“Tell us about school,” prompts Jess. “Have you made any new friends?”
Emma shrugs. “A few. There’s a nice girl across the street named Lucy. We ride the bus together to school. A red double-decker bus.”
“Cool!” says Cassidy, her mouth still full of pie.
“Yeah, actually, it is.”
“Do you ride up top?” asks Becca.
“Duh,” Emma replies. “Of course. Wouldn’t you?”
“So what’s school like?” I ask.
“Uh, sort of the same, but different. Like for instance they call math ‘maths’ over here, which is weird, and in history class, instead of studying U.S. Government I’m learning about Parliament, and instead of learning U.S. History I’m learning about the kings and queens of England and all that. But you know, school is school.”
“Is there a newspaper for you to work on?”
Emma shakes her head. “No. Knightley-Martin has a literary magazine, though—it’s called a magazine but it’s not all that fancy—and I want to write something for that.”
“So who is this Rupert guy?” Becca asks.
Emma starts to snicker. “He’s like Kevin Mullins’s bigger, dimmer older brother,” she tells us. “He lives in this huge house with his great-aunt, and he’s got a really weird, formal way of talking. He’s super serious all the time too. Darcy calls him Eeyore.”
Now it’s our turn to laugh.
“Oh, and I forgot to tell you about Annabelle,” she continues.
“Who’s she?” Cassidy asks.
“Simon and Tristan’s cousin. Well, distant cousin. She’s a junior, like Darcy, only over here it’s called Lower Sixth. She and Tristan are ice-dancing partners. I see her at the rink sometimes, but she never talks to me. I think she’s mad that I’m living in their house, like it’s my fault they moved away or something. Anyway, you know the type,” she continues, with a quick glance at Becca. “She and her posse rule the school.”
Becca and her clique used to make life miserable for Emma and Jess back in middle school. I guess I didn’t help much either, since I was part of it for a while. Things are completely different now, though, and we’re all friends more or less.
“By the way, Stewart says hi,” Becca tells her, and Emma’s face goes as red as the geraniums on the windowsill behind her. “He’s pining away for you.”
“Uh, tell him hi back,” mumbles Emma, then looks over at me. “How about you, Megan? You seem kind of quiet today.”
I shrug. “It’s okay, I guess. I don’t quite . . . I’m not—”
“She doesn’t feel like she fits in yet at school,” says Cassidy, and I make a face. It’s true, though.
“I tried to get her to go out for cheerleading,” adds Becca. “You’ve got to get involved to really feel part of things.”
“Becca’s right,” says Jess. “I didn’t feel like part of Colonial Academy until I joined the equestrian team and tried out for MadriGals. It really helps.”
“So what am I supposed to do?” I ask my friends. “There’s nothing that really interests me. I mean, I suppose I could start a fashion club or something.”
“Right, and do what?” scoffs Cassidy. “Admire each other’s shoes?”
“Cassidy!” says Emma, scolding her from three thousand miles away.
“You’re kind of a one-woman fashion club already anyway,” adds Becca. “I mean, what with Bébé Soleil and everything.”
“Maybe you could design costumes for the drama department,” Jess suggests.
I shrug. “Maybe.”
“Or how about starting a blog about fashion?” says Emma.
“I don’t know,” I reply doubtfully. “You’re the writer, not me.”
“That’s the cool thing with blogs, you don’t have to write if you don’t want to. You could post some of your sketches, and pictures and stuff, and talk about anything you want to. Kind of like your sketchbook, only online.”
“Hey, that could be fun,” says Becca, warming to the idea. “You could talk about fashion trends, and what it’s like to be a high school fashion designer, and stuff like that. I’ll bet a ton of people would read it.”
“My sister has a blog,” says Cassidy, serving herself up yet another piece of pie. Honestly, if I ate as much as she does, I’d burst out of my clothes. “She had to make one for her mass communications class at UCLA. She told me how it works—they’re not hard to set up.” Pointing her fork at me, she narrows her eyes. “Just one thing, though, Wong. If you ever, ever post a picture of me on yours, you are so dead.”
We all laugh, and the subject changes after that. Later, though, after they all go home, I get to thinking about the idea. Back in my room, I flip open my laptop and I find the website Cassidy told me about. She’s right—setting up a blog is easy.
With a growing sense of excitement, I follow the directions and begin the design process. Mom would flip out if I put pictures of myself on there—she’s way into privacy, and I know she’s got a point—so I hunt around online and find the portrait that Cassandra Austen did of Jane instead. It’s not very flattering, but there’s another one that she did, not a portrait exactly, but a watercolor that shows Jane from the back, seated on the ground and wearing a bonnet. I decide to go with that one. It fits better anyway, since I’m thinking I should keep my blog anonymous.
Now I need a title.
I stare out the window, resting my chin in one hand and drumming the fingers of my other against the desk. I sit up. Got it! I start to type.
FASHIONISTA JANE. I smile as the words appear on the screen. Perfect. I take a deep breath and continue:
It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single girl in possession of a passion for fashion must be in want of an audience.
This is going to be fun!
Jess
“I often tell young ladies, that no excellence in music is to be acquired, without constant practice.”
—Pride and Prejudice
I love this time of year.
I love everything about late fall—the way the sky goes all flat and gray, the way the air smells clean and cold, the way the trees look after all the leaves have fallen, their bare branches stark as bones. I love to listen to the wind whistling through the crack in my bedroom window at night, especially after my mother and I have taken the flannel sheets and down comforters out of the old cedar chest and put them on the beds. I love trading T-shirts and shorts for sweaters and scarves, and knowing that Thanksgiving is just around the corner and after that, winter. Winter is the only quiet season at Half Moon Farm, and even then it’s not all that quiet. There are still animals to feed and chores to do.
There’s something a little sad about late fall, too—melancholy, Emma calls it—but I even love that feeling. Late fall makes you want to hurry home. And that’s exactly what I’m going to do as soon as I finish walking Pip.
Emma made me promise that I’d help Mrs. Bergson take care of him this year while she’s gone, and I’ve tried really hard to keep that promise. Fortunately, Mrs. Bergson lives near Colonial Academy, so it’s not a big deal for me to pop over there after school two or three times a week, plus I usually try and stop by once during the weekend, too.
Holding tightly to Pip’s leash, I cross the Colonial Academy campus toward Witherspoon, the dorm I was in last year. I always stop and say hi to Maggie Crandall when I walk Pip over this way. Seeing him is one of the highlights of her week, which I guess makes sense when you’re a toddler. I really miss the Crandalls, but this year I moved up to Elliott, one of the high school dorms, and my new houseparents are the McKinleys.
Mrs. Crandall greets me with a hug. Maggie goes straight for Pip, who busies himself licking graham cracker crumbs off her face and sweater.
“Hi, Maggie! Got a kiss for your favorite babysitter?”
She puckers up and toddles over to give me a smooch. I love babysitting Maggie. Like Cassidy’s little sister, Chloe, she’s totally adorable.
“Did you hear that the observatory is going to be open this weekend for the meteor shower?” says Mrs. Crandall. She knows I love astronomy. Actually, I love just about everything to do with science, and I still can’t believe I go to a school that has a real live observatory.
I nod. I’ve been looking forward to seeing the Leonids for weeks. “Yeah, but my mother and I already made plans to watch it together at home.”
“That sounds even better.”
It will be. Especially since my little brothers won’t be there. This weekend is their big Cub Scout overnight at the Museum of Science in Boston. My dad’s going along as a chaperone, so I’ll have my mother all to myself, which hardly ever happens. I’m really looking forward to it.
Maggie chases Pip around the quad, squealing, and I let them play for a while until they both collapse on the grass, panting. Pip is a shelter rescue dog that we got for Emma as a birthday present last year. He’s a yellow Labrador, and a real beauty. He’s good with little kids, too, and never seems to mind when Maggie tries to climb all over him.
After a while, though, I can tell he’s had enough. I let Maggie give him one final hug, then head for my dorm. Technically, animals aren’t allowed upstairs in the bedrooms, but the McKinleys are both big dog lovers, and Pip is so well behaved they pretend not to notice when I bring him over once in a while.
“Pipster!” cries Adele, bounding off her bed and coming over to greet him as we enter my room. Adele Bixby and Francesca Norris—Frankie—and I are sharing a triple this year, which is really, really fun, especially after I got stuck with Savannah Sinclair last year. She and I patched things up over the summer, but we’re not exactly close friends the way I am with Frankie and Adele and my book club friends. More like a tiny step up from frenemies.
“I wish you were staying this weekend,” says Adele, her blue eyes wistful. She watches from beneath her dark bangs, while I stuff the things I’ll need at home in my backpack.
Last year, I spent every weekend at home instead of here at boarding school. I wasn’t sure I’d like Colonial, so that was how my parents and I compromised. This year, though, it’s different. Homesickness isn’t an issue anymore—I’m used to boarding school now, and I really like it—so I usually spend at least part of every weekend here on campus, and often I only get home for a brief visit. It’s just more convenient, what with all the activities I’m involved in. Most of the equestrian team’s events are on the weekends, and MadriGals, the invitation-only choral group I belong to, usually has a practice as well. This weekend is special, though.
“Don’t worry, I’ll be back in time for Movie Madness,” I console her.
Our houseparents are crazy about movies, especially old ones, so Elliott has a tradition on Sunday nights where each hall takes a turn making dessert, and picking a movie from Mr. McKinley’s collection for everybody to watch. It’s kind of like book club, only with movies. There’s a big-screen TV downstairs in the basement Rec Room, and a popcorn machine just like in the theaters. We all show up in our pajamas and robes. It’s a blast.
People complained at first because most of the movies are black and white, but the thing is, they’re really good movies. Great, in fact. Mr. McKinley says classic cinema is an education in and of itself, and I’m beginning to think he’s right about that. We watched Casablanca and High Noon and To Kill a Mockingbird, and Top Hat and All About Eve and Rear Window, which was actually in color. That one scared the socks off of us.
Mr. McKinley got wind of the fact that my book club is reading Pride and Prejudice, so this week we’re watching an old black-and-white version of it starring Laurence Olivier and Greer Garson. I definitely don’t want to miss that.
The door flies open and Frankie bounces in. She does a little pirouette, sending her curly dark hair flying. She didn’t make MadriGals last year like Adele and me, which was upsetting for all of us at first. But she stuck it out in regular choir, and this year she joined the dance troupe and loves it.
Savannah crowds in behind her. “Hey, you guys, look what my mom sent.” She holds out a tin of cookies. “They’re from this bakery in D.C. that my family really likes.”
Savannah’s father is a Senator in Washington. We each take one of the chocolate frosted cookies and sit down on the edge of the beds.
“No, Pip, you can’t have one,” I tell him, reaching into the pocket of my fleece and pulling out a dog treat instead.
“I can’t believe how much he’s grown,” says Savannah, leaning forward to pat him. As she does so, her long chestnut hair swooshes forward like a curtain and Pip barks. “He doesn’t look like a puppy anymore.” She glances at my backpack. “So you’re heading home this weekend?”
I nod.
“Will you be at the shelter Sunday afternoon?”
I nod again. “Absolutely.” Savannah and I volunteer together once a week at the Concord Animal Shelter. That’s where we found Pip.
“Good. Maybe you can help me with my biology homework afterward.”
Ever since last year, I’ve sort of been stuck in the role of Savannah’s tutor. I don’t mind, really. I’ve been tutoring most of my friends in math and science since about first grade.
“Me too,” Adele chimes in.
“Me three,” adds Frankie. “I just know I’m going to flunk that stupid test on Monday.”
“You’ll be fine,” I tell them. “Just make sure you go over your notes beforehand, okay? If Savannah and I meet you here at four o’clock, that should give us plenty of time to study before dinner and Movie Madness.”
“You should be a teacher,” says Adele. “You’re really good at it, you know?”
I shrug and grab another cookie, then shoulder my backpack and clip Pip’s leash back onto his collar. “Maybe,” I reply. “Who knows?”
“I’m going to be a dancer,” says Frankie. “On Broadway.” She shimmies across the room, her dark eyes aglow at the thought.
Savannah snorts, and the shimmy falters. I shoot her a look and she shoots me one right back, as if to say “What?” Savannah can be so clueless sometimes.
“That sounds awesome, Frankie,” I say.
“I’m going to be a famous actress,” says Adele, striking a pose, and Savannah snorts again, only quieter this time.
“How about you, Savannah?” I ask.
She shrugs. “I’d really like to run a horse farm, but my parents want me to be a lawyer.”
Savannah’s on the equestrian team with me. She’s an amazing rider.
I leave my friends dreaming about their futures, and head out across town to Mrs. Bergson’s house. Pip lives with her. She and Emma share him, because Emma’s family has a cat who hates dogs. Besides making me promise to help with Pip, Emma asked me to keep an eye on Mrs. Bergson for her, too, which I told her I’d be happy to do. Mrs. Bergson’s really nice.
There’s a fire going in the fireplace when Pip and I arrive, and I make a beeline for it. I’m going to have to dig my down jacket out of my closet at home, especially before the meteor shower tomorrow night. It’s gotten really cold out.
“Cocoa?” Mrs. Bergson asks, and I shake my head.
“No, thanks,” I reply. “I just had some cookies back at the dorm and I’m kind of chocolate-ed out.”
“Mint tea, then?”
“Sure.”
“So, another year underway at Colonial Academy,” she says, returning a few minutes later with a tray. “Is everything going well? How’s Savannah?”
“Fine,” I tell her. “I don’t see all that much of her, except at the stable and at MadriGals. We’re in totally different classes.”
“That’s probably a good thing,” she says and we both laugh. Mrs. Bergson understands about Savannah. “So what do you hear from Emma?”
“She and her family are taking a trip to London this week. There’s some kind of school holiday over there. She said she’d tell me all about it when we talk tomorrow.” Emma and I have been videoconferencing on our laptops almost every Sunday r
ight after church. That’s dinnertime in England, and she’s usually home by then, even if her family goes away for the weekend. They’re trying to make the most of their year there and explore as much of the country as they can.
“Give her my love and tell her I’ll look forward to hearing all the news at our next book club meeting. Oh, and tell her I just dropped a letter in the mail with some pictures of Pip. She should get it in a few days.”
“Okay.”
“Speaking of letters, do you hear anything from your pen pal?”
“Madison?” Last year, our book club teamed up with another mother-daughter book club in Wyoming, and our mothers made us write to each other. It was a pain at first, but eventually we got used to it and the habit kind of stuck. “She just sent me her new CD last week.” Madison Daniels, my pen pal, plays guitar and has her own band.
“And how is her lovely mother?” Madison’s mother is a professor at the University of Wyoming.
“Fine,” I tell her.
Thinking about Madison and her mother reminds me of what my roommates said about me being a teacher. I’ve never really considered that. I’ve thought about a lot of other things, because I have a lot of interests. I love to sing; I love to ride; I love math and science. I love living on a farm, and I love animals. Everybody says I should be a veterinarian or a scientist or something. It’s starting to bug me that all my friends already seem to know what they want to be. Emma has wanted to be a writer since she could hold a pencil. Megan’s passion is fashion, as she likes to say. And Cassidy—well, Cassidy will probably end up being the first woman to play for the Boston Bruins.
But me? I really have no idea yet.
I’m still thinking about this when I say good-bye to Mrs. Bergson, and I’m still thinking about it while I play Sorry after dinner with my family, which we do almost every Friday night when I’m home, and I’m still thinking about it when I wake up the next morning.
It’s just my mother and me for breakfast, because my father’s already left to take my brothers to a swim meet. Mom makes French toast, my favorite, and we hang out for a while at the table reading the newspaper, something we almost never do because when you live on a farm, there’s always work to be done. Actually, my mother reads the paper; I scan the comics. It’s almost as good as watching Saturday morning cartoons, but I really am a little too old for that.