My mother waves her hand and smiles. “Not to worry,” she replies. “I have plenty of experience with teenagers. How about I call you in a few days after you’re settled in, and we’ll find a time to have you all over for dinner?”
She and Mrs. Berkeley exchange phone numbers, and we head to the car.
“Lucky us,” I mutter. “Dinner with Tristan Jerkeley.”
“First impressions aren’t always accurate,” my mother says lightly as we pull out of the driveway onto Lowell Road. “It was probably just jet lag, like his mother said.”
“Yeah, right.” I glance over my shoulder at Emma’s house. Simon seemed okay, but I’d be happy if I never saw his brother again in my life.
Final score: Tristan Berkeley: 1; and a big fat zero for Cassidy Sloane.
Megan
“Bingley was sure of being liked wherever he appeared;
Darcy was continually giving offence.”
—Pride and Prejudice
“Pardon me, but I believe you dropped this.”
I hear the voice before I see its owner. It’s a nice voice, husky and a bit on the quiet side. If it were fabric, it would be corduroy. Soft, wide wale corduroy. I know exactly who it belongs to as well. The British accent is a dead giveaway.
I turn around to see Simon Berkeley holding out a black notebook bristling with magazine clippings and photographs.
“Oh, my gosh!” I grab it from him and hug it to my chest. “Thank you so much!”
I would die if I ever lost my sketchbook. Shrugging off my backpack, I lean over to stuff it back inside. It’s a struggle to keep my footing in the stream of passing students. I thought the hallways at Walden Middle School were crowded, but Alcott High is ridiculous. A pair of football players who must be nearly seven feet tall brush past me, and I stagger slightly. Simon places a hand on my shoulder, steadying me.
“Thank you,” I repeat, straightening up. We stand there smiling at each other. I try and think of something to say. I’m not usually so tongue-tied and I feel really stupid all of a sudden.
“See you in Biology class then, Megan.”
“Uh, yeah, right—see you!”
He knows my name. For some reason, this makes me really happy. I had no idea Simon Berkeley even knew who I was. Biology is the only class we have together, and it’s huge. There are, like, nearly forty kids in it. I always sit with Becca, who’s my lab partner, and our table is on the other side of the room from Simon and Zach Norton.
Zach has been my secret crush since kindergarten and the main subject of nearly all of my conversations with Becca Chadwick since fourth grade. But as I watch Simon Berkeley disappear down the hall, it occurs to me that Zach could have some serious competition this year.
Shouldering my backpack, I set off upstream in the opposite direction toward the math classrooms. At least I think the math classrooms are this way. High school is so different than I expected. Better in some ways, worse in others. I like the fact that we get to pick our own classes, especially the electives. I’m taking ceramics this semester, which is really fun. On the downside, though, Alcott is at least twice as big as Walden. I’ve been here every day now for a month, and I still get lost half the time.
The other thing I don’t like is that I don’t quite feel like I fit in yet. I was comfortable at Walden. People knew who I was. I had friends to sit with at lunchtime. Here at Alcott, I feel awkward and invisible and out of place.
My parents keep telling me I should get involved in something, but what? Roots and Shoots, the environmental club that my mother is all hot for me to join, just isn’t my thing. Becca tried to talk me into trying out for the cheerleading squad with her, but that’s not me, either. Team sports are out of the question since I’m not particularly athletic. I don’t play an instrument, so that knocks band and orchestra off the list, and I have no interest in any of the foreign language clubs or in working for the school newspaper or the yearbook or running for student government. That leaves Mathletes—a big joke, since I still struggle with long division—or the Chess Club, where I could totally ruin my chances at a social life by becoming BFFs with Kevin Mullins.
Poor Kevin. By the end of last year he’d finally managed to fit in at Walden Middle School, more or less, and now he’s a small fish in a big pond again. A very small, very odd fish. Kevin’s probably the tiniest boy at Alcott High. He’s at least three years younger than any of the other freshman because he skipped a bunch of grades back in elementary school. Plus, he’s a genius. Cassidy calls him the Boy Wizard.
I spot him up ahead at the end of the hall, fiddling with the combination to his locker. A couple of upperclassmen hover nearby, which is not a good sign. From the very first day of high school, Kevin’s destiny was clear—he’ll be spending the next four years being stuffed into trash cans and lockers.
The two upperclassmen swoop in, lifting Kevin off his feet. He kicks wildly as they start to wedge him into his now-open locker. Someone streaks past me. It’s Cassidy.
“Hey!” she calls. “Leave him alone!”
Cassidy Sloane has been here at Alcott exactly as long as I have, but while I’m still mostly invisible, somehow she’s managed to make it onto the school radar screen. Partly that’s because she’s tall—at five foot eleven, she tends to stick out in a crowd. Partly it’s because of her flaming red hair. But mostly it’s because, well, she’s Cassidy.
“What’s the big deal?” mutters one of them.
“Is he your shrimp boyfriend?” taunts the other.
“I’ll tell you what he is,” Cassidy retorts. “He’s off-limits. Out of bounds. Get it?” She’s right in their faces, hands on her hips and glaring. “Leave him alone.”
“Whatever.” They let go of Kevin and swagger away.
“You okay?” Cassidy asks.
Kevin nods, but behind his glasses I can see that his eyes are filled with tears. It’s just not fair, letting someone like Kevin loose at a big place like Alcott. Aren’t there special schools around for miniature geniuses where they don’t get trampled and picked on?
Cassidy grabs him by his backpack and hauls him to his feet. “Next time pick on somebody your own size,” she tells him with a wink.
Kevin swipes at his eyes and nods, then scuttles off. He’s probably heading to Super Advanced Honors Physics for Brainiacs or something.
“He’s a twerp,” says Becca, coming up behind us. She and Cassidy and I are in the same math class. It’s not a class for geniuses, that’s for sure.
“Yeah, but he’s our twerp,” says Cassidy.
“Think of it as having a mascot,” I add. “Or a pet.”
Becca shrugs. Taking out her lip gloss, she dabs at her mouth. It’s a nice color, sort of a pinkish plum. Before I can ask its name, though, her brother Stewart pokes his head around the corner.
“Hey, Cassidy, are you planning on taking pictures for the school newspaper again this year?” he asks. “Our first editorial meeting is this afternoon.”
She shakes her head. “I don’t think I’ll be able to fit it in, dude.”
Cassidy made it onto this select hockey team for girls and hardly has time to tie her shoes these days. She practically sleeps at the rink.
“Oh, yeah, right.” Stewart looks disappointed. “I forgot.” He droops off. He’s been looking pretty droopy in general since Emma left for England.
Math is boring as usual. The minute the final bell rings, the three of us bolt out the door and head for the cafeteria.
Lunch is another thing I’m not so sure I like about high school. It’s only twenty minutes long, for one thing, which is barely enough time to scarf down a sandwich, let alone hang out with my friends. And hanging out with friends is pretty much the main reason for going to school, if you ask me. For another thing, Tuesday and Friday are the only days I even have friends to eat with. All the other days I have late lunch because of ceramics, and the only person I know who’s on that schedule is Kevin. Yesterday I went ahead and ate with him
, because he was the only person in the entire cafeteria I recognized and because I figured I’d look like a complete loser sitting at a table all by myself. Although now that I think about it, I probably looked like even more of a loser eating with Kevin.
Becca and I plop our trays down across from Cassidy. As usual, she’s digging into an amazing lunch, courtesy of her mother’s TV show. Some sort of pasta salad with shrimp and artichokes and sun-dried tomatoes, which beats the pants off an Alcott High grilled cheese.
“Here,” says Cassidy, shoving a plastic container filled with brownies toward us. “I’m not supposed to eat sugar.”
“Says who?” I ask, surprised. Sugar has always topped Cassidy Sloane’s list of major food groups.
“Says my hockey coach. She wants us in peak physical condition this season. Dessert is for weekends only.”
“How’s it going, anyway?” asks Becca.
Cassidy’s face lights up. “Awesome.”
“Yeah, I love cheerleading, too.”
As they jabber on about how much fun they’re having and how cool high school is, I stare down at my grilled cheese. All my friends are involved in something they love except me.
“Hi, you guys.”
We look up. It’s Zach Norton. He plunks himself down next to Cassidy. “You all know Simon, right?” He jerks his thumb toward Simon Berkeley. We nod, and Simon sits down too.
In a flash Zach and Simon and Cassidy are off and running about sports. I try to follow along, but honestly, I’m just not that interested. Plus I have no idea who or what Manchester United is.
I sneak peeks at Simon over my sandwich, admiring the way his hair curls behind his ears and at the base of his neck. He has really nice hands, too, with long fingers that look like they’d be good at playing the piano or something. And that accent!
Cassidy shouts with laughter at something he says, and I turn my gaze on her. We’ve been friends for three years now, but she’s still a bit of a mystery to me. I mean, she’s actually really cute, with that fabulous hair and spattering of freckles on her slightly upturned nose. There’s something about her face that always looks like she’s on the verge of laughing, too, which is mostly true except when she’s ticked-off about something. She could be incredibly pretty if she took an interest in her looks and maybe brushed her hair once in a while, but she comes to school every day looking like she got dressed with her eyes closed. And still the boys all like her.
Does that include Simon Berkeley? I wonder, watching him. Zach Norton does—or did last year. He and Cassidy have always been good friends and everything—they played baseball together in middle school and joked around in classes and stuff. But she had absolutely no romantic interest in him whatsoever. Nada. Zip. And then last spring he went and kissed her, which made her so mad she barely talked to him all summer. They must have straightened things out finally, though, because now they’re obviously friends again.
I turn to Becca. “Can I see that lip gloss you have on today?”
“Sure.” As she’s reaching into her backpack to fish it out, Simon smiles at me. I smile back, then feel really stupid when I realize he’s looking over my shoulder at someone else.
“Tristan!” he says. “Come join us!”
We turn around to see Simon’s older brother standing there. He is drop-dead handsome. I try not to stare, but it’s pretty hard. He looks from Becca and me to Cassidy and back again, sizing us up like he’s measuring fabric. He shakes his head. “No, thanks. Catch you later, Si.”
“Was it something we said?” says Becca, watching him walk away.
“Don’t mind Tristan,” says Simon. “He’s just a little shy.” He smiles again, and this time he’s not looking over my shoulder. He’s looking straight at me. I smile back.
A few minutes later, as we’re clearing our trays, Cassidy leans over to me. “Just a little shy?” she whispers. “Just a little lame is more like it.”
“Maybe, but he’s still gorgeous,” Becca murmurs back, tapping away on her cell phone. She’s probably texting Ashley. “Talk about tall, dark, and handsome.”
Cassidy snorts. “How about tall, dark, and loser?”
“Simon’s cuter anyway, in my opinion.” I’m itching to sketch his hands, but I’ll have to wait until after school. Right now, I’ve got Spanish class to find.
When I finally get home, the house is empty. There’s a note propped on the kitchen table that says “Gone apple picking.” After my grandmother came to live with us last year, things got a little rocky. She and my mother are as different as burlap and velvet, and everything came to a head when we went to Wyoming over summer vacation. They worked most of the stuff out, though, and one of the things they decided was that they needed to find more things to do together.
Apple picking fits the bill. Fresh air, supporting an organic farm—that’ll make Mom happy. And Gigi loves food and loves to cook, so apples will make her happy.
I fix myself a snack and head for the deck instead of my room since it’s such a nice afternoon. I love having the house to myself. Cutting through the living room, I pop in a CD and crank up the volume. I hardly ever get to blast my music, and it’s fun. I dance my way across the floor to the sliding doors.
We’re hosting the first book club videoconference with Emma and her mother this weekend, and my dad already has a pair of giant speakers set up, along with a fancy microphone and webcam. Somehow he’s hooked his laptop to our big-screen TV too. My dad’s a technology whiz and totally gets into this kind of project.
Because of all the state-of-the-art equipment at our house, my mother offered to host book club meetings for the whole year. The other moms discussed it, and said the only way they’d agree is if they could take turns bringing the food. Cassidy says letting my mom off the hook with cooking was just self-preservation, not generosity, and she’s got a point because my mother is the world’s worst cook and everybody knows it.
It’s a warm day for October, and the sun feels really good. Much better than being cooped up inside. I buzz through my homework, not because I’m dying to do it but because I don’t want to have to listen to my mother nag me about it all weekend. Plus, I’d just as soon get it out of the way and have the rest of the weekend to do what I want. Afterward, I mess around with my sketchbook for a while, seeing if I can draw Simon Berkeley’s hands from memory. I think I get pretty close.
Then I go back to my room, where I hop online and check out my favorite fashion websites, including Flashlite.com. I see a few outfits and designs that I like, and I send them to the printer to add to my sketchbook later.
As I’m doing that, I hear the rumble of the garage door opener, so I shut my laptop and head for the kitchen. Mom and Gigi come in carrying boxes full of apples.
“We had a wonderful time!” says my grandmother, giving me a kiss. She’s wearing a tailored lilac jogging suit—designer, of course—with a white silk scoop-neck T-shirt and the diamond earrings she’s let me borrow a couple of times. Even for something as casual as apple picking, Gigi can be counted on to accessorize. I adore her sense of style.
“We drove out to Carlisle to that orchard on Acton Road,” says my mother, who’s dressed in jeans and one of her oldest, rattiest hoodies. A little more suitable for knocking around a farm, but still, I can’t help wishing she had just a smidge of Gigi’s style.
“I think we should make pies for book club this weekend, don’t you?” my grandmother asks.
“Clementine offered to bring the food this time,” my mother reminds her. “And I’m pretty sure she said something about pie.”
“You can never have too many pies,” Gigi says firmly.
The following afternoon she sets me to work peeling and slicing apples while she whips up a pair of crusts. In no time at all the pies are in the oven and kitchen smells deliciously of cinnamon. The scent lures my father out of his office.
“I smell something wonderful!” he says, sniffing the air and rubbing his hands together. Dad’s gott
en a little chubby since Gigi moved in. He doesn’t seem too upset about it, though.
She pinches his cheek. “Apple pies. One for the book club, and one for my favorite son-in-law.”
He laughs. “You mean your only son-in-law.”
“You’re still my favorite.”
After dinner, my father takes me into the living room and shows me how to run all the videoconferencing equipment.
“I’ll be around to help if you run into any problems,” he assures me. “But I’ll probably be hiding in my office. I don’t want to get in the way of all your girl fun.”
Most of our dads go into hiding whenever our book club gets together.
Finding a time to schedule our meetings is getting harder this year. Everyone’s so busy. We have to work around Cassidy’s hockey schedule and Becca’s cheerleading practices, plus Jess is on the equestrian team at Colonial Academy and she’s in MadriGals, too, her school’s special a cappella chorus. I’m more flexible, but still, there’s homework and all that, plus England is five hours ahead of us so we have to take that into account too. Sunday afternoons seem to be the only time that works for everybody.
After lunch the next day, Cassidy arrives straight from practice. While she heads down the hall to my bathroom to shower and change, Jess and Becca and I hang out in the living room with our moms and Gigi and Mrs. Bergson, waiting for her. Mrs. Bergson is Emma’s skating teacher, but she’s more than that. She’s like Emma’s surrogate grandmother. She and Gigi call themselves the book club’s wise old owls. Mrs. Chadwick and my mother get into a discussion about something called vermiculture, which I am totally grossed out to find means raising worms.
“Eeeew,” I say, and Mrs. Chadwick laughs. She’s like my mother’s new best friend now that she’s all into this gardening program.
“It’s a wonderful way to improve your soil,” she tells me.
I glance over at Becca, who makes a face. “She keeps them in a bucket on our kitchen counter.”
“Gross,” I reply. “Please don’t get any ideas, Mom.”