“Great idea! I’ll check into it when we register her tomorrow,” says Mrs. Wong, making a note.
“At any rate,” Mrs. Hawthorne continues, “I knew that Professor Berkeley is lecturing at the University of York this winter and that Sarah and the boys have been visiting him on the weekends. I just connected the dots. It occurred to me that perhaps they’d be open to filming some of the Brontë hot spots—the Haworth parsonage, that sort of thing—since we can’t be on location this time around.”
“We can show everybody some of our pictures, too,” says Emma, whose family visited Yorkshire when they lived in England last year.
“You bet,” her mother replies. “And I have some brochures and maps and things I’ll bring to next month’s meeting as well. Meanwhile, let’s plan to read through chapter fourteen. The setting will move from Lowood to a grand country house called Thornfield Hall, where you’ll meet a young French girl by the name of Adele Varens—”
“Annoying plot device!” whispers Emma.
“Emma!” says her mother, frowning at her.
“Sorry, Mom, but you’ve got to admit that’s what she is.”
Ignoring her, Mrs. Hawthorne turns again to Sophie. “I’m hoping you might be willing to help us with some of the French phrases and passages, when we get to them,” she says. “Charlotte Brontë doesn’t always translate them for us in her text.” Sophie nods, and Mrs. Hawthorne continues, “You’ll also be meeting one of the most famous men in English literature: Edward Rochester.”
Mrs. Wong sighs happily. “Right up there with Mr. Darcy, right, Phoebe?”
Mrs. Hawthorne gives her a withering look. “No one is right up there with Fitzwilliam Darcy.” Emma’s mother is nuts about Jane Austen’s books, and she’s totally in love with Mr. Darcy from Pride and Prejudice. Emma calls it a “literary crush.”
“I guess it’s a matter of taste,” says Cassidy’s mother. “I’ve always liked the dark, brooding types myself.”
My friends and I look at one another and burst out laughing. Stanley Kinkaid, Cassidy’s stepfather, is short and bald and cheerful, and about as far from dark and brooding as you could possibly get.
“I have one more announcement to make,” says Mrs. Hawthorne. “My friend Melanie Jacobs called over the weekend, and it looks like the Wyoming girls are finally coming to Concord! They’re planning to head our way over spring break.”
“But I’ll be in Paris!” wails Megan.
“And I’m going to Minnesota with Gram!” says Becca.
“Not to worry,” Mrs. Hawthorne replies. “You’ll all be here—spring break in Wyoming falls the week before ours.”
“So we’ll be in school the whole time?” says Emma. “That’s no fun!”
“We’ll arrange it so that they do their sightseeing during the day while you girls are in classes—you’ve seen all the places they’re going to want to visit anyway—and we’ll plan lots of activities for after school and in the evenings,” Mrs. Hawthorne explains.
“Maybe your boss will even give you some time off,” Gigi tells Becca, who smiles.
I’m really excited to hear this news. The same year we read Daddy-Long-Legs, we teamed up with a mother-daughter book club out West, and were each assigned one of the girls as a pen pal. We all ended up going out to Wyoming for a summer vacation, which was amazing because we got to stay at a dude ranch and ride every day. Ever since, our pen pals have been hoping to come see us. And now it’s finally happening!
“In honor of their upcoming trip,” Mrs. Hawthorne continues, “they’ve decided that a little solidarity is in order, so they’re reading Jane Eyre, too. I thought we’d plan a special joint book club meeting while they’re in town. Among other things we’ll plan for them, of course.”
“They must visit Walden Pond,” says Mrs. Chadwick, whipping out a clipboard from who knows where and making a note. Becca’s mother is addicted to clipboards. “And the historical sites, of course—the Old North Bridge, Sleepy Hollow Cemetery, Ralph Waldo Emerson’s home.”
“Bet that’s at the top of their list of must-sees,” whispers Cassidy at the mention of this last destination, which has to be one of Concord’s most boring museums. I stifle a giggle.
“Don’t forget Orchard House,” adds Emma.
Orchard House is where Louisa May Alcott lived when she wrote Little Women, and it’s always been one of Emma’s favorite places in town. She wants to be a writer someday, and she practically worships Louisa May Alcott.
“Right,” says Mrs. Chadwick, making another note.
“I’ll get started on packets for them,” says Mrs. Wong. “They’ll need maps, too.”
Megan’s mother loves packets and maps almost as much as Mrs. Chadwick loves clipboards.
“I can see that their itinerary is in good hands,” says Mrs. Hawthorne. “Any other ideas of things they should do, girls?”
“Will Kimball’s be open?” asks Megan.
“Probably not,” says my mother. “It’s a bit early in the season for ice cream.”
“The Red Sox won’t be playing, either,” says Cassidy, sounding disappointed.
“But they can come to a Chicks with Sticks practice,” Emma points out, and Cassidy brightens at this idea.
“How about we schedule a welcome party at the tea shop in their honor?” says Gigi. “A real Pies & Prejudice feast.”
“Excellent.” Mrs. Chadwick jots this down, too. “And perhaps they’d like a tour of your cheese-making operation at Half Moon Farm, Shannon?”
My mother nods. “Absolutely.” Our family raises goats, and a few years ago my parents started selling goat cheese commercially. The business has really taken off since then.
Mrs. Sloane-Kinkaid leans forward in her chair, her eyes alight with excitement. “I’ve got an idea! How about I talk to Fred Goldberg, my producer, and see if we can work in a Cooking with Clementine episode featuring both book clubs?”
“Fun!” says Mrs. Hawthorne. “I’ll bet the girls from Gopher Hole would love that.”
Sophie looks puzzled. “Gopher Hole? What is Gopher Hole?”
“Where, not what,” Mrs. Wong tells her. “It’s the name of the town in Wyoming where the girls live.”
“But isn’t a gopher a . . .” She pauses, searching around for the right word “ . . . a rat?”
Megan’s mother looks at Mrs. Hawthorne for support.
“Technically, a gopher is a rodent,” Mrs. Hawthorne concedes. “But they’re much cuter than rats. They’re also called prairie dogs.”
Sophie’s lips curl up in a smirk. “Gopher Hole,” she repeats softly. I guess for someone who lives in a chateau, a little town in Wyoming with a name like that must sound really podunk. And I have to admit, we thought it was funny at first too. But it’s still not very nice of her to laugh at it.
“C’est une ville très charmant,” Gigi tells her. “Vraiment. C’est le Wild West, avec les cowboys et les chevaux!”
“Something about cowboys and horses,” Megan whispers to the rest of us.
Stewart drifts in just then, eyeing the lone remaining scone on the tea tray.
“Help yourself,” his mother tells him, and he does, settling down on the floor by Emma. Sophie, who is sitting across from them, suddenly comes to life. She quickly rearranges her smirk into a big smile, and Stewart smiles back at her.
Cassidy elbows me and flashes a surreptitious V sign. “Mademoiselle Velcro,” she mutters, and I nod.
Emma is scowling at Stewart, but he’s oblivious because he’s too busy grinning like a doofus at the French girl. What is it about Sophie? It’s like one of those pheromones I learned about in AP biology, that invisible scent thing that insects give off when they’re attracting a mate. Sophie’s definitely got something major in that department going on.
I decide that this calls for a new Latin name, like the one I gave Becca Chadwick a couple of years ago: Chadwickius frenemus. Chadwickius because that’s her species, and frenemus because she can
be a frenemy sometimes. I frown, watching Sophie, who only has eyes—big green eyes, with ridiculously long eyelashes—for Stewart.
Fairfaxium flirtium, maybe? You’d think that Stewart would see right through Sophie, she’s so obvious, but he’s swallowed the bait hook, line, and sinker. I think Cassidy’s already got the best name for her, though. Mademoiselle Velcro fits her to a T.
Our moms have gotten up by now and are busy clearing away the dishes and gathering up books and papers and coats. They linger in the front hall for a few minutes, talking about the scandal involving Mayor Perkins. Then my mother pokes her head back in the living room.
“Jess? Time to go, sweetheart, if you can peel yourself away.”
I glance at the clock on the mantel and scramble to my feet. I’m due back on campus in fifteen minutes. I told my roommates I’d meet them for dinner.
Our dorm has a tradition on Sunday nights called Movie Madness. Mr. and Mrs. McKinley, our houseparents, started it years ago. They’re both kind of crazy about old movies, so they show one on the big screen TV in the basement rec room every week. We all come in our pajamas and robes. You don’t have to go if you have too much homework, but almost everybody does. It’s too much fun to miss.
“Bye, guys!” I tell my friends. Grabbing my jacket, I follow my mother out the front door.
She dangles the car keys in front of me as we head to where our car is parked. I take them from her and slide in behind the wheel. My birthday was last month, but I had to wait until I got my cast off to get my license. I’m still not used to driving the new minivan, though. My parents finally replaced the old car, which we’d had for as long as I could remember. I’m glad they didn’t replace the farm truck—it’s still going strong, even though it’s ancient. I like driving it best, because it smells like barn and I love sitting up high. It’s kind of like riding Led or Zep, one of our big Belgian horses. The minivan isn’t nearly as fun, but it’s practical, what with my not-so-little-anymore brothers and their swim team friends to haul around, plus all of Half Moon Farm’s cheese and produce deliveries.
It’s just a short drive to school, and a few minutes later I pull into a parking spot by the front gate.
“Break a leg tomorrow, sweetheart,” my mother tells me. “Well, not really. One broken leg is enough for a lifetime.” She smiles. “You know what I mean, though. And call me afterward, okay?” She knows how hard I’ve been working on my MadriGals solo audition.
“I will.”
We both get out of the car, and she comes around to my side to give me a hug. “Don’t forget this,” she says, shoving a cookie tin into my hands.
My mother made her special triple chocolate cookies for me and my roommates. I’ll have to hide them when I get to the dorm. Fights have been known to break out over these cookies.
“Thanks, Mom,” I tell her, slipping the tin into my backpack. I wave as she drives off, feeling a tiny pang as I imagine what’s waiting for her back home. My dad always makes waffles for Sunday supper in the wintertime, and then, after any last chores, we have what he calls our tech-free night—no cell phones, TV, video games, or anything with a plug or switch allowed. Instead, we all hang out by the fire in the keeping room, the small family room off our kitchen, where we read, play board games, catch up on homework, and just talk. It’s my favorite night of the week.
Sunday nights are fun here at school as well, though, I remind myself, and shouldering my backpack I head through the front gates and across the quad to the dining hall.
I’m happy to see that waffles are on the menu for supper here at Colonial, too. It’s like a little reminder of home. Not that I get homesick anymore. It’s hard to believe that I ever did, since Half Moon Farm is just a couple of miles down the road. But I was pretty miserable when I first started going here back in eighth grade.
“Hey roomie—how was Megan’s party?” Frankie asks as I plunk my tray down beside hers at one of the long tables. Frankie is Francesca Norris. She has dark curly hair and dark eyes, and she’s from New York City. Adele Bixby, one of our other roommates, is sitting across from her. Adele is from San Francisco, and she’s the exact same height as Frankie. From the back it’s hard to tell them apart, except that Adele’s hair isn’t curly. Plus she has blue eyes. Adele sings in MadriGals with me; Frankie’s a dancer.
I launch into a description of our hilarious ’80s getups, then pull out my cell phone to show them all the pictures.
“Who’s that?” asks Adele, pointing to a picture of Sophie. “She’s really pretty.”
“Who’s pretty?” asks Savannah Sinclair, sliding in beside us and flipping her long, chestnut-brown hair back over her shoulder. “Are y’all talking about me again?”
Frankie grins and tosses a piece of waffle at her. “Whatever.”
Savannah laughs. Sometimes I still can’t believe we’re friends. She’s a senator’s daughter from Georgia, and the two of us were bitter enemies most of my first year here. Now we’re roommates by choice. She’s in MadriGals, too.
I explain all about Sophie Fairfax, and her effect on the boys at the party, not to mention Megan’s parents, her grandmother, and Coco.
“Megan’s kitten likes the French girl better than her? Wow, that’s harsh,” says Frankie.
I nod. “I can only imagine what it’s going to be like tomorrow when she lands at Alcott High. I’m picturing hallways littered with twitterpated males.”
“C’est horrible,” says Savannah with a shudder. She speaks fluent French, thanks to a bunch of au pairs and nannies she had when she was growing up. “It’s like the worst birthday ever.”
“Yeah, Megan’s not too happy. I thought she was overreacting at first, but then I saw Sophie in action.”
After dinner, we clear our trays and head back to the dorm. The four of us are sharing a quad this year on the top floor of Elliot, the sophomore dormitory. We busy ourselves with homework, and somehow I manage to wrestle through the remainder of my calculus problems in time for Movie Madness.
“Who’s making dessert this week?” asks Adele as the four of us change into our pajamas and robes and troop downstairs. Every week a different part of the dorm is responsible for the treats.
“Uh, B Hall I think,” Savannah replies. “I heard someone mention gingerbread.”
Sure enough, big platters of warm gingerbread are waiting for us in the rec room. I help myself to a piece before settling next to Frankie on one of the sofas. The McKinleys got wind of the fact that my book club is reading Jane Eyre, and they picked an old black-and-white version for us to watch tonight.
“It’s not terribly true to the story,” our house pop tells us by way of introduction, “but it’s one of Mrs. McKinley’s favorites, thanks to the brooding presence of a young Orson Welles.” He cups his hand by his mouth and whispers conspiratorially, “I think I have some competition!” We all laugh. “And speaking of young,” he adds, “be on the lookout for Elizabeth Taylor in a very early, uncredited film role, as Jane’s friend Helen.”
I pull my cell phone out of my bathrobe pocket and text Emma to see if she’s seen this version.
OH YEAH, she texts back. KIND OF STUPID. MY MOM AND I LIKE THE ONE WITH TIMOTHY DALTON BEST.
“And now, ladies, cell phones off, and please enjoy the show.”
“I hope I find my Mr. Rochester someday,” sighs Adele later, as we’re heading back upstairs to our room.
I smile to myself, thinking of Darcy. I already have.
My roommates and I promised each other that we’d turn the lights out early, since three of us have solo auditions tomorrow. I lie there for a while in the dark, letting my thoughts drift. Colonial Academy is no Lowood, and my life here is pretty great. Unlike Jane Eyre, I have lots of friends. I love my roommates, and I love our attic room with its view out over the athletic fields and the equestrian center to the woods beyond. I love singing in MadriGals, and I can deal with all my classes even though calculus is hard. There’s a good chance I’ll get straig
ht As again this term, if I can just ace a few more math tests. I tell myself I don’t have to worry about that right now. Right now I need to close my eyes and get some sleep, so my voice will be rested for tomorrow.
I wake up to the sound of dripping. I open my eyes and see sun flooding through the window across from my bunk, melting the icicles that line the eaves outside. It looks like New England’s famous January thaw has finally arrived. A wee bit late, though, since it’s now officially February.
The sunshine puts everyone in a good mood, and the headmistress’s announcement at breakfast makes us even happier.
“The Crandalls had their baby last night!” she tells us, and the whole dining hall erupts in cheers. The Crandalls are really popular houseparents. “Trevor James Crandall arrived shortly after midnight, and mother and baby are doing well. As a reminder, girls, don’t all rush over to Witherspoon at once to see him. Kate will be posting a sign-up sheet for visiting hours starting later in the week. Meanwhile, give the family a little space for rest and privacy.”
When I walk into calculus a little while later, I’m startled to see an unfamiliar face behind the teacher’s desk. I’d totally blanked on the fact that we’d be having a sub! But of course we are—Mr. Crandall is hardly going to show up in the classroom a few hours after his new baby’s arrival.
“Pupils, take your seats,” she tells us as we file into the room.
Pupils? Really? Does anyone still use that word? I slide into my usual spot in the second row and look her over. My first impression is that she’s old. Seriously old—she must be pushing ninety at the very least. Her face looks like one of those wrinkled-up dried-apple dolls you see at craft fairs.
“My name is Mrs. Adler,” the sub continues, “and I’ll be filling in for Mr. Crandall while he’s out on paternity leave.”
Mrs. Adler looks as if she disapproves of paternity leave, and of babies in general. She doesn’t look very happy with us either, and as the hour wears on, she looks even less happy. Calculus is intense, and Mr. Crandall is really great about joking around with us to keep things fun. Well, as fun as calculus can be. This lady never even cracks a smile.