Dear Pen Pal

  The back door slams and I hear my father’s voice. “Shannon, can lunch wait a bit? There’s something I want the girls to see.”

  “Sure,” my mother replies. “I haven’t started the grilled cheese yet.”

  Curious, I head back to the kitchen. Savannah follows at a distance.

  My father, who is scrubbing his hands at the sink, looks over at me and smiles. “You’re a godmother, Jess,” he says. “Our herd has new recruits as of about ten minutes ago.”

  I let out a squeal of excitement. There is nothing I love better than baby goats. They’re even cuter than kittens.

  “How about you?” my dad asks Savannah, who is standing in the doorway beside me. “Would you like to see our newborns?”

  “Okay,” she replies politely, flashing me an I’m a Sinclair and I’m too sophisticated for squealing look.

  We follow my dad back outside, and Sugar and Spice come running around the edge of the barn. Savannah’s face suddenly lights up.

  “Shelties!” she says. “I didn’t know y’all had Shelties!” She squats down to pat them. Sugar and Spice wriggle with excitement and leap up to lick her face. “They’re so cute! My grandmother has one too. His name is Beau.”

  “This is Sugar, and this is Spice,” says my father. “How about you, Savannah? Do you have any pets?”

  She shakes her head, tousling her long chestnut-brown hair. “My parents are gone so much of the time, they say it wouldn’t be fair to an animal. I’d love to have one, though.”

  “Well, you’ll get your fill of them this weekend,” my dad replies. “Dogs, cats, horses, chickens, goats—you name it, we’ve got it.”

  Savannah gives Sugar and Spice one last pat, then follows my father and me to the barn.

  “Oh, my gosh, look how sweet you are!” I exclaim softly, kneeling down in the hay next to Sundance and her new little one. “You look just like your mommy, don’t you?”

  Sundance looks up at me and blinks proudly. I lean over and give her a kiss on her forehead. “Good job,” I whisper.

  “She’s a doe,” says my father, glancing over at Savannah. “That’s what girl goats are called.”

  Sundance’s baby has the same soft brown coat and black streak down her nose as her mother does. She gives a tiny bleat as Sundance nudges her.

  “Is this the goat you’re always talking to Frankie and Adele about?” asks Savannah, her forearms leaning on the pen enclosure as she watches us.

  I nod. “Uh-huh. She’s a Nubian. I raised her for a 4-H project.”

  “She’s pretty.”

  I look up, surprised, but Savannah’s attention is on the goats and there doesn’t seem to be a trace of sarcasm in her voice.

  “I’m going to name you Sunbeam,” I say, turning my attention back to the newborn.

  “Come over here and check this out, girls,” says my father, motioning to us.

  We move to the second stall where Matilda, one of our creamy white Saanens, is lying contentedly in the straw. Next to her is a pair of small white forms.

  “Twins!” I gasp. “You didn’t say anything about twins!”

  My father grins at me and puts his finger to his lips. “I wanted to surprise you. Keep it down, though. New mothers don’t need a lot of excitement.” He opens the stall and Savannah and I both tiptoe in. Matilda flicks her ear at us.

  “It’s just me, girl,” I assure her. “And this is Savannah.” We kneel in the straw.

  “Can I pat one?” Savannah asks, gazing at the newborns.

  I nod, and she reaches out cautiously, keeping an eye on Matilda. “The mother won’t bite or anything, will she?”

  “No, she’s all bark,” jokes my dad. “Seriously, we’re family to her. She just thinks of us as a bunch of big goats.”

  “Feel how soft its little coat is!” Savannah’s cheeks are flushed again, but with excitement this time, not embarrassment.

  My father leans over the side of the pen and scoops up one of the babies. “How’d you like to hold one?” he asks, placing it gently on Savannah’s lap.

  “Oh!” she says, breathless. “He’s adorable!”

  She looks up and our eyes meet. She smiles at me—the first real smile I’ve ever received from Savannah Sinclair. Before I can even think about it, I smile back.

  “It’s a doe, actually,” I tell her. “This other one’s a boy. They’re called bucks.”

  My father shoos us out of the pen after a few minutes so Matilda and her newborns can get some rest. I take Savannah around and introduce her to the rest of the herd.

  “I can teach you how to milk one later this afternoon, if you want,” I offer, keeping my voice casual. Somehow I can’t picture a Sinclair wanting anything to do with the business end of a goat. But Savannah surprises me.

  “Okay,” she replies, sounding genuinely enthusiastic.

  When I take her to meet our Belgians, though, her face falls.

  “I know,” I reply ruefully. “Led and Zep aren’t exactly Blackjack and Cairo. But they’re sweet and they work hard and we love them.”

  We stroke their noses and feed them apples and carrots, and then I take her to see the chickens. My brothers materialize at this point, intent on showing off.

  “Call 1-800-Egg-Finders!” Dylan cries, dashing from nest box to nest box and then trotting over to Savannah with a trio of eggs.

  “This one’s from Patsy Cline and this one’s from Dolly Parton and this one’s from Loretta Lynn,” he tells her proudly.

  “You met Loretta earlier, in the hall,” I explain sheepishly. “My mother has a thing for country music.”

  Savannah laughs. “So does my daddy. He’ll get a big kick out of this when I tell him.”

  Dylan hands her an egg. “Eeeew,” she says in surprise, recoiling slightly. “It’s warm!”

  The twins look at her like she has two heads.

  “Well, duh,” says Ryan. “It’s fresh out of a chicken’s hind end.” He tucks his hands into his armpits and squats down, wiggling his bottom and squawking, then pretends to lay an egg. Dylan, of course, thinks this is the funniest thing he’s ever seen and starts laughing hysterically.

  My dad emerges from the creamery. “All right, you two, settle down,” he says. “Go give those eggs to your mother.” He turns to Savannah. “So would you like to see how we make goat cheese?”

  There’s a long silence. Savannah’s face turns bright red. So does mine.

  “Ah,” says my father, suddenly remembering the reason that Savannah’s here in the first place. He clears his throat. “Maybe not, then.” He gives Savannah a sly look. “Guess offering you a taste of Blue Moon is out of the question too, huh?”

  Savannah’s eyes widen in shock, then a smile tugs at the corner of her mouth.

  My dad grins. “Aha!” he says triumphantly. “I knew there was a sense of humor in there!”

  Savannah starts to snicker, and my father joins in and in a minute they’re both laughing as wildly as my brothers were a minute ago. I stare at the two of them in disbelief. Who are you and what have you done with Savannah Sinclair? I want to ask this stranger who looks like my roommate.

  After a tour of the creamery, the twins reappear to let us know that lunch is ready. We follow them outside, where we’re ambushed by a small black creature. He pounces on my sneakers and gives my shoelace a fierce swat.

  “Is this your new kitten?” Savannah asks as I bend down to pick him up.

  I nod.

  “He’s so cute! What did y’all end up naming him?”

  “Elvis,” I tell her, rubbing his nose with my cheek. He bats at the tip of my braid. “My pen pal was right about the Nashville connection. It’s perfect.”

  There’s a bit of an awkward silence, as we both recall what else Madison had to say in her letter. I hold Elvis out to Savannah as a kind of furry peace offering. “Here,” I tell her. “He’s a little wild—he’s a barn cat—but most of the time he’s happy to snuggle.”

  She takes him from m
e and we continue back to the house. My mother looks out the window over the sink and spots us.

  “The cat stays outside, girls,” she calls. “You know the rules, Jess.”

  I look over at Savannah. “Sorry,” I tell her. “No barn cats in the house.”

  “No chickens, either, right?” Savannah says lightly. She smiles at me and sets Elvis down on the back porch. “You stay here and be good, and we’ll come play with you later, okay?”

  Over lunch, my parents pepper Savannah with questions. It doesn’t come across like they’re prying or anything, though, just interested. I find out more about Savannah in one conversation than I have this entire year so far at school.

  “So what’s life like with a senator for a dad?” my mother asks.

  Savannah shrugs. “Fine, I guess,” she replies politely.

  “Do you like living in Washington?” My father passes her the platter of grilled cheese sandwiches, and she takes one.

  “Actually, when I’m not at school, I spend most of my time with my mother at our house in Atlanta.”

  It turns out the Sinclairs have three homes. One in Atlanta, one in Washington—well, Georgetown, which is some swanky neighborhood in D.C. I’ve never heard of but my parents have—and a summer cottage someplace off the Georgia coast called Sea Island. Although I hardly think a house that can sleep twenty counts as a “cottage.”

  Like Megan, Savannah is an only child. Well, almost. She has a stepbrother who’s a whole lot older, like thirty or something. Her father was married before, I guess. She’s traveled a ton, and she had nannies when she was little and has always gone to private school and her parents send her to fancy tennis and equestrian camps every summer. To me, it sounds like she’s bragging, but my mom and dad don’t seem to notice.

  “Do you have any pictures of your family with you?” my mother asks.

  “Yes ma’am—there’s one in my purse,” says Savannah, excusing herself to run upstairs. She returns a minute later with a small photo and hands it to my parents.

  I crane to see it too. It’s a smaller version of one that Savannah has on her dresser back in our dorm room. In it, Savannah is a couple of years younger, and she’s standing between her father, who has silver hair and is wearing a suit and looks very senatorial, and her mother, who’s one of those glossy blondes that so many politicians seem to marry. Savannah looks more like her dad, I think.

  “So are you going anyplace interesting for summer vacation this year?” my dad asks her.

  “Camp again, then Europe,” she replies.

  “Cool!” I try and make my voice all chirpy and enthusiastic, like Becca when she’s talking to boys.

  My mother shoots me a look. “That sounds wonderful, dear.”

  “Not really,” Savannah replies, toying with her sandwich. “Especially Europe. It’s pretty boring. One city’s mostly like another. Plus, my father’s always in some sort of meetings all day, and my mother mostly just wants to shop. It’s okay, I guess, but I’d rather stay home.”

  My parents exchange a glance across the table. Savannah turns to me. “How about you, Jess?” she asks, making an effort to be polite. “Are you going anywhere fun?”

  Does the barn count as fun, I wonder? Summer is our busiest season, and everytime it rolls around I can count on being right here on Half Moon Farm. I shake my head.

  After lunch, Savannah and I go back outside and I teach her how to milk a goat. She’s squeamish at first, but she eventually gets the hang of it. My brothers watch us, hanging on her every word and practicing their “y’all”s and “yes, ma’am”s. It’s like they have a crush on her or something.

  Dinner is a repeat of lunch, with my parents managing to extract even more information out of Savannah. She tells them about MadriGals, and it turns out she loves opera (how was I supposed to know when she’s always got her headphones on?), and that she’s been to the Met a bunch of times. My mom has too, and the two of them start talking excitedly about New York.

  “I was just down there a couple of weekends ago,” Savannah says. “My mom helped me pick out a dress for the Founder’s Day Dance.”

  “This is the first I’ve heard of any dance,” says my dad, looking over at me. “How come you didn’t tell us about it, Jess?”

  I lift a shoulder. “I guess I forgot.”

  “Peyton says they have it every year,” Savannah explains. “Most of the girls ask guys from The Essex School.”

  The Essex School is like the guy version of Colonial Academy. We’ve had a couple of dances with them this year, but I’ve missed them all because they’re on the weekends. Not that I’d want to go anyway.

  My mother glances across the table at me. “Who are you going to ask to the dance, honey?”

  I turn beet red. I’ve been trying to muster my courage for weeks now to ask Darcy Hawthorne.

  “How about Zach Norton?” she suggests.

  “The cute Beast guy in that picture in your room?” says Savannah.

  “That’s him,” my mother tells her. “He’s such a nice young man—I’m sure he’d go with you, Jess.”

  I mumble something and change the subject.

  After supper, my dad takes us to the video store and lets Savannah pick out a movie. My mother makes popcorn and we all cram into the keeping room, the little room off the kitchen that serves as our family room, to watch. My brothers snuggle up next to Savannah on the sofa like a pair of bookends. I watch the movie but I watch her, too, out of the corner of my eye. I’m still not sure quite what to make of this unfamiliar person.

  Later that night, after we’re in bed, I slip downstairs to get a glass of water. My parents are in the kitchen talking in low voices, and I pause in the shadow of the doorway. I don’t mean to eavesdrop, but I can’t help it.

  “Poor kid,” murmurs my mother. “She tries so hard to make her life sound glamorous, but you can tell how lonely she is. Nannies, boarding school, fancy summer camps—it sounds to me like her parents are too busy being important to care much about spending time with their daughter.”

  “Sometimes, all money can buy you is a whole lot of misery,” my dad agrees.

  I peek through the crack in the door. My parents are sitting at the kitchen table, holding hands. They smile at each other over their coffee mugs. I tiptoe back up to my room. Right now, I wouldn’t trade my family, and life at Half Moon Farm, for all the ski vacations or summer cottages in the world.

  “Your parents are really nice,” Savannah whispers as I slip back into bed.

  I’m too surprised at first to reply. This weekend is turning out a whole lot different than I expected. “Yeah,” I say finally. “I know.”

  On the way home from church the next morning, my mother turns around in the truck and smiles at us. “Mrs. Crandall said something about a community service project you’re involved with, Savannah?”

  Savannah nods, slanting me a glance. “I volunteer at the Concord Animal Hospital every Sunday afternoon.”

  I just about fall off the seat when I hear this. Savannah’s never said a word about volunteering anywhere. Of course, I’m never around Colonial Academy on the weekends, but still, you’d think she would have mentioned something.

  “Maybe you can take Jess with you,” says my mother. “It’s such a nice day—you girls could ride bikes there. You can borrow mine, Savannah.”

  An hour later we’ve eaten and changed and my dad has raised the seat on Mom’s bike for Savannah and we’re whizzing down Old Bedford Road toward town. My mother is right—it is a beautiful day. We still need our fleece jackets, because it’s a little chilly, but there are daffodils bursting into bloom everywhere, and overhead, a herd of clouds frisks through the bright blue sky like playful goats. Twenty minutes later we arrive at the shelter, pink-cheeked and breathless.

  If the people at the shelter know that Savannah is the daughter of a United States senator, they don’t make a big deal about it. It’s obvious she’s glad to see them, and they’re equally glad t
o see her. Savannah even has her own locker. She exchanges her fleece jacket for the light blue lab coat that’s hanging in it, and takes me to the front desk to sign in.

  “Welcome, Jess,” the supervisor says, as I sign the clipboard. “I’m Ms. Mitchell. We’re always happy to have more volunteers.”

  She scrounges up another lab coat for me and puts us to work. Savannah Sinclair may not know how to set a table, but she knows how to clean out a cage, that’s for sure. I keep sneaking glances at her, more impressed than I’d like to admit. Maybe it’s all an act, but Savannah is turning out to be more like a real person than I’ve ever thought she could be. The spoiled Southern belle I know from Colonial Academy is nothing like this girl beside me who’s scrubbing away without complaint. And who would ever have guessed that Savannah was almost as big an animal lover as me? This explains why she was so good with our dogs, and with Elvis and our goats.

  The best part of the afternoon comes when we get to take some dogs outside to the fenced yard for exercise. There’s a black standard poodle named Herman who’s gorgeous; Kiva, an elderly malamute; a couple of energetic mutts named Tick and Tock; and Pip, a plump little golden Labrador puppy.

  “We’ve managed to find homes for everyone but him,” Ms. Mitchell tells us, coming out to check on us.

  “But I thought y’all had a family lined up for him,” Savannah replies, looking worried.

  Her supervisor pats her on the arm. “These things happen, dear. Something came up and they had to back out.”

  There’s a rising note of panic in Savannah’s voice. “Can’t you find somebody else to take him?”

  “It’s slow this time of year, kiddo. Things are busy around the holidays and they always pick up later in the spring, but during mud season in New England, nobody’s thinking about puppies, I can assure you. Too much mess.”