Wish You Were Eyre

  “Better than Kimball Farm?” Emma asks.

  Gigi holds up both palms, as if weighing the two options. “That would be a difficult decision,” she says finally, and turns to Megan. “Sounds to me like you have a date, ma chérie.”

  Megan’s face flushes, but she looks pleased.

  “One more present,” I tell her, passing her my box.

  “Gee, I wonder what this is?” Megan smiles at me as she slips off the ribbon.

  “Haven’t a clue,” I reply airily.

  “Bunny slippers!” She holds them up for everybody to see. “Thanks, Becca—they’re just what I wanted.” She leans over and gives me a hug.

  Sophie’s gaze slides over in my direction. She smirks at me, and I can feel my face grow hot. It’s what Megan asked for! I want to shout at her. And besides, it’s not like you got her anything.

  “My present is waiting for you in Paris,” Gigi tells Megan. “You don’t mind if you can’t unwrap it for a couple of months, do you?”

  Megan shakes her head. “I’ve been waiting for Paris my whole life. I can wait a little longer.”

  “And now Paris has come to us,” says Mrs. Wong, slipping an arm around Sophie’s shoulders. “With a wonderful surprise present called Sophie, our borrowed daughter.”

  Sophie looks down at the floor, but one corner of her mouth quirks up in a half smile. Megan looks like she wants to barf.

  “Let’s not worry about Sophie any more tonight,” Emma tells her a few minutes later, as we all head downstairs to the family-room-turned-dance club. “Let’s just have fun, okay?”

  For the most part we’re successful. Mr. Wong did a phenomenal job with the decorations—there’s black fabric draped over all the walls, and pinned to it is a galaxy of silver stars and big silver letters that spell out HAPPY SWEET SIXTEEN, MEGAN! Overhead, the glittering disco ball rotates, sending a shower of sparkles into every corner of the room. The DJ is great, too—he’s put together an awesome playlist that has us dancing to everything from Michael Jackson to Cyndi Lauper, the Beastie Boys, and a bunch of other people whose names I don’t know but whose music I’ve heard before.

  “So what’s the deal with this chick?” asks Cassidy a while later, slouching over to where Megan and Ashley and Emma and I are sitting on a sofa, taking a break. She jerks her thumb across the room to where Sophie is holding court, perched on a stool by the soda fountain that the Wongs imported for the party. Every other guy in the room besides Darcy, who is slow dancing with Jess under the disco ball, is clustered around, hanging on her every word.

  “She’s like one of those bug lights that attracts mosquitoes,” I grumble.

  “Or Velcro,” says Megan, and Cassidy grins.

  “Mademoiselle Velcro,” she says, holding up two fingers to form a V. “Oh yeah.”

  “It’s the cute accent,” says Ashley.

  “It’s her eyelashes—nobody has eyelashes that long,” I suggest.

  “It’s Gigi’s earrings,” adds Megan with a sigh.

  “Whatever it is, it’s not fair,” says Emma, glumly eyeing Stewart, who’s laughing at something Sophie just said.

  “It’s disgusting,” agrees Megan.

  “Revolting,” adds Cassidy.

  “Nauseating,” I conclude, turning to Ashley. “This is called the synonym game, by the way.”

  She smiles. “So that’s how it works! I always wondered.” Her gaze drifts back to Sophie. “One thing’s for sure—she’s certainly shaking up Concord, and she hasn’t even been here forty-eight hours yet.”

  “I’ve about had it with her already,” says Emma, standing up. “I’m going to go ask Stewart to dance.”

  “Better get used to it,” I tell her. “She’s here until June.” I look over at Zach Norton, who appears to be practicing his French. June can’t come soon enough for me.

  Jess

  “Mrs. Harden, be it observed, was the housekeeper: a woman after Mr. Brocklehurst’s own heart, made up of equal parts whalebone and iron.”

  —Jane Eyre

  “I’d like to start our meeting this afternoon by welcoming our newest book club member, Sophie Fairfax.” Mrs. Hawthorne smiles at the French girl. “We’re so happy you can join us.”

  I glance over at Megan, who doesn’t look happy at all. I can’t really blame her anymore, now that I’ve seen Sophie in action. I’m just grateful that Darcy seems immune to her charms. He was polite and everything at the party last night, of course—it’s not like he ignored her—but he wasn’t falling all over himself to impress her, the way most of the other guys were. Even Kevin Mullins!

  And poor Emma. Stewart was right there in the thick of things.

  Most of all, though, I feel sorry for Megan. Coco’s obvious preference for Sophie is annoying, but more than that, I can only imagine how I’d feel if my family went suddenly gaga over a houseguest the way Megan’s family has over Sophie. It reminds me of when we first got Spice, the younger of our two Shetland sheepdogs. Sugar moped around the farm for weeks, certain that she’d been replaced by somebody younger and cuter than she was. Or the way I felt when my mother went to New York to be on a soap opera called HeartBeats, and I had to share her with the rest of the world.

  “Are you enjoying Concord so far?” my mother asks Sophie. “You certainly arrived on a busy weekend, what with Megan’s birthday party and all.”

  Sophie smiles politely. “Yes, thank you, it is very nice here.”

  “Can you tell us a little about yourself?” my mother continues. “Do you have brothers and sisters? What do you like to do for fun?”

  “No brothers or sisters,” Sophie replies, shifting uncomfortably in her chair. “And for fun I like very much photography”—she pronounces it the French way, “fo-to-graph-ee,” with the accent on the last syllable—“and also, how you say, cinema?”

  “Movies?” Mrs. Hawthorne asks, and Sophie nods. “Wonderful. We all like movies, too, so you’ll find plenty of kindred spirits here.”

  Emma shoots me a look, one that says I don’t think so.

  “Etes-vous un member d’un club de lecture à Paris?” asks Cassidy’s mother, tucking a strand of her long blond hair behind her ear. I didn’t know that Mrs. Sloane-Kinkaid spoke French. Maybe it’s because she used to be model a long time ago, before she became a mom. Models probably spend a lot of time in Europe.

  Sophie shakes her head and murmurs something rapidly back in French.

  “She says they don’t have mother-daughter book clubs in France, or at least she’s never heard of one,” Cassidy’s mother tells us, and Gigi nods in agreeement.

  “Well, you’re in one now, and as I’m sure Megan has told you, we’re currently reading Jane Eyre,” Mrs. Hawthorne continues. “Are you familiar with it?”

  Sophie nods. “Oui. Yes.”

  “Wonderful! Feel free to chime in anytime. You’ll see how it all works as we go along.”

  We’re sitting in Becca’s living room. The Chadwicks’ house used to be super formal, but ever since Mrs. Chadwick started her landscape design classes, I noticed she’s been changing things up a little. She brought in some big potted plants and rearranged the furniture and added a few bright throw pillows. Just a few small details, but it’s made the room a whole lot cozier.

  “So, what does everyone think of the book so far? Jess?”

  “I like it,” I tell Emma’s mom. “It’s different from the other books we’ve read, though. It’s kind of, I don’t know, dark. All that rain and that big gloomy house Jane lives in with her horrible cousins and that awful school and everything.”

  I can’t help it; my eyes slide automatically over to Sophie as the words “horrible cousins” come out of my mouth. She doesn’t seem to notice, though. She’s too busy patting Yo-Yo, the Chadwicks’ Labradoodle.

  “It’s a good book to read this time of year,” says Mrs. Chadwick. “Especially with all this snow. It makes me want to curl up under a blanket with a cup of tea.”

  My mother la
ughs. “Every book I read makes me want to curl up under a blanket with a cup of tea,” she says. “Speaking of which, pour me a refill, would you, Calliope?”

  She passes her cup to Mrs. Chadwick, who reaches for the teapot on the table.

  “I know what you mean, Shannon, but Jane Eyre gives me that feeling even more than usual,” says Cassidy’s mother. “Reading it takes me right to those bleak Yorkshire moors.”

  All the moms nod in agreement. Sophie watches them surreptitiously, her expression unreadable.

  “How do you think Jane herself stacks up so far against the main characters in the other books we’ve read?” asks Mrs. Hawthorne.

  “She’s different,” says Becca. “Spunkier, maybe?”

  “Jo March in Little Women has plenty of spunk!” protests Mrs. Wong.

  “And Elizabeth Bennet is no pushover in Pride and Prejudice,” adds Emma. She loves Elizabeth Bennet.

  “Becca’s right, though, Jane is different,” says Cassidy. “She’s only ten—at least in the part I’ve read so far—but she doesn’t put up with any, uh, you know, crud. I loved the way she stood up to that bratty cousin of hers.”

  “You mean John Reed?” says Emma.

  “Yeah, the fat kid who bullied her and threw a book at her head. Jane was awesome in that scene! If she lived here in Concord I’d recruit her for Chicks with Sticks and have her out on the ice in a hot second.” Cassidy mimes slapping a hockey stick against a puck.

  “I can’t believe how mean everyone is to her!” says Megan. “Even her aunt—locking her in that creepy red room for punishment.”

  “The room where her uncle died,” adds Gigi with a shudder. “Very bad feng shui.”

  “And as if that kind of mental cruelty isn’t bad enough,” adds my mother, “she sends her off to that nasty boarding school—”

  “—with that awful Mr. Brocklehurst,” I finish. Just thinking about him gives me the shivers. Charlotte Brontë’s a great writer, and I can totally picture him in my head, all tall and stern with that big nose and prominent teeth.

  “A show of hands, please, for everyone who’s eager to transfer to Lowood School!” jokes Mrs. Chadwick.

  “I’m glad Alcott High isn’t like Lowood,” says Becca. “I wouldn’t have lasted two minutes.”

  Her mother’s smile fades, and she looks at Becca wistfully. She’s always saying how so many of her happiest memories are from when she was a student at Colonial Academy, and she’s still a little sad that Becca isn’t a student there herself. Couldn’t be one, really. Becca doesn’t have the grades. Even if she did, it’s not like she would have wanted to go. Colonial Academy is an all-girls’ school, and boys are Becca Chadwick’s number one priority in life.

  It’s not that I don’t like boys—I do. Especially Darcy Hawthorne. But I love Colonial, and I feel incredibly lucky to be going there. It still amazes me the way it dropped into my life the way it did, thanks to Mrs. Chadwick recommending me for the Founder’s scholarship. I love all my teachers and classes—even calculus—and I get to go horseback riding for P.E., and sing in MadriGals, and have the fun of living in the dorm during the week. Plus, because it’s a local school, I get to keep my regular Concord life with my family and friends on the weekends, too. It’s like I have the best of both worlds.

  Out of the corner of my eye I see Mrs. Hawthorne prod Emma with her toe and nod significantly in Sophie’s direction. Emma sighs and turns to the French girl. “What’s your school at home like?” she asks politely.

  I’m guessing Emma must have gotten the mom lecture before book club, too. The one that said, “Be nice to Annabelle’s cousin; she’s a long way from home.” I’m pretty sure we all did.

  “It’s fine,” Sophie replies coolly, not bothering to tear her gaze away from Yo-Yo. “School is school.”

  Emma glances over at her mother and shrugs, as if to say Hey, I tried.

  Cassidy, who’s sitting on the hearth stirring the fire with a poker, suddenly turns around and grins at Becca. “Do you remember when you guys served us cornmeal mush for book club?”

  “Whatever, Cassidy. That was ages ago!” Becca sounds a little offended. She’s right, though, it was back in eighth grade. We were reading Daddy-Long-Legs, and Judy Abbott, the main character, lived in an orphanage, so Mrs. Chadwick got it into her head that serving us the glop they gave the orphans would open our eyes to the plight of the less fortunate. Not exactly fun for a book club meeting, especially when you’re expecting maybe cupcakes or something.

  “We did go a little overboard, didn’t we?” says Mrs. Chadwick with a rueful smile.

  “We?” Becca sounds annoyed. “It was all your idea, Mom, remember?”

  Her mother raises her hands in surrender. “All right, all right. I accept full responsibility for the loathsome mush. Not one of my better moments. But have I not redeemed myself tonight?” She gestures at the coffee table, which is scattered with the remains of our feast: a high tea direct from Yorkshire featuring seed cake and scones with whipped cream, lemon curd, and jam.

  “Oh yeah,” says Cassidy, dipping her forefinger into the nearly empty dish of whipped cream. “Definitely. Anyway, I guess reading Jane Eyre just reminded me of that night, that’s all. Jane’s an orphan, too, just like Judy Abbott.” She licks her finger pensively. “What’s the deal with orphans in books, anyway? There’s a ton of them—Anne in Anne of Green Gables was an orphan, too.”

  “Good question, Cassidy,” says Mrs. Hawthorne. “Anybody want to respond?”

  Emma’s hand shoots up.

  “Emma!” we all chorus, and she sheepishly takes it down. Old habits die hard, and Emma just can’t seem to break this one.

  Her mother smiles at her. “Yes?”

  “I think there are two reasons for orphans in literature,” Emma replies. “One is because everybody feels sorry for them, so using one as a main character makes the reader sympathetic to them right off the bat. Plus, I read somewhere that a lot of books get the parents out of the way in order for the focus to be on the main character and how they deal with their problems.”

  “Authors kill off the parents on purpose?” Mrs. Wong’s voice swoops up indignantly. “Really?”

  “Haven’t you ever noticed that before, Mom?” says Megan.

  Her mother shakes her head. “No! I think it’s cold-blooded and horrible, if it’s true. What’s wrong with having parents in books?”

  “Nothing, Lily,” says Mrs. Hawthorne, who’s probably sorry she brought the whole thing up. “And there are plenty of books out there where the parents are very much alive and kicking. Remember Marmee in Little Women? And Mr. and Mrs. Ray in the Betsy-Tacy series?” She digs around in the tote bag by her feet. “Moving right along,” she continues, pulling out a folder. “I think it’s time for this month’s fun facts. And then I have a couple of announcements to make.”

  She passes us each a handout. Sophie, who has been following this whole exchange quietly, looks at hers without expression.

  FUN FACTS ABOUT CHARLOTTE

  1) Charlotte Brontë was born April 21, 1816 in Thornton, England.

  2) She was the third of six children born to Maria Branwell Brontë, a merchant’s daughter from Cornwall, and Patrick Brontë, an Irishman who rose from humble roots to be educated as a clergyman at Cambridge University. Charlotte had two older sisters, Maria and Elizabeth; two younger sisters, Emily and Anne; and a younger brother, Branwell.

  3) Reverend Brontë was appointed to St. Michaels and All Angels Church in the village of Haworth when Charlotte was four, and the family moved into the parsonage. A large, plain stone house, it stood across from the church graveyard and had for its backyard the sweeping Yorkshire moors where the Brontë children loved to roam and play.

  4) Charlotte was just five years old when her mother died. Her father made several unsuccessful attempts to remarry (no one seemed interested in taking on a widower with six children under the age of eight). Eventually, the children’s aunt Elizabeth, a spi
nster, moved in with the family to help care for them. She wasn’t especially fond of children, but the Brontës also had a warm-hearted housekeeper, Tabitha Aykroyd, whom the family called Tabby, who loved to tell stories and local legends around the kitchen fire.

  5) When Charlotte was eight years old, she was sent with Maria and Elizabeth to the Clergy Daughters’ School in Cowan Bridge, Lancashire. Its harsh conditions would later become the model for Lowood School in her novel Jane Eyre.

  6) Both of Charlotte’s older sisters died after contracting tuberculosis at the school. Charlotte and her sister Emily, who had joined them in Cowan Bridge by this time, were brought home by their father. Charlotte would eventually immortalize her beloved older sister Maria as Jane’s angelic, doomed friend Helen Burns in Jane Eyre.

  “What a sad childhood,” I exclaim. “I can’t believe how many people in her family died. Her mother and both her older sisters?”

  I see Cassidy and her mother exchange a glance, and could have bitten my tongue. Sometimes I forget that Cassidy’s father died. It was a long time ago, but still.

  “You’ll want to pay close attention to the details of Charlotte’s life as we learn about them,” says Mrs. Hawthorne. “She’s a writer who drew a great deal on her own experience for her novels.”

  “You mean like Lowood School?” asks Becca, looking at our handout.

  “Exactly,” says Mrs. Hawthorne.

  “I figured she was exaggerating when she described it, but I guess not.”

  Mrs. Hawthorne shakes her head. “On a happier note,” she says, “I’ve arranged a special treat for next month’s meeting. Tristan and Simon Berkeley will be joining us via videoconference, with more ‘fun facts’ direct from Yorkshire!”

  A current of excitement ripples through the room. I see Megan perk up at the mention of Simon’s name, and so does Sophie, who looks interested for the first time all afternoon.

  “How did you manage to arrange that, Phoebe?” my mother asks.

  “Sarah Berkeley sent me an email the other day, and she mentioned that Simon’s taking an elective at school this year in filmmaking,” Emma’s mother replies. She looks over at Sophie. “Maybe Alcott High has one, too, since you’re interested in cinema and photography.”