“There’s no need to get snippy about it,” he replies, clearly offended.
“All right, then,” interjects Mrs. Bergson. “I think that’s probably enough for today. I want you both to go home and get a good night’s sleep, and I’ll see you back here in the morning.”
As Tristan skates off in a huff, Mrs. Bergson takes me aside. “Cassidy, two things,” she says. “First of all, don’t let Tristan get under your skin. He’s doesn’t have my perspective. He’s too close to you—quite literally. The two of you are rarely more than a foot apart out there on the ice, and he can’t see the forest for the trees. You’re improving by leaps and bounds, my dear, leaps and bounds.”
“It doesn’t feel that way,” I grumble.
“Trust me, it will. And secondly,” she continues, “I’ve been meaning for some time to tell you what a good job you’re doing with Chicks with Sticks. You’re a natural at coaching, Cassidy. Those little girls just adore you. I know you want to play pro hockey someday, and there’s no reason you can’t, but I hope you think seriously about pursuing a career in coaching at some point too.”
I look over at her, surprised. “Really?”
She nods. “Coaching is a wonderful job. It’s one of the most rewarding things I’ve ever done professionally. There’s nothing like helping others learn to do something you love.”
I feel a warm glow inside from her praise. Leaning down a minute later to unlace my skate, I smile to myself. Mrs. Bergson, a former Olympian, thinks I’m coach material! I’m floating on air as I leave the rink.
Then Tristan completely ruins it.
“Cassidy!” he says, as I emerge into the parking lot.
“What?” I snap, surprised to find him waiting for me.
“Um, I was talking to Stewart Chadwick at lunch the other day, and he says you’re in a book club with Emma Hawthorne, the girl whose house we’re living in.”
“Yeah,” I admit cautiously, wondering where he’s going with this.
“He says you do some sort of videoconference bookclub meetings with her.”
“That’s right.”
“Well, perhaps we could set up a videoconference with Annabelle and our coach back at home,” he suggests. “They could watch us skate, and then give us some pointers.”
I stare at him in disbelief. “Forget it,” I tell him flatly. “It’s bad enough that you criticize me all the time, I don’t need Sti—uh, Annabelle—putting her two cents in as well.”
“That’s not what I meant!” he protests. “Look, I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings back in there. I just wanted to—”
“To what?” I holler at him, all my wounded pride and resentment for the way he’s treated me these last few months boiling over. “Make me feel like a big loser? Well, you’ve done a great job of that, trust me!”
We stand there, eye to eye, glaring at each other.
“Have it your way,” he says finally. “I just wanted to help.” He turns on his heel and so do I, and we both stalk away in a snit.
Final score: Who cares?
Megan
“’He is just what a young man ought to be,’ said she, ‘sensible, good humoured, lively;
and I never saw such happy manners!’”
—Pride and Prejudice
I think Simon Berkeley likes me.
I mean really, truly likes me.
I don’t think I’m making this up—ever since we all went to the movies a while ago he’s been acting differently. He almost always sits next to me at lunchtime, and sometimes I catch him staring at me when he thinks I’m not looking. Last night he called to ask a question about our biology homework, and we ended up talking for, like, half an hour.
I can’t stop thinking about him. I haven’t said a word to anyone—not even Becca. Now I understand why Jess hasn’t told any of us, besides Emma, how she feels about Darcy. It’s something I just want to hug close.
“You’re in a good mood today,” says Gigi when I waltz into the kitchen for breakfast.
“Yup,” I say, giving her a hug and a kiss. I hug my parents, too, who are sitting at the table reading the paper.
“What’s up?” says my dad. “You’re awfully cheerful for a Monday morning.”
“It’s spring,” I tell him. “I like spring.”
Which is totally true. Spring is my favorite season. I love the way the air smells, and the way you can practically hear things growing. I love spring colors, too, all those Easter egg shades and pretty pastels. Fall is the important season for fashion—lots of coats and sweaters and serious clothes, and magazines that weigh about ten pounds—but spring styles have always been my favorite.
Adding to my good mood are the pancakes my grandmother slides onto my plate. Not a speck of whole wheat in sight, just fluffy golden-brown buttermilk pancakes loaded with blueberries and drenched in butter and real maple syrup. I attack them hungrily.
“I talked to Shannon Delaney last night,” my mother tells us. She’s picking at a bowl of the new organic cereal she bought made of something called spelt, but she keeps sneaking bites of pancake off my father’s plate when she thinks he isn’t looking. “She is planning to call Phoebe today with an update.”
Mrs. Hawthorne has been in on our secret from the beginning. We had to tell her about Pies & Prejudice so that she wouldn’t plan any trips for their family during spring break week.
“So are you girls going to surprise Emma when you talk next weekend?” asks my dad. He winks at me as my mother’s fork darts over to his plate again.
I smile. “Maybe,” I reply. “I hope so. I guess it all depends on our sales this week.”
He gets up from the table and kisses the top of my mother’s head, then slides his plate with the remaining pancakes on it over in front of her. She grins up at him sheepishly. Turning to me he asks, “Want a ride to school this morning, pumpkin?”
“Sure.” It’s always nice to get driven to school. I polish off my breakfast, then head to my room to brush my teeth and grab my stuff. I pause to hop online really quick and see if anybody commented on my latest blog post.
I have to admit I’m kind of addicted to Fashionista Jane. I get a kick out of trying to mimic what Emma calls Austen-speak, and I love the way I can be as creative as I want with my postings. It’s kind of like having a magazine of my own. The only downside is I’m still worried that Simon will find out that Fashionista Jane is me. He and his brother are really close, and I guess Tristan was upset for weeks about that photo of him I put on my blog. At the moment, though, this worry is the only tiny rain cloud hovering over my happiness.
I haven’t posted any more Fashion Faux Pas since the Spandex smackdown, even though readers are begging for them. I’ve been sticking to stuff like Closet Makeovers—Becca and I tackled Ashley’s closet last week—and last night I put up a new Wardrobe Remix with odds and ends scrounged from my own closet.
I scroll down to the picture: Last year’s short black denim skirt; a wide, stretchy faux satin black belt I bought almost three years ago; and—this is a first for me—a T-shirt I borrowed from my mother. Gigi brought it home for her from France last year, and I love the skinny black-and-white stripes, and the white satin piping around the boatneck collar.
Sure enough, below it there are a ton of comments waiting for me. Becca and Ashley both gave the remix a thumbs-up, someone who calls herself Angelfire said, “Satin + denim = oh yeah!” and there’s a comment from Emma, too, who wrote, “Fashionista Jane’s gentle readers abroad are greatly indebted to her for keeping them attuned to the latest fashion trends in the colonies.” That is so Emma. She’s really good at Austen-speak.
There are a bunch more comments from people I don’t know, including one from a blogger named “Wolfgang.” I pause when I see that one.
I know a Wolfgang, but he’s the fashion editor of Flash magazine and its teen spin-off Flashlite. Could it be him? But how would he know about Fashionista Jane? I read the comment: “Love your blog, darling! Refr
eshingly snarky, with a pinch of sweet. FABULOUS! Big things ahead for you—contact me!”
It’s got to be the Wolfgang I know. He writes exactly the way my Wolfgang talks.
But what if it’s some weirdo? My mother’s always lecturing me about the dangers of the Internet, and she’s got a point. Frowning, I debate on whether to take a chance or not. There’s no e-mail address, just his blogger name: WOLFGANG.
I decide to risk it. Making sure not to include my phone number or e-mail address or anything, I type a quick reply, and sign it “Flashlite, Vol. 1, Issue 1, p. 21.” If it’s my Wolfgang, he’ll know exactly what that means, because that was the issue of Flashlite magazine that featured an interview with me. If it’s not, well, no harm done, I’ll just delete his comments.
Hoping that it is the Wolfgang I know, I gather my things for school and head out to the car. What could he want to talk to me about, though? I’m still mulling over all the possible answers to that question when my dad drops me off at Alcott High.
As I climb out of the car, I spot Simon Berkeley standing by the flagpole, watching the buses unload. He runs a hand through his curly blond hair and my heart gives a happy lurch as I realize he’s watching for me. I can tell by the way he perks up as my bus pulls in, and then droops in disappointment when the last kid gets off and it isn’t me.
I sneak up behind him. “Hey!”
He spins around and his face lights up. “Megan!”
We stand there grinning at each other.
“My dad drove me to school,” I tell him.
“Oh! That explains—I mean, uh—how nice.”
We smile at each other some more, then he says, “I guess I’ll see you this afternoon in biology.”
“Okay,” I reply. Smooth, real smooth. Why is it I can never think of anything to say around him? “Did you finish your homework?”
“Yes, finally. That question about DNA codes and proteins was beastly.”
I love the way he says that. Beastly. It’s so British. The bell rings and we head across the parking lot.
“You have ceramics today, right?” he asks.
He knows my schedule!
I nod.
“Well, I guess I won’t see you at lunch, then. Too bad.” We get to the door and he holds it open for me, which is like something my dad would do. “Until biology, then.”
“See you!” I reply.
“See you.”
I float down the hall toward math class, smiling to myself. What other high school guy would be polite enough to hold the door for a girl? It’s kind of a dad thing to do, but it is nice, and Fashionista Jane would definitely approve. “Such happy manners the young gentleman displayed!” she’d probably say, or something like that. I should do an Austen-speak blog post about etiquette.
“What’s up with Simon Berkeley?” Becca whispers as I slide into the seat beside her. “I saw you guys outside. What were you talking about?”
I can feel myself turn bright red. I really don’t want Becca poking at this. It’s too . . . new.
“Nothing.”
“Oh, c’mon,” she says. “You can’t tell me he doesn’t like you. Sheesh, Megan, he lights up like a Christmas tree every time you’re around.”
“You really think so?” I ask eagerly. So much for not discussing my crush with Becca.
“Absolutely.”
The happy feeling stays with me all morning. I have a hard time keeping my mind on school and the only class that benefits is ceramics, because all the joy flows down my arms and out my fingers and I make my best creation ever, a stout little pitcher with cheerful curves and a sleek handle. I put a sunny yellow glaze on it. It will make a perfect birthday gift for my mother. She loves handmade stuff.
Afterward, I eat lunch with Kevin Mullins because he’s sitting by himself again and because it’s the right thing to do. He asks me why I’m “overflowing with the milk of human kindness” today—his exact words; I swear the kid is destined never to be normal—and I tell him I’m just happy because it’s spring.
Finally, it’s time for biology class. We’re watching a PowerPoint presentation today about DNA, which means we don’t have to sit with our lab partners. There’s an empty chair next to Simon where Zach usually sits, but he’s off at an away baseball game, and Simon pats it encouragingly. I shoot Becca an apologetic look and cross the room to slide in next to him.
“How was ceramics?” he whispers.
“Great!” I whisper back. “I made a birthday present for my mom.”
The slideshow is incredibly boring—who besides Jess Delaney and Kevin Mullins could possibly care how genetic information is transmitted?—and Simon must think so too, because he keeps slipping me these funny little cartoons of our classmates and Ms. Bates, our teacher. I have to stifle my giggles.
My mother is always going on about how teachers are underpaid, overworked, and underappreciated public servants who deserve our respect, but honestly, Ms. Bates desperately needs a makeover. She dresses, well, like my mother. Lots of stretch pants and natural fibers and comfortable, ugly shoes. Today she’s got on these hideous sandals with cork soles and thick suede straps, and unbelievably, she decided to accessorize with toe socks. Toe socks! And worse, there are smiley faces on them. I can’t resist—I wait until Simon isn’t looking and sneak my cell phone out of my purse, then snap a picture of her feet.
“Um, I was wondering,” Simon says to me as we’re walking out of the classroom together afterward.
“Uh-huh?” I reply eagerly, hoping that maybe he’s going to ask me out. Not that I could go if he did—my parents have decreed that I can’t date until I’m sixteen. Another whole year to go. But still, it would be amazing to be asked.
“Here.” He hands me an envelope.
“What’s this?”
“An invitation. Next Sunday is my birthday, and I’m having a party.”
“Sounds like fun,” I tell him, trying to keep from jumping up and down with excitement. An invitation to a party isn’t a date, exactly, but it’s close.
I don’t remember a thing about the bus ride home. I skim up the driveway and into the house to find a note on the kitchen table letting me know that Mom is at a Riverkeepers meeting and that Gigi and Mrs. Bergson have gone into Boston to have tea at the Ritz. It’s Mrs. Bergson’s birthday treat from my grandmother.
I think about calling Simon to officially RSVP, but decide I’d better wait until I ask my parents first, just to be sure. So I go online instead. There’s a message waiting (“Call me!”) from Wolfgang. He includes his real e-mail address—
[email protected]—this time, along with his phone number. Just to be sure, I google the number, and sure enough, Flash magazine pops up. It’s my Wolfgang. I pick up the phone and call.
“Megan WONG!” he cries when he hears my voice. “I can’t believe it’s YOU, darling! Such a FABULOUS coincidence! I should have known—you’re a genius!”
I’d forgotten how much fun it is to talk to Wolfgang. All of his sentences end in exclamation points. It turns out he’s been hunting for teen bloggers, and is interested in having me do a guest blog once a month for Flashlite online.
“Don’t change a thing, just be your fun snarky-sweet Fashionista Jane self, and it will be FANTASTIC!”
We agree on my first deadline and I hang up the phone, dazed.
“So what did you do today?” my mother asks at dinner.
“Well,” I hesitate, wondering if I should tell them. But it’s too exciting not to share. “I got asked to be a guest blogger for Flashlite online.”
“Wow,” says my dad. “That’s really great.”
“You have a blog?” says my mother.
“I told you about it a few months ago, remember?”
“This is wonderful news,” says Gigi, beaming at me. “My talented granddaughter.”
Honestly, I could make a mud pie and Gigi would think it was the most amazing thing anybody had done, ever. I love her for that.
My mother’s forehea
d crinkles. “Do you think you’ll have time for all this?” she asks. “Blogging, Bébé Soleil, Pies & Prejudice. You’re in high school now, Megan. The grades you get these next four years will go on your permanent record. You need to be thinking about college.”
My mother’s been thinking about college for me since kindergarten.
“It’s not that big a deal, Mom,” I assure her. “It’s only once a month. My fashion blog is just what I do for fun—Wolfgang told me not to agonize over it.”
Two days later, though, I’m at Becca’s house after school, agonizing over it.
“I can’t believe I said yes,” I moan. “Thousands of people are going to be reading this stupid thing.”
“Thousands of people could already be reading your blog,” Becca points out. “Which isn’t stupid, by the way. Your wardrobe remix totally saved my life. I bought that identical belt back in seventh grade, remember? I dug it out and I’m going to wear it tomorrow.”
“You know what I mean,” I tell her. “Plus, what if Simon finds out?”
We’re holed up in Becca’s room, hiding from her mother. Mrs. Chadwick has taken over the dining room as her office, and the table is piled high with books and catalog and big sheets of graph paper. She spent all winter in there, happily studying for her landscape-design classes and sketching new plans for their yard. Now that spring has arrived, she’s corralled Becca and Stewart into helping her with the clipping and pruning and digging and planting. She put me to work last time I was here too, spreading manure with Mr. Chadwick. Not exactly my idea of a fun Saturday afternoon.
“It’s going to look like Versailles,” Mr. Chadwick said sadly, shaking his head. “Our neighbors will run us out of town. We’ll have to go into the witness protection program.”
“Don’t be such a drama queen, Henry,” Mrs. Chadwick scolded. “It’s going to be perfect.”
“Mark my words,” he whispered to Becca and me. “We’ll be sent to live someplace in North Dakota, and our name will be Oinkelmeyer instead of Chadwick.”