mother sharply. “That’s enough!”

  “But it’s true!”

  “Look who’s talking about being jealous!” Emma yells back. “You were so jealous of Jess’s getting the part of Belle in the play that you spread those rumors at school and then tried to sabotage her opening night! She’s a better singer than you and you just can’t stand it!”

  “Now, girls,” Mrs. Sloane breaks in. “This isn’t productive.”

  “I guess what we really want to know at this point, Megan, is whether or not you’re even interested in remaining a member of the Mother-Daughter Book Club.” The gentleness in Mrs. Hawthorne’s voice catches me by surprise, and to my horror and shame I burst into tears. The truth is, she’s right. I should have stuck up for Emma that day at the rink. Of course I knew better, but I felt trapped and I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t want Becca and Ashley and Jen to stop liking me. The truth is, I really miss Emma. I miss spending time with her in her pink kitchen, baking cookies and making clothes for our Barbies. I hate myself for being such a coward and I hate it that Emma and Jess and Cassidy shut me out and I hate it that I even care.

  “I’ll take that as a yes,” says Mrs. Hawthorne kindly.

  My mother passes me a tissue.

  Mrs. Sloane pulls a sheet of paper out of her book club folder and places it on the conference room table in front of me. “Rules of Conduct” is printed across the top. “We want you to sign these,” she says.

  Mrs. Hawthorne glances around the table. “In fact, I think we all need to sign these. There’s no harm in reminding ourselves of the importance of upholding the club rules.”

  We go over the list together, and under my mother’s watchful eye I sign my name at the bottom. I pass the piece of paper to Cassidy and she signs too, then passes it on. When everyone’s had a chance to sign, Mrs. Hawthorne turns to me again.

  “As I mentioned earlier this evening, the five of us discussed one other thing before you arrived,” she told me. “We all agreed that it’s only fair that you find a way to make this up somehow to Jess.”

  I look over at Jess, who hasn’t said a single word this entire time. She still won’t meet my gaze.

  “You can start by apologizing,” my mother says firmly, fixing me with the evil-witch-mother eye of death.

  “Uh, sorry, Jess,” I mumble.

  “You can do better than that,” my mother prods.

  I take a deep breath. “I’m sorry about the stupid practical joke, Jess. Really, truly sorry. I hope you’ll forgive me. And I hope your goat is okay, too.” For good measure, I look over at Emma. “And I’m sorry about what happened that day at the ice rink, with your journal.”

  “That’s more like it,” says my mother, smiling at me in approval. I smile back.

  “I have an idea,” says Emma. “About how Megan can make it up to Jess, I mean.”

  “Go on,” says Mrs. Sloane.

  “Well, Spring Fling is coming up in a couple of months. The middle school dance. Maybe Megan could design a dress for Jess to wear to it.”

  “What a wonderful idea!” says Mrs. Hawthorne.

  “I’ll buy the fabric,” my mother announces. I stare at her, shocked. She shrugs and smiles at me again. “It’s a worthy cause.”

  “And you can use my sewing machine,” offers Mrs. Sloane.

  “I wasn’t planning to go to Spring Fling,” Jess murmurs, clearly caught off-guard by the whole idea.

  “Well, you’re going now,” says Cassidy. “Is it a deal, Megan?”

  I have to admit that designing a real dress sounds like fun. “Yeah, okay.”

  The door opens and Mr. Delaney comes in carrying a paper bag and a stack of paper plates. Close on his heels is Mrs. Chadwick.

  “Am I too early?” he asks, glancing over at me.

  Mrs. Hawthorne shakes her head. “Right on time.”

  “Phoebe, I thought the library board made it clear that you weren’t to meet here,” Becca’s mother says.

  Mrs. Hawthorne regards her calmly. “You certainly did make it clear, Calliope. But I checked with the rest of the board, and they have no problem with it. You’re outvoted.”

  Becca’s mother looks indignant. She opens her mouth, but before she can say anything Mr. Delaney pulls an apple pie out of the bag and sets it on the table.

  “What is that?” Mrs. Chadwick cries accusingly.

  “An apple pie,” Mr. Delaney replies. “Fresh out of the oven. Not nearly as good as the pies Shannon makes, I’m afraid, but perhaps it will do for a cold winter’s night.”

  Mrs. Chadwick turns smugly to Mrs. Hawthorne. “You can’t wiggle out of this one,” she says. “The library has a strict no-food policy, and you know it. You’ll have to remove that pie at once.”

  “If you stay and help us eat it, then there won’t be any food in the library, will there?” says Mrs. Hawthorne mildly.

  Becca’s mother eyes the pie.

  “It looks enormously delicious, doesn’t it?” says Emma sweetly.

  Mrs. Hawthorne looks over at her. The corners of her mouth quirk up. “Hugely tasty, I’d say.”

  “My dad is a colossally fabulous cook,” adds Jess, the picture of innocence.

  Cassidy whispers something to her mother, who grins. I grin too. I haven’t played the synonym game since fourth grade.

  “Could I please have a jumbo-sized piece?” I say.

  “Me, too,” says Clementine Sloane. “I could eat a horse.”

  “An elephant,” adds Cassidy. “Maybe even a mammoth.”

  By now we’re all grinning broadly. Mrs. Chadwick doesn’t notice. She’s still focused on the pie.

  “Well, just a sliver, I suppose,” she says finally.

  Mr. Delaney cuts the pie and Mrs. Hawthorne hands the plates and forks around the table. “Here you go, Megs,” she says to me.

  “Thanks, Mrs. H.” It feels good to hear my old nickname, and even better to hear the warmth in Emma’s mother’s voice. My heart feels lighter than it has for weeks.

  My cell phone vibrates in my pocket. It’s probably Becca, wanting to know what’s going on. I pick up my fork and take a bite of pie and ignore it.

  SPRING

  “Mother have need of sharp eyes and discreet tonques when they have girls to manage.”

  —Little Women

  CASSIDY

  “Why weren’t we all boys, then there wouldn’t be any bother …”

  “COM-ETS! COM-ETS! COM-ETS!”

  I can hear them in the stands as I blaze down the ice toward t
he Minutemen’s goal. The Hawthornes, the Wongs, the Delaneys, my sister Courtney, Zach, Ethan, and Dr. Weisman and his wife. Even Becca and Ashley and Jen, though they’re mostly here to see the boys, not the game. They’re all on their feet, screaming for the team and for me. Only my mother is still in her seat, her hands pressed over her eyes.

  She’s been like this all night. All season, in fact. Hockey still scares her.

  Tonight is the final game of our region’s PeeWee Hockey Championships. With two minutes left to go in the third period, the Comets trail the Minutemen by one goal, and we have control of the puck. Correction: I have control of the puck.

  With a flick of my wrist I shoot it over to Darcy, our center. Kyle is right wing, and as I make a move toward the goal he swoops in to block a rush by a Minutemen defenseman.

  “Go, Cassidy! Go, Darcy!” I hear Mr. Hawthorne holler.

  Kyle’s block gives me an opening and I take it. Darcy whips the puck back to me and I slice at it for all I’m worth. The crowd erupts with cheers as the goalie lunges, misses, and the puck flies into the net. Score!

  A whistle pierces through the noise of the crowd as the Minutemen’s coach calls a time-out. We skate over to the Comets bench and grab our water bottles.

  Darcy gives me a high five. So does Kyle. Coach Danner slaps the back of my helmet. “Way to go, Sloane!” he crows. “Way to tie it up!”

  Coach has long since gotten over the shock of having a girl on his team. Especially since I’ve been high scorer for most of the season. Darcy says if I keep this up, I have a good shot at MVP.

  “A few more plays like that, and we can win this thing,” Coach Danner says. His eyes are alight with excitement. “But it’s gonna take hustle, it’s gonna take drive, and above all it’s gonna take the kind of teamwork that just got us that last goal. We can’t let our guard down for a second. The Minutemen are going to throw everything they’ve got at us. They’ve won the championship the last three years in a row, and they’re not going to give it up easily.”