Much Ado About Anne

by Heather Vogel Frederick

  “Hey, did you see Becca today?” Jess asks me, dragging me back to reality. “She was bragging to everybody about how she’s your friend, and how she gives you ideas for your designs all the time. And the whole school is talking about the Flashlite article.”

  “You mean everybody’s talking about the pictures of Stewart Chadwick,” I say.

  Becca is really upset with her brother because of what happened at the fashion show. I think maybe she was hoping she’d impress the Flashlite people and get asked to be a model, but instead Stewart was. Mrs. Chadwick said no at first, but then Cassidy’s mother pointed out that she earned her way through college by modeling, and Mr. Chadwick, who usually doesn’t say a word, spoke up and said he thought it was a great idea, and that it would give Stewart confidence. So Mrs. Chadwick changed her mind, and now Stewart’s “brooding poet” face is plastered all over Flashlite. Becca’s trying to pretend she doesn’t care, but I can tell she’s disappointed and jealous.

  The dining room looks really nice. There are white streamers draped around the room and fluttering from the chandelier, and taped to the bookshelves are posters that Jess and Emma and I made. They have pictures of brides and grooms glued to them, and we drew big hearts with CLEMENTINE + STANLEY written inside them in glitter. The Hawthornes are the only people I know with bookshelves in their dining room. They’re all bookworms, even Darcy.

  There’s a white tablecloth on the table, and in the middle is a tiny little wedding cake with a tiny little bride and groom on top. The bride is blond like Mrs. Sloane, but the groom has too much hair to be Stanley Kinkaid. Still, it looks really good.

  The food looks really good too—platters of appetizers and turkey wraps and lots of little cookies and stuff. For once my mother brought along something edible—an ambrosia salad that has cut-up bananas and oranges and pineapple with shredded coconut and sliced almonds on top. Even though everything in it is organic, it’s actually the prettiest thing on the table. Well, besides the cake.

  “Here they come!” says Mrs. Delaney, darting in from the kitchen. “Places, everybody!”

  Mrs. Hawthorne is right behind her. She closes the door and turns off the chandelier, putting her finger to her lips. Jess and Emma are doubled over, clutching their stomachs and trying to suppress their excited giggles. Cassidy is leaning back against the far wall with her eyes shut.

  We hear the screen door slam shut, then my mom’s voice, extra loud: “I guess they must be in the dining room, Clementine.”

  The door creaks open and Mrs. Sloane sticks her head in.

  Emma flips on the light switch.

  “SURPRISE!” we all shout.

  Mrs. Sloane looks stunned. “For me?” she says.

  Emma nods happily. “It’s a wedding shower.”

  “A Mother-Daughter Book Club wedding shower,” Jess explains.

  Mrs. Sloane’s eyes fill with tears. “You shouldn’t have!”

  “Of course we should have,” says Mrs. Hawthorne briskly, handing her a napkin. “We’re your friends.”

  “My dearest friends,” Mrs. Sloane replies, dabbing at her eyes. “The best friends anybody could ask for.”

  “Kindred spirits,” says my mother, giving her a hug.

  “Everybody grab a plate and help yourself,” says Mrs. Delaney. “Except the bride-to-be. You go sit down in the living room, Clementine, and I’ll serve you yours.”

  “Cassidy, honey, why don’t you go sit with your mom,” says Mrs. Hawthorne. “I’ll bring you a plate too.”

  Cassidy reluctantly peels herself off the wall and stumps into the living room.

  “So,” says my mother brightly, after we’re all settled. “Have you and Stan decided where the honeymoon will be?”

  Mrs. Sloane smiles. “He wants to surprise me.”

  Mrs. Delaney sighs. “How romantic!”

  Our moms compare notes on their honeymoons for a while. Mr. and Mrs. Hawthorne went to England to see Jane Austen’s home and all the places she mentioned in her books. No big surprise there.

  The Delaneys didn’t have enough money for a honeymoon trip.

  “Michael was a graduate student, and I was an aspiring actress, which means I was really a waitress,” Mrs. Delaney explains cheerfully. “But we managed to scrape together enough for a night at the Plaza Hotel.”

  “Where Eloise lived!” says Emma.

  Mrs. Delaney nods. “Exactly. Eloise was my favorite book when I was little. I brought it along and read it to Michael, and we prowled around the floors at midnight looking for all the places in the hotel that Eloise visited. And the next day we had tea in the Palm Court, of course.”

  “Ooooooooo, I absolutely love the Palm Court!” says Mrs. Hawthorne, and we all laugh.

  “I didn’t care that all we could afford was one night,” says Jess’s mom. “It was just perfect.”

  “Jerry and I didn’t have any money back then either,” says my mother. “That was way before his invention, of course. We got married on the beach on Cape Cod. His uncle had a rustic little summer cottage there, and he let us use it for a week. It was heavenly.”

  My dad still complains about that trip—too hot, too humid, too many bugs, and the cabin smelled of mildew. I squelch a smile.

  “David and I sailed from San Diego down to Baja,” says Mrs. Sloane, flicking her eyes toward Cassidy, who’s busy pushing a turkey wrap around her plate like a hockey stick, with a black olive for a puck. “He was such an athlete. You name it—any sport, David did it. Including sailing.”

  “Sounds like somebody we know,” says Mrs. Hawthorne, with a nod at Cassidy.

  Cassidy doesn’t look up from her dinner-plate hockey game.

  “Anyway, we borrowed a boat from one of his friends and off we went,” Mrs. Sloane continues. “It was quite an adventure.”

  “I think it’s time to open presents,” says Jess’s mom, hopping up to get them. She stacks the pile in front of Mrs. Sloane, who selects one and opens it. It’s a purple leather journal from Emma. Purple is Emma’s favorite color.

  “I thought you might like to keep a diary of your honeymoon trip,” Emma tells her.

  “Why thank you, Emma—how thoughtful. I’d love to do that!”

  Mrs. Delaney and Mrs. Hawthorne teamed up on a gift certificate for a day at a spa. “Some prenuptial beautification,” says Mrs. Hawthorne. Seeing our puzzled looks, she adds, “Prenuptial means ‘before the wedding,’ girls.”

  Jess’s present is a pair of earrings, and mine is a silk scarf.

  “Gosh, Megan, you didn’t need to get me another gift,” Mrs. Sloane says. “You already gave me the most beautiful dress in the world.”

  She’s talking about the one that Mr. Kinkaid bought at the auction. The one Cassidy hates me for. Cassidy looks up from her plate and scowls.

  Finally there are just two presents left, a big one and a small one. Mrs. Sloane chooses the small one.

  “A silver picture frame!” she says, opening the box. “How lovely!”

  Then she turns it over. In the frame is a picture of Cassidy and her father. They’re on a beach somewhere, and the wind is blowing Cassidy’s hair across her face. They’re both smiling. Cassidy sure looks a lot like her dad.

  “Oh, honey,” says Mrs. Sloane softly, her eyes welling up. “When did you take this? I’ve never seen it before.”

  “A week before Dad died,” mutters Cassidy. They’re the first words she’s spoken all evening. “I don’t ever want you to forget him.”

  Mrs. Sloane leans over and puts her arms around Cassidy. “If there’s one thing I can promise you, it’s that I will never, ever forget your father,” she says fiercely. She kisses the top of Cassidy’s head. “How could I? I see him every time I look at you.”

  Cassidy buries her face in her mother’s shoulder. “Do you really have to get married again?”

  Mrs. Sloane looks around at us helplessly. She sighs. “Sweetheart, just because I’m marrying Stanley doesn’t mean I don’t still love
your dad. I always will. I promise you, everything’s going to turn out fine.”

  “One last present,” says Mrs. Delaney, passing Mrs. Sloane the big package. It’s from my mother.

  Mrs. Sloane tears off the wrapping paper. Her brow puckers. “A backpack. How thoughtful, Lily,” she says politely.

  “Look inside,” says my mother. She’s bouncing in her seat like a little kid. I can’t remember the last time I saw her this excited.

  Mrs. Sloane unzips it and pulls out an envelope. Inside the envelope is a piece of paper. She reads it aloud: “This certificate is good for one Mother-Daughter Book Club adventure.”

  “We’re going backpacking in New Hampshire!” cries my mother. “A mother-daughter bachelorette party! I figured you could use a little time to unwind with Mother Nature before the wedding.”

  “Backpacking?” says Mrs. Sloane cautiously. “Um, I’ve never—”

  My mother waves her hand dismissively. “Don’t worry, I’ve been a zillion times before. The White Mountains are my backyard.”

  This is true. My mother is always going off on weekend trips with some environmental group or another. She loves to volunteer clearing trails and stuff like that. She took me along once, but that was enough for me. I’m not a nature freak like my mother. My dad isn’t either. His idea of camping is a hotel that doesn’t offer room service.

  “Besides,” she continues, “camping is a lot like sailing, I’m sure. You’ll feel right at home on the trail.”

  “Uh . . .,” says Mrs. Sloane.

  “Won’t it be fun?” gushes my mother. “I’ve rented a big cabin on Lonesome Lake over the Fourth of July weekend. We’ll stash our menfolk there, and we can just step off the front porch and onto the trail and away we’ll go!”

  The room is embarrassingly quiet. Only my mother would come up with such a lame idea for a shower present. I glance down at Mrs. Sloane’s strappy black sandals and perfect pedicure. Somehow I can’t picture the bride-to-be in hiking boots. And Emma—well, Emma’s slimmed down a lot this year what with all the time she’s spent at the skating rink, but she’s still more comfortable with a book than a backpack. So’s her mother, I’m sure. Even the Delaneys, whose farm is about as close to nature as you can get and still have indoor plumbing, don’t look like the type who’d want to sleep in a tent in the woods.

  And you’d think my mother would know her own daughter well enough by now to realize that I am most certainly not the type to want to sleep in a tent in the woods. Gimme a break.

  Mrs. Sloane brushes Cassidy’s hair out of her face. “This will be fun for you, won’t it?” she says, trying to sound enthusiastic. “You used to love to go camping with Dad.”

  But Cassidy has clammed up again.

  “I’m sure we’ll all have fun,” says Mrs. Delaney. “Thank you, Lily.” She nudges Jess.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Wong,” says Jess automatically.

  Mrs. Hawthorne and Emma chorus their thank-yous too.

  As we’re leaving, I pull my cell phone out of my purse and text Becca: S.O.S.! CALL ME!

  With any luck, Becca can wangle me an invitation to her house for the Fourth of July. Then all I have to do is convince my mother to let me stay with the Chadwicks while she goes off on her lame bachelorette-party-in-the-woods.

  Jess

  “All the silly things that were done in Avonlea that summer because the doers thereof were ‘dared’ to do them would fill a book by themselves.”

  —Anne of Green Gables

  “I hate bugs!”

  “Who are you and what have you done with Jessica Delaney?” says Megan, poking me in the back with a stick.

  I turn around and swat it away. “Quit it.” I’m hot, sweaty, seriously mosquito-bitten, and in no mood to be teased. And we haven’t even been on the trail for an hour yet.

  “You don’t have to be so crabby,” Megan replies. “Besides, I thought you were this big animal-lover. Aren’t bugs animals?”

  “Yeah, what happened to ‘Goat Girl’?” adds Becca with a sly grin.

  I start to give her the evil eye, then stop. I know she’s only kidding. At least I think she is. And we all promised Mrs. Wong we’d try and be nice to the Chadwicks.

  The worst part about this whole backpacking trip—well, besides the backpacking part—is that Mrs. Wong invited Becca and her mother along at the last minute. I guess she figured it would be a good idea, since Mrs. Chadwick said Becca could come back to book club when we start it up again next fall. Or maybe she just did it to make Megan happy. Megan complained about the trip for weeks after the wedding shower, but the minute Becca was invited to go with us she was all cheerful again.

  I shade my eyes with my hand and look back down the trail at the cool waters of the lake below. I think the speck in the red swim trunks on the dock is Darcy. It’s so unfair! The boys get to stay at the cabin with our dads, swimming and having fun, while we’re stuck out here on this dusty trail.

  I swat at another mosquito and take a drink from my water bottle. It must be ninety degrees out here. Mrs. Wong would have to pick the hottest weekend of the entire summer for our “bachelorette party.” Some party.

  Emma pauses on the trail ahead of us and turns around. Her round face is as red and sweaty as I know mine must be. “Are we there yet?” she mock-whines, then grins at me.

  I manage a smile. Emma actually seems to be having fun. So far, anyway. Last year she would have been huffing and puffing and probably would have straggled way behind the rest of us. This year, though, it’s a different story. She may not be a jock like Cassidy, who’s been dubbed “The Trailblazer” by Mrs. Hawthorne because she stays so far out in front of all the rest of us, but Emma’s in much better shape than she used to be. Even Becca has quit making snarky comments about her weight.

  “What’s the holdup, girls?” calls Mrs. Wong. She and the other moms are hiking behind us. To make sure nobody gets lost, they said, but I think it’s to make sure nobody makes a run for it back to the lake. Which is exactly what I feel like doing right now.

  “Just taking a little break!” Megan calls back to her.

  “Well, get a move on! We won’t get to the campsite before dark at the poky pace you’re setting.”

  Mrs. Wong promised this would be an easy hike. “Just five miles to the campsite, then we pitch our tents and relax,” she’d said.

  What she forgot to tell us is that those five miles were all uphill.

  Grumbling to myself, I turn around and start trudging forward again. An hour later, we finally stop for lunch.

  “How far do you think we’ve come?” Becca asks, peeling off her backpack and flopping to the ground.

  Cassidy pulls out a map and runs her finger along it. “Two point four miles,” she replies.

  “What!” squawks Megan. “We’re not even halfway there yet?”

  Mrs. Wong is in charge of food for this expedition, which I think maybe wasn’t such a good idea once I get a look at our lunch. The peanut butter and honey sandwiches aren’t so bad, although the peanut butter is thick and sticky—“I ground it myself,” she tells us proudly—and the bread is some kind of weird grainy stuff she probably got at Nature’s Corner. That’s Mrs. Wong’s favorite organic grocery store. The carrot sticks are fine, and so are the apples, but instead of something normal like brownies or even a candy bar for dessert, Mrs. Wong hands out these little hockey-puck–size things that I guess are supposed to be cookies.

  “What’s this?” asks Cassidy, sniffing hers suspiciously. “It looks like dog poop.”

  “Cassidy Ann!” says her mother.

  “Well, it does,” Cassidy grumbles.

  “It’s a vegan rhubarb cookie,” says Mrs. Wong, sounding defensive. “They’re very good for you. The rhubarb makes them high in Vitamin C, and I used spelt flour, which has lots of protein and is also gluten-free. Plus they’re sugar-free and salt-free.”

  “Taste-free, too, I’ll bet,” Emma whispers to me, and I smother a smile.


  We gnaw on the cookies for a while because hiking makes you hungry and because there’s nothing else to eat, and then just when we’re all thinking a little nap would be nice, Mrs. Wong bounces to her feet.

  “Time to move out!” she says.

  “For heaven’s sake, Lily,” grouses Mrs. Chadwick. “You’d think we were in the army!”

  Several hours and lots more whining later, we straggle into the campsite. Cassidy, who got there first, of course, has already put up her tent and collected firewood. The rest of us collapse in a heap in the shade.

  Dinner is even worse than lunch, if that’s possible. Mrs. Wong fishes a big plastic bag out of her backpack. It’s filled with salad greens, and she opens a packet of salad dressing and pours it in, then zips the bag shut.

  “Catch!” she says, throwing it to me.

  I miss and it falls on the ground. “Sorry,” I mumble, retrieving it.

  “Now you throw it to someone else,” says Mrs. Wong, so I toss it to Emma, who tosses it to Megan, who tosses it to Becca.

  “Get it?” says Mrs. Wong. “We’re ‘tossing’ the salad!”

  Everybody groans.

  “Mom, that is so lame!” Megan looks embarrassed.

  Her mother ignores her. “Who says you can’t have fun on the trail? And eat healthy too.”

  When we’ve finished our salad, she brings out this tiny portable stove and cooks up some freeze-dried thing she tells us is Ginger Sesame Pasta. It has black beans and soybeans and red bell peppers and sesame seeds and even coconut in it. It looks disgusting.

  “I ordered it online,” says Mrs. Wong happily. “It’s vegetarian—and organic, of course.”

  “Of course,” says Mrs. Delaney, grimly shoveling up a spoonful.

  “It looks like somebody barfed on my plate,” whispers Cassidy, this time making sure her mother doesn’t hear.