“It’s my special Hummus Surprise,” she says.
As far as I’m concerned, any food item with “surprise” in the title is not a good thing, especially if Mrs. Wong is involved, and especially when it looks like something that might have come from Chloe’s diaper.
Megan sees the look on my face and grins. “Don’t worry,” she whispers. “It’s actually pretty good for once.”
We grab our plates and line up, then find places to sit on the grass while our parents head for the picnic table and lawn chairs. I notice Jess drift over next to Darcy Hawthorne. Becca is hovering nearby too, but it’s Jess I keep my eye on. She’s got to be feeling pretty low right about now, losing her best friend and her crush. Jess doesn’t think anybody but Emma knows, but anybody with half a brain cell can tell what’s going on by the way she lights up whenever Darcy is around.
“Maybe you guys will come back with accents,” I tell Emma and her brother.
This gets a grin from Darcy. “Jolly well right we will,” he says in his best James Bond voice.
Jess’s twin brothers, who are almost ten, think this is hilarious, and they leap up and chase each other around the yard, shouting “Jolly well right we will!” in fake British accents until their father tells them to pipe down.
I manage to stuff down two hamburgers, a hot dog, and a couple of ears of corn. “Oh, man, I’m stuffed,” I groan happily, lying back on the grass and patting my stomach.
“Let’s wait on dessert for a bit, then,” says Mrs. Delaney.
“What is it?” I ask, because even though I couldn’t possibly eat another bite, there’s always room for dessert.
She smiles. “Kimball Farm, of course.” Going out for ice cream after our first meeting of the year is a mother-daughter book club tradition. Except as it turns out, this time Kimball Farm has come to us. “There are three gallons in the freezer, courtesy of the Chadwicks.”
“Gentlemen—how about a nice civilized game of croquet while the ladies conduct their business?” asks Mr. Delaney.
Darcy and Stewart Chadwick and our dads shoulder their mallets and head for the course that’s set up in the field behind the barn. I’d follow them if I could move.
Our mothers bring their chairs over to where we’re lolling in the grass.
“Gather round, everybody,” says Mrs. Wong.
I manage to crawl over to my mother and flop down on my back again beside her. Chloe thinks this is a game and squirms her way out of my mother’s lap, then flings herself onto my stomach.
“Oof,” I groan. “Careful, monkey face.”
“Cassidy!” my mother protests.
I grin. “Sorry.”
“Phoebe,” Jess’s mother says, smiling at Mrs. Hawthorne, “you’ve been the captain of this ship for three years now, and with you at the helm our book club has been safely steered through waters both serene and, uh, stormy.” She flicks a glance at the Chadwicks. Things haven’t always been easy with Becca and her mother as part of our group. “Our gratitude knows no bounds, and when Lily and Calliope and Clementine and I got together to plan this party, we all decided that you deserve a well-earned break. And so, we have taken matters into our own hands.”
She reaches into a bag behind her chair and pulls out a present. I know what’s in it, just like I know what’s in Emma’s, but we’ve all been sworn to secrecy. I sit up. My left knee starts bouncing up and down in excited anticipation.
Mrs. Hawthorne tears off the wrapping paper. “Oh,” she says politely, “how nice.”
It’s a paperback copy of Pride and Prejudice. Everybody in Concord knows that Jane Austen is Mrs. Hawthorne’s favorite writer, and that P&P, as she calls it, is her favorite book. She has a gazillion copies of it on her bookshelf at home, but there’s something special about this one.
“Look inside,” I urge.
She opens the book, and her eyes widen as she gets to the end of the inscription, which we all signed. “Really?” she asks, scanning our little circle hopefully.
“Yep,” says Mrs. Wong, grabbing a bag from behind her chair and tossing identical paperback copies of the book to the rest of us. “Absolutely. It’s time. We all agreed.”
“Even me,” I tell her cheerfully, even though personally I’d like a change from all these classics we’ve been reading over the past few years. Something with a little more action, maybe. “What’s one more musty, dusty old book?”
My mother leans down and kisses the top of my head. “And what better year for us all to finally learn about your beloved Jane, Phoebe, than the year you and Emma head to her home turf?”
Mrs. Hawthorne’s face falls. “Oh. But how will we—”
“Wait!” cries Mrs. Delaney. “It gets better!” She reaches into the bag again and emerges with a slim rectangle, brightly wrapped in pink polka-dot paper. She passes it to Emma. “This was Megan’s idea.”
My knee is going like a jackhammer by now. I can’t wait to see Emma’s face when she finds out what’s inside. The Wongs just wanted to go ahead and pay for it, but Jess thought it would be nice if we all chipped in, so that it really would be from all of us. It wasn’t that expensive, and we all have jobs. Not like Megan’s job, of course. Her grandmother wangled this deal for her with a French clothing company called Bébé Soleil, and she has her own line of baby clothes. Still, we all earn a little money of our own. I teach private skating lessons, and Jess and Becca babysit. Although I can’t imagine anyone asking Becca Chadwick to watch their kids. That would be like letting a shark loose in a tank of goldfish.
Emma removes the wrapping paper and opens the box, then pulls out a flat white object not much bigger than the copy of the book that’s lying on the grass beside her. Megan leans over and flips up the lid.
Emma’s mouth drops open. “You guys got me a laptop?!”
“A mini one,” explains Mrs. Wong. “Jerry has one for when he travels, and Megan thought it would be perfect for you. She organized the whole thing.”
Emma’s gaze darts uneasily over to her mother. “I hope it wasn’t too expensive.”
“That’s the beauty of it—netbooks aren’t expensive at all! Everybody chipped in. And look, this is the best part.” Mrs. Wong points to a tiny round hole centered above the computer’s small screen. “It has a webcam! And Wi-Fi, too. You and your mom can still be part of our book club this year. We can videoconference with you.”
Emma’s face lights up. So does her mother’s. We all crowd around as Megan and her mother point out the computer’s features. Mrs. Hawthorne keeps shaking her head. “Such a simple solution. I should have thought of it.”
“It’s a wonder you’ve had time to think of anything at all, Phoebe,” says Mrs. Delaney. “I still can’t believe that you managed to pull off this house swap in such a short time.”
“So are you all packed?” asks Mrs. Chadwick.
Mrs. Hawthorne nods. “I’m just finishing up a list of information for the Berkeleys.”
“When do they arrive?” my mother asks her.
“The day after tomorrow, right after we leave. I’m sorry we won’t be able to meet them—our planes will practically pass in midair.”
“How old are their boys again?” asks Mrs. Wong.
“Simon will be a freshman, just like you girls, and Tristan is a junior like Darcy and Stewart.”
“We’ll be sure to stop by and say hello,” my mother promises.
I can see the wheels spinning in her head already. She’s probably already figured out what she’s going to put in their welcome basket.
“I was counting on that,” says Mrs. Hawthorne. “I’ve left them a list of local contact names and numbers, and yours are all right at the top.”
We talk for a while longer. The light fades, and a few fireflies flicker at the far edge of the yard. Out of the corner of my ear I hear the crack of croquet mallets behind the barn. I’m itching to go join the game, but Chloe’s dozing in my lap and I don’t want to wake her up.
Dylan
and Ryan appear around the corner of the barn. “Is it time for dessert yet?” one of them calls. I still have a hard time telling Jess’s brothers apart.
“Absolutely,” says Mrs. Delaney, hopping up from her chair. “Calliope? Do you want to help do the honors?”
We all crowd into line at the picnic table and a few minutes later I’m holding a cone piled high with a scoop of vanilla, strawberry, and black raspberry. “It’s as close as I could get to the colors of the Union Jack,” Becca’s mother explains.
“The union what?” I ask.
“Duh,” says Becca. “Everybody knows what the Union Jack is. It’s the British flag.”
“Well, la-de-dah,” I tell her, stung. She didn’t have to make me feel stupid. I decide to get even. “Mmm, this black raspberry smells delicious,” I say, inching my nose close to my ice cream. “Really amazing. How about yours?”
Becca falls for it hook, line, and sinker. She lifts her cone to take a sniff and as she does, I jam it into her face, smearing ice cream all over.
“Cassidy!” she hollers.
I spring back out of reach, laughing. Emma and Jess and Megan start laughing too, which just makes her madder.
“That’s the oldest trick in the book!” I crow. “I can’t believe you fell for it!”
“Why don’t you just grow up?” Becca sputters, wiping her face with her napkin.
“Never!” I climb onto the top rail of the pasture fence and perch there, licking my ice-cream cone. Looking down at my friends, I really mean it too. I wish we could stop time, right here and now. I wish Courtney didn’t have to go to college, and I wish Emma didn’t have to move, and I wish we didn’t have to go to high school. I wish everything could stay the same.
But of course it can’t.
I’m not very good at gooshy stuff, so I keep it short and sweet when it’s finally time to say our good-byes. “Have fun in England, Emma,” I tell her, giving her a hug.
The ride home is quiet, partly because Chloe is asleep in her car seat and partly because my mother and I are already lonely for our friends.
Two days later, my mother picks me up at the rink where I’ve been scrimmaging with Stewart Chadwick and Kyle Anderson and a few of my buddies from the middle school team. Tryouts for the Alcott High team aren’t for a few more weeks, and I haven’t decided yet what I’m going to do. I don’t mind playing on a boys’ team again, but I’m kind of waiting to hear the outcome of Stanley’s discussion with my mother.
“I thought we’d swing by the Hawthornes with a welcome basket for the Berkeley family,” she tells me as I throw my hockey stick and skating bag into the back of our van.
I suppress a smirk.
“What?”
“Nothing,” I reply. I knew she wouldn’t be able to resist. My mother loves giving people baskets filled with homemade food.
“I made some chili and picked up a loaf of sourdough bread from Nashoba Bakery, plus I stopped at Half Moon Farm for some of Shannon’s wonderful strawberry jam. Oh, and a log of their goat cheese too.”
“Not Blue Moon, I hope.” Blue Moon is a particularly stinky variety that got me into a whole lot of trouble last year.
My mother laughs. “No, not Blue Moon. We’ll wait until we know them better to spring that on them.”
I’m dying to know if she and my stepfather have talked yet. I’m just about to fish around to see if I can find out when she brings it up.
“So, I hear you’re interested in trying out for a Division One team this year.” Her tone is neutral, and I look over to see if her expression reveals a little more about what she thinks of the idea. Nope, not a trace.
“Yeah,” I reply cautiously.
“You don’t sound too thrilled.”
“No, it’s not that—I am—I just, well, I didn’t think . . .” My voice trails off.
My mother reaches over and pats me on the knee, then grins. “It’s okay, you can say it. You didn’t think I’d let you, did you?”
“You mean I can?”
She nods and I let out a whoop.
“Stan swears he’s happy to drive you, and I just figure this will give you two more bonding time.”
I’m still smiling a few minutes later when we pull into the Hawthornes’ driveway. The lights are on inside, so the Berkeleys must have arrived.
“Isn’t it weird to think that somebody else is going to be living in Emma’s house this year?”
“A bit,” my mother replies. “But just think what an adventure they’re all going to have. Plus, you’ll probably make two new friends. Maybe Simon and Tristan play hockey.”
Encouraged by this thought, I grab the welcome basket and follow her to the front door. We knock, and after a minute it flies open.
“Hello,” says a polite voice belonging to a boy who looks about my age. He’s average height, which means shorter than me, because I’m nearly six feet tall, and he has curly blond hair and brown eyes and a friendly smile.
“Hello,” says my mother. “I’m Clementine Sloane-Kinkaid, and this is my daughter Cassidy. We’re friends of the Hawthornes and we just wanted to welcome you to Concord.”
The door opens wider and the boy steps back to let us in. “Mum!” he calls. “Visitors!”
A moment later his mother appears. She has the same open, friendly face as her son, and the same hair and eyes. She’s wearing jeans and a T-shirt with MANCHESTER UNITED on it. That’s one of England’s most famous soccer teams. I wonder if the T-shirt is hers, or if she borrowed it from one of her sons. If it’s hers, I like her already.
We introduce ourselves, and I pass her the welcome basket.
“How lovely!” she says. “This is very thoughtful of you. Would you like to come in for a cup of tea?”
“I wish we could,” my mother replies. “But I have a baby in the car and it’s her dinnertime. You know how that is.”
Mrs. Berkeley laughs. “Indeed I do. Doesn’t change really, does it? They just get taller and hungrier.” She puts her arm around her son. “Simon, go and see what your father’s up to, would you, darling? I’d like him to at least say hello. Oh, and give your brother a shout as well.”
“How was your flight?” my mother asks politely.
“Fine, thank you,” says Mrs. Berkeley. “I still can’t believe we’re actually here!” She looks at me. “It must seem very odd to you, us living in your friend Emma’s home.”
Startled, I wonder for a moment if Mrs. Berkeley is a mind reader. “Uh, yeah, I guess.”
“Well, I promise you we’ll take very good care of everything—and of Melville, too.”
As if conjured from thin air, the Hawthorne’s big orange tiger cat appears. He makes a beeline for my mother and me, probably relieved to see familiar faces.
“Hey, Mel!” I squat down and scratch him under the chin. “He loves cheese,” I tell Mrs. Berkeley. “He’ll go nuts if you give him some of that stuff in the basket.”
“Good to know,” she says with a wink. “I do so want us to be friends. Oh, there you are, darling. Phillip, this is Clementine Sloane-Kinkaid and her daughter Cassidy. They’re friends of the Hawthornes.”
Professor Berkeley is tall and skinny, with thinning dark hair flecked with gray, dark blue eyes, and a wide smile like Simon’s. “So pleased to meet you.” He peers a little more closely at my mother as they shake hands. “I say, you aren’t, well, the Clementine, are you?”
My mother laughs. “Let’s just say I used to be.”
My mother was a model a long time ago, a really famous one. It was back before she had me and Courtney, and before my father died and we moved to Concord, but people still recognize her.
“And this is Tristan.” Mrs. Berkeley propels her other son forward. “Say hello, Tris.”
“Hello,” he says, without enthusiasm.
Tristan Berkeley is tall, like his father, with the same dark coloring. He’s got one of those jawlines that looks like it was chiseled out of granite, and a long, straight nose. He’s
working really hard right now to look down it at me, which is pretty much impossible since we’re the same height. As we shake hands he recoils slightly, flicking a glance at my hockey shirt. When he looks up again our eyes lock for a moment and I know exactly what he’s thinking, just as clearly as if he’d said it aloud. You stink.
That would be because I just came from the rink, you moron, I want to tell him, but for once I mind my manners and don’t.
My mother is the one who speaks up. “Cassidy’s just been at the rink,” she says coolly, a hint of Queen Clementine in her voice. That’s what I call it when she means business. She must have noticed his reaction too. “She plays hockey. On an elite girls’ team. The Lady Shawmuts.” This last bit is stretching the truth since I haven’t even been to tryouts yet, but I know she said it because she wants to defend me and that makes me feel really good.
Mrs. Berkeley laughs. “We know all about sports, don’t we, boys?” she says. “Simon plays football—I mean soccer. That’s what you call it here in America, right? And Tristan is into ice dancing.”
Ice dancing? I choke back a laugh. That’s going to go over big at Alcott High. Tristan spots the expression on my face and glowers at me.
Ignoring him, I point to Mrs. Berkeley’s T-shirt and ask, “So is Manchester United your favorite team?”
“Absolutely,” she replies. “We’re all huge fans.”
“I watched them win the World Cup last summer,” I tell her.
“Isn’t this splendid, boys?” says their father. “Cassidy likes sports too. When you get to school tomorrow, you’ll already have a friend.”
Simon looks so pleased at this thought that I can’t help smiling back at him. My smile fades as Tristan shoots me another glance, though. As if, says this one.
“Nice to meet you,” he says tonelessly, then stalks back down the hall toward the kitchen.
“Well, then,” harrumphs Professor Berkeley, blinking at us awkwardly.
“Jet lag,” Mrs. Berkeley says. “So sorry.”
Jet lag my eye, I think.