Wish You Were Eyre

  “Yeah?”

  “I was wondering if we could talk about something?”

  “Sure. What’s on your mind?”

  “It’s just that I’ve been noticing—” My cell phone buzzes, and I sigh and pull it out of my jacket pocket, figuring it’s probably campaign business. It’s not, though; it’s my brother. “Hang on a sec,” I tell Stewart. “It’s Darcy.”

  “EMMA!” my brother shouts.

  “Ouch!” I hold the phone away from my ear. “Dang, Darcy, what’s up?”

  “I GOT IN!”

  “What? Where? What are you talking about?”

  “DARTMOUTH! I’M GOING TO DARTMOUTH!”

  I let out a shriek of excitement, and Stewart nearly swerves off the road. “What’s going on?” he asks. “Is everything okay?”

  “Darcy got into Dartmouth!”

  “He got his acceptance letter?” Stewart’s mouth drops open. “Omigosh, I have to go right home. Maybe mine have come too.”

  The car picks up a little speed as I continue to talk to my brother. It turns out he got into every school he applied to except one—no big surprise there, since Darcy is a straight-A student and a star athlete. A bunch of them have offered him really generous financial aid and scholarships, too. “Dartmouth will give me a scholar-athlete award,” he says. “It’s practically a full ride.”

  “Did you tell Mom and Dad yet?”

  “Yeah,” he replies. “Mom says we’re going to have to peel her off the ceiling, and she and Dad are dancing around the kitchen. Lady Jane is hiding under the table, and Pip’s about going crazy with all the excitement.”

  I laugh. “So that’s what all the barking’s about. How about Jess? Have you talked to her yet?”

  “I’m heading over to her dorm right now. I thought it would be fun to tell her in person.”

  “Congratulations,” I tell him. “I’m proud of you, bro.” This is really a dream come true for my brother—he’s wanted to go to Dartmouth since forever.

  Stewart pulls into his driveway as I hang up. We’ve barely come to a stop before he leaps out and sprints up the front path to his house. So much for finishing our conversation, I think. Resigned, I get out and follow him inside.

  “Are they here?” Stewart shouts, sending Yo-Yo into a tizzy. The dog races up and down the hall, barking, as Stewart calls out, “Mom? Dad?”

  “In here!” Mrs. Chadwick calls back from the living room. She points to a pile of envelopes on the sofa beside her. “I was just about to text you. The mailman came while I was working in the garden.”

  I stand in the doorway feeling a little awkward. Maybe Stewart would rather find out the news in private?

  But he turns and waves me over enthusiastically. “Come on in, Em,” he tells me. “This is so exciting!”

  I perch on the arm of the sofa as he sorts through the pile. There are big envelopes and small envelopes, thick ones and thin ones.

  “The thin ones are usually no’s,” he says, frowning at the return addresses.

  He pauses when he reaches one in particular, then looks up at his mother and me. “Stanford,” he says in a low voice. He opens it. “It’s a no.”

  Mrs. Chadwick reaches over and puts her hand on his knee. “I’m sorry, honey.”

  “Me too,” I add softly. Stanford was Stewart’s dream school.

  I’m truly disappointed for him, but in my secret heart of hearts I’m a little relieved, too. California is so far away! This means Stewart will be staying on the East Coast, because all the other schools he applied to are closer to home.

  He opens the rest of the thin envelopes. “Might as well get the rejections out of the way first, right?” he says lightly. He gets turned down by two Ivy League schools and a couple more out-of-state schools as well. Then it’s time for the thicker envelopes.

  “U Mass is a yes,” he says. “And so are Bowdoin and Middlebury.”

  “Vermont would be nice,” I tell him.

  “Yeah, I really liked that campus.”

  In the end, he has five rejections and five acceptances, including one from the College of William and Mary in Williamsburg, Virginia.

  “Looks like you have a lot to think about,” his mother says.

  He nods, still looking a bit disappointed.

  Mrs. Chadwick fishes her cell phone out of her purse. “This calls for a celebration,” she announces. “I’m going to tell your father we’ll meet him in Boston for dinner tonight.” She turns to me. “We’d love to have you join us, Emma.”

  I can tell she’s trying to cheer Stewart up. “I wish I could, but I think my parents want to take Darcy out. He got his acceptance letters today, too.”

  “Really? What’s the verdict?”

  “Dartmouth, probably.”

  A shadow briefly crosses Mrs. Chadwick’s face. She knows that’s my brother’s dream school, and I can tell she feels bad that Stewart didn’t get into his first choice. But she musters a smile. “Tell him congratulations from us, okay?”

  I give Stewart a hug and tell him I’m thrilled that he has so many schools to choose from, and that I’ll go ahead and walk home.

  The following day I try and find an opportunity to talk to him at school, but we’re never alone for more than about thirty seconds. After school is no better, as he has to leave our newspaper editorial meeting early to go to a dentist’s appointment, and I promised my mother I’d clean the house up and get ready for tonight’s book club meeting. Plus, I said I’d make the treats, too.

  Jane Eyre has proved difficult in that department—Charlotte Brontë was no foodie, and no way were my mother and I going to fix burnt porridge à la Lowood (been there, done that with Mrs. Chadwick’s cornmeal mush). The other choices were slim. In the end, I decided just to go with good old chocolate chip cookies, which I feel pretty sure that both Jane Eyre and Charlotte Brontë would have enjoyed, if they’d ever had a chance to try one. And we’re serving tea, too, of course, which is mentioned a lot in the book.

  “So I don’t understand why you don’t just call him,” Jess says, swiping a forefinger through the cookie dough. The two of us are in our kitchen, which feels a bit nostalgic—we used to do this all the time back in middle school, but both of us are so busy these days, we rarely get a chance to hang out here anymore. “That’s what I would do if I needed to talk to Darcy about something.”

  That’s because my perfect brother is also the perfect boyfriend, I think bitterly. He’s already had the big talk with Jess about staying together next year when he goes to college. Stewart, on the other hand, hasn’t said a word.

  To be fair, he’s barely had time to, but it still makes me a little nervous. Cassidy says her sister told her that most high school couples break up when college rolls around, which is depressing. If that really does happen, I want to make the most of my time together with Stewart now. I want a full-time boyfriend, not a part-time one who’s dividing his time between me and Sophie Fairfax.

  “I started to call him a couple of times,” I tell Jess, “and I even wrote him a letter, too, but I didn’t mail it. I dunno, this just feels like a conversation that needs to happen face-to-face, you know? I don’t want there to be any room for misunderstanding.” I don’t add that I’m also afraid of sounding petty and possessive.

  She nods slowly, helping herself to more cookie dough. “Yeah, I guess I can see that. What about talking to Sophie, then?”

  I snort. “Right.”

  “I’m serious! Why not? She doesn’t bite.”

  “That’s debatable.” There’s no way I’m going to confront Mademoiselle Velcro. I’ll just have to be patient a while longer and wait for the right moment for a heart-to-heart with Stewart.

  We’re just taking the cookies out of the oven as our friends start arriving, including Megan and her mother and grandmother. Sophie is with them, as usual. I give Megan a sympathetic glance. I guess my life could be worse—I could have to live with Sophie Fairfax as well as share my boyfriend with her.
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  “Looks like the party’s already started in here,” says my mother, who arrives home from the library just then. She pokes her head into the kitchen where the group has gathered. Cassidy’s already digging into the freshly baked treats. “Can I entice you all to join me in the living room?”

  My friends follow her down the hall while I put the kettle on and arrange the cookies on a plate, and just as everyone’s getting settled the doorbell rings.

  “Emma, can you get that?” my mother calls.

  “Sure.” I take the plate of cookies with me—and just about drop it when I open the front door and see Courtney Sloane standing there. Behind her are Stanley Kinkaid and Chloe. They’re all grinning.

  Courtney holds her finger to her lips. “Let me sneak in behind you, okay?” she whispers, her eyes dancing with excitement.

  “Omigosh, Cassidy is going to faint!” I whisper in reply, then turn and head to the living room.

  “Who was that?” my mother asks as I pause in the doorway.

  “Um, nobody important,” I reply. Across the room, Cassidy’s mother is trying to hide a smile. She winks at me. “Just—”

  “ME!” cries Courtney, jumping out from behind me.

  “WHAT?!” shrieks Cassidy, bounding to her feet. She crosses the room in two long strides and grabs her sister in a bear hug. “No way! What are you doing here? I thought you had midterms?”

  “You don’t think I’d miss watching my baby sister win the National Hockey Championships this weekend, do you?” Courtney tells her.

  There’s a lot of laughing after that, plus a few tears from Mrs. Sloane-Kinkaid.

  “Happy to have your girls all together again?” asks Stanley, passing her a tissue, and she nods, blowing her nose.

  “So that’s where you disappeared to after dinner,” Cassidy says to him accusingly. “You went to the airport! And here I thought you were just bailing out and leaving me with the dishes.”

  “Forgive me now?” he replies, grinning.

  “Come on in and have a seat,” my mother tells him. “We’ve got cookies hot out of the oven and tea on the way, and we’re just wrapping up Jane Eyre.”

  “My favorite book,” Stanley says, somehow managing to keep a straight face. From what Cassidy tells me, he’s not much of a reader.

  “I didn’t know you were a Brontë fan,” says my mother, looking impressed.

  Cassidy’s stepfather gives her a sheepish smile. “Clemmie made me watch the DVD with her,” he confesses. “It was actually pretty good, though.”

  When I return with the tea, Courtney is being introduced to Sophie and showing off her ring to my friends. She turns to Gigi as I set the tray down on the coffee table. “What’s this I hear about another engagement?”

  Her mother makes frantic shushing motions. We’ve all been tiptoeing around the subject tonight, since Mrs. Wong is still so worked up about it.

  “It’s fine, Clementine,” says Gigi. “There’s no reason we can’t talk about it. Lily just isn’t used to the idea yet, that’s all. And yes, I’m engaged—to Sophie’s grandfather.”

  Across the room, Sophie is examining the pattern in the carpet. I can’t tell what she thinks about the whole thing—she’s been as closed mouthed about it as Megan’s mother has been vocal.

  “That’s so exciting!” squeals Courtney. “Do you have a ring, too?”

  Gigi shakes her head. “It was very spontaneous,” she says. “It happened last weekend, on our final night in Paris. Edouard is coming to visit in a few weeks, and he’s planning to bring the ring with him then.”

  “I’ll believe it when I see it,” mutters Mrs. Wong.

  My mother says Megan’s mother is worried that Monsieur de Roches is after Gigi’s money. That doesn’t make any sense, though, because Sophie’s family is rich, too, right? I mean, she lives in a mansion! I’ve seen the picture on her dresser.

  “So,” says my mother, changing the subject. “Let’s finish off our discussion of Jane Eyre, shall we? What did you girls think of the rest of the book?”

  “I was pretty mad at Mr. Rochester there for a while,” says Cassidy, shaking her head. She’s sitting on the floor, leaning contentedly against her older sister’s legs. “He completely blindsided Jane. I almost didn’t forgive him.”

  “How about the rest of you girls? What did you think?”

  “Same thing,” says Megan. “But he was so lonely, I sort of understood.”

  “What about that whole attic thing?” asks Becca. “Did anybody else see that coming?”

  “See what coming?” says Jess.

  We all look at her.

  “You didn’t finish the book?” I exclaim. “But you gave me that gorgeous copy for Christmas—I thought you’d read it ages ago.”

  “I’m taking calculus this year!” she protests. “And singing in MadriGals and reading stupid Scarlet Letter. You wouldn’t have finished it either!”

  “How far did you get?” asks her mother.

  “Blanche Ingram.” Her eyes slide over to Sophie, who appears lost in thought.

  “Okay, so no spoilers for Jess,” says my mother. “Can we talk in a general way about the choice Jane is faced with?”

  “I have one word to describe Jane Eyre,” I announce. “Backbone.”

  My mother smiles at me.

  “Jane has grit, I’ll give her that,” Mrs. Sloane-Kinkaid agrees. “It’s not easy to stand up to temptation the way she does.”

  “It certainly isn’t,” says Mrs. Wong, scowling at Gigi.

  Megan rolls her eyes. Her mother can be like a dog with a bone over stuff. They don’t call her Handcuffs Wong for nothing.

  “Grit, backbone—those are great descriptions,” says my mother. “I’d also call it moral courage. Jane is faced with something that goes against her moral code, and she doesn’t give in. She’s true to herself, and to her highest sense of right. We can all learn a lesson from that.” She looks over at Jess and bites her lip. “I guess we’d better not talk about the ending tonight,” she continues. “We’ll save that for another time.”

  “How about fun facts?” says Becca hopefully. “You kind of left us hanging there last time, Mrs. H, remember?”

  “I did indeed,” says my mother, pulling a folder out of her bag. “Want to help me pass them out, Chloe?”

  She gives the sheets of paper to Mr. Kinkaid, and he and Chloe circle the room, handing one to each of us.

  FUN FACTS ABOUT CHARLOTTE

  1) Beginning in the summer of 1846, the Brontë sisters sent off their novels—Charlotte’s The Professor, Emily’s Wuthering Heights, and Anne’s Agnes Grey—to publisher after publisher, receiving nothing but rejection letters.

  2) Meanwhile, Reverend Brontë’s eyesight was failing, and he went to Manchester for an operation. Charlotte accompanied him. To keep herself busy while he recuperated, she began work on a new novel called Jane Eyre.

  3) Both of her sisters eventually received offers to publish their novels, but The Professor was turned down again. Bitterly disappointed, Charlotte sent it to one last publisher, William Smith Williams, who also rejected it, but noted its “great literary power,” a compliment that encouraged Charlotte to finish Jane Eyre. She sent it to Williams in August 1847, and he found the story so compelling that he canceled his plans to go out riding with a friend and skipped dinner in order to finish it in one sitting.

  4) Charlotte received an offer within two weeks, and Jane Eyre was rushed into print, appearing in bookshops that October, a mere six weeks after its acceptance and, in a quirk of fate, before both of her sisters’ novels were published. An instant bestseller, it also received critical acclaim and was called “an extraordinary book” and “decidedly the best novel of the season.” The novelist Thackeray praised it; Queen Victoria read it and loved it; everyone speculated as to its authorship. Who was this Currer Bell?

  5) The Brontë sisters would eventually reveal their identities, but meanwhile tragedy struck the family yet again. A year
later, in the autumn of 1848, Branwell, whose life had spiraled downward into debt and dissolution, died of tuberculosis. Emily, whose Wuthering Heights was savaged by reviewers, caught a cold at Branwell’s funeral and never recovered, passing away a few months later. Anne swiftly followed, dying of consumption three months after that. Her last words were: “Take courage, Charlotte. Take courage.”

  6) Faced with this triple bereavement, Charlotte sought refuge in her work. She pressed on with her writing while living quietly at home with her father in Haworth and eventually published two more novels, Shirley and Villette, earning herself a place among England’s literary elite.

  7) Charlotte described herself as small and plain—not unlike Jane Eyre—but people found her attractive, and she turned down several marriage proposals in her lifetime. One suitor, her father’s curate Arthur Bell Nichols, persisted, and after some hesitation (and against Patrick Brontë’s wishes) Charlotte finally accepted him. She found to her surprise that marriage agreed with her. “My heart is knit to him,” she wrote a friend in 1855. “He is so tender, so good, helpful, patient.” Her happiness was short-lived, alas. Less than a year after her wedding, Charlotte died in the early stages of pregnancy, three weeks before her 39th birthday.

  8) “As good as she was gifted,” is how Charlotte’s husband described her, and Charlotte Brontë was indeed gifted. Her novels, with their brilliant, brooding heroes and fiery, independent heroines—not to mention their keen insights into the social conditions of the day—continue to live on, capturing the hearts and minds of readers around the world.

  Cassidy flings herself facedown on the rug. “I can’t stand it,” she moans dramatically. “These are terrible facts! First Jean Webster; then Jane Austen; and now Charlotte. Why does every writer we read have to die?”

  “Take courage,” quips my mother. “I don’t like it any better than you do, Cassidy, but to some extent, that was just the way things were in the nineteenth century. We live in a much different world today. For instance, the average life expectancy in the town of Haworth during Charlotte’s lifetime was a mere twenty-five years—largely due to poor sanitation.”

  “They could have used a wastewater treatment plant,” adds Mrs. Wong, who never passes up an opportunity to be Mrs. Wong.