The Mother-Daughter Book Club

  We take our seats. Mom doesn’t look at me as she passes me my book club folder, and I feel that pang of guilt again.

  “Before we start,” says Mrs. Hawthorne, who is dressed as a scare-crow, “I have presents for everybody. They’re from Jess’s mom.”

  Jess looks surprised to hear this.

  “I saw your mother on the cover of TV Guide yesterday at the supermarket checkout,” Megan says. “That red dress was gorgeous.”

  Her mother elbows her. Megan flinches. “Ouch! What did you do that for?” she protests. “All I said was that she looked nice!”

  I don’t know the whole story with Jess’s mom, just a few bits I overheard when Mrs. Hawthorne dropped by a few weeks ago for tea, after yoga class. I guess Mrs. Delaney moved to New York to be an actress, which is kind of a weird thing for a mother to do.

  Mrs. Hawthorne hands us each a spiral-bound notebook. On the cover is a picture of four girls in old-fashioned dresses. One is sitting, and the other three are standing behind her.

  “Oh, how lovely!” says my mother. She adores stuff like this. I hate it. Too girly.

  “It’s one of the Jessie Wilcox Smith illustrations from Little Women,” says Mrs. Hawthorne. “It’s the March sisters, see? Beth is sitting down, and behind her are Jo on the right, Meg in the middle, and Amy on the left. Shannon sent a card, too.” She holds it out to Jess. “Would you like to read it aloud to us, sweetie?”

  Jess shakes her head shyly.

  “I’ll read it then, shall I?” says Mrs. Hawthorne. She opens the card. “To my favorite ‘little woman’ and her friends: When I saw these in a shop here in Manhattan, I knew they were meant for you. I worked as a guide at Orchard House one summer during college, and I remember that the Alcotts all kept journals. I thought perhaps you might like to as well, as part of your club. You know the old saying, ‘Preserve your memories, keep them well; what you forget, you can never retell.’ Have fun! Wish I could be there!”

  “Your mom is so thoughtful,” Mrs. Wong says to Jess, her antennae wagging approvingly. She’s dressed as a honey bee, and “Sweeten Your Day Naturally!” is emblazoned on her black-and-yellow-striped tunic.

  Mrs. Hawthorne passes the card to Jess, who fingers it quietly.

  “Keeping journals is a splendid idea for our club,” says Mrs. Hawthorne. “Did you know that the Alcott girls were required to share their journals with their family?”

  “They had to let their parents read them?” Emma sounds horrified.

  Mrs. Hawthorne nods. I swear she knows everything. It’s probably because she’s a librarian and gets to read all day.

  “I know it must sound awful to you, but, remember, they grew up in a different era,” she continues. “Bronson and Abba didn’t do this to pry—they felt it was a good form of family communication. Their girls could express their thoughts and feelings, and they could write comments in response.”

  “I would just die if anybody ever read my journal!” cries Emma, clutching her new spiral-bound notebook to her grape costume. “Promise me you’ll never read it, Mom.”

  “I promise,” says Mrs. Hawthorne solemnly. “You know,” she continues slowly, eyeing Jess, “Mr. Alcott was very shy as a young man.”

  Jess looks up. Mrs. Hawthorne smiles at her. “So shy, in fact, that the only way he could muster the courage to propose to Abba was by letting her read journal entries that he had written about his love for her.”

  I take my new journal and shove it under the cushion of the window seat. What a wimp! I will not be writing in my journal about anything, especially not love.

  “So, did everyone do the reading?” asks my mother.

  Emma’s hand shoots up. I give her a scornful look. Teacher’s pet.

  “Can you tell us a bit about the first few chapters?”

  “The book starts at Christmas,” Emma replies. “Mr. March is away at war—the Civil War—and the girls are all sad because they don’t have any money for presents.”

  I stare out the window as she talks. The delicious aroma of pizza drifts up from the kitchen. Courtney is downstairs getting set up for the party. Outside, dusk is falling fast and the littlest kids are already out trick-or-treating. A pair of tiny ghosts flit up our front path. I hear faint shrieks as they pass the jack-o’-lantern on the bottom of the porch steps. I smile. The jack-o-lantern was my idea. I bought it with my allowance downtown at Vanderhoof’s Hardware. Dad would have loved it. He loved practical jokes. Once he put a six-foot-tall inflatable Godzilla in the bathroom, and when Mom went in there in the middle of the night her shrieks woke us all up. She wasn’t too happy about it, but he thought it was hilarious. So did I. Anyway, the jack-o’-lantern is rigged with a motion detector, and whenever anyone walks by, it blinks its ember-red eyes and chuckles this evil chuckle. It sounds stupid, but it’s really spooky if you aren’t expecting it.

  The ghosts are followed by a fairy princess, a miniature vampire, and a baby dressed in a dinosaur costume. The baby’s father is pushing the stroller. My eyes suddenly mist over. Dad was always the one to take us trick-or-treating while Mom stayed home and handed out candy. I swipe at the tears angrily.

  “Cassidy?”

  “What?” My reply fires out like a slapshot, and Mrs. Hawthorne looks startled. Mom glares at me. “Sorry” I mumble. “I didn’t hear the question.”

  “I asked what you think of the character Jo?”

  I shrug. “She’s okay, I guess.” Actually, she’s the only one of the March sisters I can stand at all. The others are way too prissy.

  “She’s quite a tomboy, isn’t she? Does she remind you of anyone?”

  My mother looks over at me and her face softens and her lips quirk up in a smile, the first one I’ve seen all day. The famous “Clementine” smile that launched a thousand magazine covers. The smile that will be paying for our college educations, as she often reminds Courtney and me.

  “She definitely reminds me of Cassidy, if that’s what you’re hinting at, Phoebe,” says Mrs. Wong.

  I shrug again, but secretly I’m pleased.

  We talk about the book some more, and come up with words that describe each of the other March sisters. We decide that Meg is “practical,” “domestic,” and “romantic”; Beth is “shy,” “sweet,” and “gentle”; and Amy is “artistic,” “selfish,” and “annoying.” Then Mrs. Hawthorne hands out next month’s assignment and we’re done.

  As the others head back downstairs to the party, I duck into my bedroom on the second floor and quickly pull on my old hockey jersey. “Laguna Lightning” is printed on the front, and my number—77—is on the back. We were the top-ranked under-twelve PeeWee girls’ hockey team in Southern California last year, with a shot at this year’s state championship. Here in Concord, I have a shot at nothing.

  I pull a goalie mask I found at a thrift store over my scowling face, stuff my dead giveaway red hair up in a wool hat, and head downstairs.

  The house is already starting to fill up. I wander out to the kitchen, where a group of parents are standing around talking and laughing with my mom. I listen for a while, then I drift into the family room, where kids from school are milling around drinking punch and soda and eating veggies and dip. My sister, who is dressed in her cheerleader’s uniform, appears bearing platters of pizza, and everybody crowds around.

  So far, just as I’d hoped, nobody recognizes me. I move through the crowd like a ghost. The Fab Four are huddled by the punch bowl (a big black plastic cauldron—where does my mother find this stuff?). They’re all dressed as pop stars, just like Megan. They’re supposed to be some group, I guess. I edge closer to hear what they’re talking about.

  “I’d give anything to have hair like that,” says Megan, staring enviously at my sister’s long blonde hair.

  “But your hair is perfect!” Ashley protests. Megan makes a face, but I can tell she’s pleased at the compliment. The Fab Four are always sucking up to one another. It’s revolting.

  “How did Cassidy e
ver get into this family?” says Jen. “She doesn’t look a thing like her mother or sister.”

  “Maybe she’s adopted,” Megan suggests.

  “Who’d adopt a creep like her?” asks Ashley.

  “A witch?” Becca replies slyly. The four of them look over at my mother and laugh. I can feel my face growing hot under the hockey mask.

  “Check out Emma Hawthorne,” says Megan, nodding toward the sofa across the room. “What a baby. Her costume looks like something a kindergartner would wear.”

  “That’s not a very nice thing to say about your little book club pal,” Becca says with a smirk.

  Megan flips her hair back angrily. “I told you, that stupid club wasn’t my idea.”

  “My mom told my dad that Jess’s parents are probably going to get a divorce,” says Becca, her voice dropping to a whisper. Her friends lean closer. “My mom says her mom’s never coming back from New York.”

  Megan looks over toward the couch, where Jess and Emma are sitting by themselves eating pizza. Emma has a big smear of tomato sauce on her chin. “Can you blame her?” she says. “Have you ever had to sit next to Goat Girl? P-U! Who’d want to come back to a kid like that. Get it? Kid? Goat Girl?”

  There’s a pause as the rest of the Fab Four process the pun. Finally, they burst into exaggerated laughter, like Megan said something incredibly witty.

  I decide I can’t take any more of this, and I walk over to my teammates. “Hey, guys.”

  They stare at me for a minute.

  “Cassidy?” says Zach finally. He’s wearing a box that’s been spray-painted silver. He’s supposed to be a robot.

  I lift my goalie mask up a couple of inches, enough for him to see my face. “Yup, it’s me. Cool costume. Are you guys up for tricks instead of treats tonight?”

  Ethan, who is dressed as Count Dracula, lifts a dark eyebrow. “What kind of tricks?”

  “Scaring the socks off those four,” I reply with a nod toward the punch bowl.

  “So what’s your plan?” asks Third, his tall clown’s hat bobbing as he glances skeptically at the Fab Four.

  “I need you to get them to Sleepy Hollow Cemetery. I’ll take care of the rest.”

  “Sleepy Hollow, huh? We’re going to need some bait,” says Zach.

  “That would be you,” I tell him.

  He turns beet red.

  “C’mon, Zach, you know Megan likes you! All you have to do is tell her you want to go with her for a walk. It’ll be worth it, I promise.”

  “I guess,” he says reluctantly.

  “It’s not like you have to, you know, kiss her or anything,” I reassure him, and Ethan and Third instantly start making smoochy noises. “Just get her there, then leave the rest to me.”

  “Sounds like fun,” says Third.

  “For you, maybe,” grumbles Zach.

  “Meet me by Emerson’s grave,” I tell them. “You know, that huge white rock on Author’s Ridge. And whatever you do, don’t tell them I’m there.”

  Ethan looks at me curiously. “How come you know so much about Sleepy Hollow? I thought you just moved here.”

  “I dunno,” I mumble, suddenly embarrassed. “I’ve ridden my bike there a couple of times, that’s all.” Back in California I visited Dad’s grave nearly every day, and the habit just stuck, I guess. Cemeteries aren’t nearly as creepy as people think. At least not in the daytime. Riding around a graveyard is kind of like being at the rink. It’s quiet, and the paths are smooth as ice. I can hear myself think there, the same way I can when I’m skating. Maybe that’s weird. I don’t know.

  Across the room, Emma is staring at Zach like he’s the last cupcake on the platter. I shake my head and slip into the kitchen to find a flashlight and some duct tape. I just don’t get it. What is so special about Zach Norton? He’s a nice guy and everything, but he’s just, well, Zach.

  The parents have all moved into the living room by now, and as Zach and Ethan and Third and the Fab Four head toward the front door, Mrs. Chadwick, who is dressed as a nurse, looks up. “Are you kids all going trick-or-treating?”

  “Yes, Mom,” Becca replies.

  Emphasis on trick, I think, grinning to myself under the goalie mask.

  Mrs. Chadwick looks triumphantly over at Mrs. Sloane and Mrs. Hawthorne. “Well, you and your friends have fun, okay? And be back here by nine. It’s a school night.”

  The party starts to break up. Emma and Jess start to leave too, and it suddenly occurs to me that I could use some help. “Hey!” I call after them.

  They turn and stare at me. “Cassidy? Is that you?” says Emma.

  I push the mask up on top of my head so they can see my face. “Are you two up for some fun?”

  They exchange a wary glance. “What kind of fun?” asks Emma.

  I grab their arms and steer them down the hall in reply. My mother notices the three of us and her green witch face lights up. Now it’s her turn to smile triumphantly at Mrs. Chadwick. “Have a great time, girls!” she calls.

  Once past the parent-infested living room, I whisk the black cape off the vampire sitting at the head of our dining room table—Dad’s chair, I can’t help thinking—then fish my hockey stick out of the front hall closet. “Here, you carry these,” I say, thrusting them at Emma and Jess. They take the cape and stick reluctantly.

  “What are they for?” Emma asks.

  “Ever heard of the Headless Horseman?”

  She and Jess exchange another glance. “Sure,” Emma replies. “But what does a hockey stick have to do with him?”

  “You’ll see.” I close the front door behind us, look back over my shoulder to make sure nobody’s watching from the window, then grab the battery-operated jack-o’-lantern from the bottom of our front steps. Emma and Jess trail reluctantly behind me as I head down Hubbard Street toward town.

  Ahead under the streetlights, I spot my teammates with the Fab Four. They turn left at the post office, heading for Main Street.

  “We’ll take the shortcut through the parking lot,” I tell Emma and Jess, prodding them forward across Walden. “It’s quicker.”

  “A shortcut to where?” asks Emma, who is already huffing and puffing. She really needs to take up a sport.

  “You’ll see,” I say again.

  “You keep saying that, but we don’t see,” she complains.

  I sigh. “Sleepy Hollow.”

  Jess stops in her tracks. Emma, who is taking up the rear, nearly runs into her. “The graveyard?” squeaks Jess. “On Halloween?”

  “You’ve got to be joking!” adds Emma.

  “Don’t be such babies,” I snap. “Don’t you want to give the Fab Four a taste of their own medicine?”

  Jess looks nervous at this news. So does Emma. “We’re not going to get in trouble, are we?” she asks.

  I put my hands on my hips and glare at them scornfully. “You two are completely hopeless!” I tell them. “How do you ever manage to have any fun? Stop being such goody-goodies. We’re not going to get in trouble. We’re just going to spice up their Halloween a little.”

  “Well, okay, I guess,” says Emma finally. Jess doesn’t say anything, but she doesn’t turn back, either.

  “Come on then, we have to hurry.” I can hear squeals and giggles from the Fab Four. They’re only a few blocks behind us. I pick up the pace a little as we cross Monument Square, and soon Emma is huffing and puffing again.

  I grab her by the elbow and pull her along. My flashlight’s lone beam is nearly lost in the total darkness of the graveyard, but the three of us manage to stumble our way up Author’s Ridge. When we reach Ralph Waldo Emerson’s grave, I shove Emma and Jess behind it. We all flop down in the grass and lean back against the cold granite, panting.

  “Give me the hockey stick,” I say, and Emma hands it over. I tape the vampire cloak around the handle.

  “Jack-o’-lantern,” I order, holding out my hand like a surgeon asking for a scalpel on one of those TV shows. Jess hands it over and I loop the
handle of the jack-o’-lantern over the blade of the stick and tape it down securely, too.

  “Check it out!” I crow, hoisting my hockey stick in the air and waving it slowly back and forth. The cape billows out perfectly, and the movement activates the lantern’s blinking red eyes and evil chuckle.

  “You really think that’s going to scare them?” Emma sounds dubious.

  “It’ll scare them all right, just you wait and see,” I reply. “It’s the last thing they’ll be expecting. Now, can you two hold this up just like I did and wave it around when I give you the signal?”

  They both nod.

  “Good.” We squat down quietly behind the tombstone and wait. It doesn’t take long.

  “Ooo, it’s creepy in here, Zach,” I hear Megan say. “Where are we going?”

  “You’re in that book club with Cassidy, right?” Zach replies. “I just thought you might like to see Louisa May Alcott’s grave.”

  Third hoots like an owl, and the girls all shriek. The boys laugh. They come to a halt on the other side of the stone.

  “That’s not Louisa’s grave, that’s Emerson’s,” says Becca.

  “It’s showtime,” I whisper to Emma and Jess, and, cupping my hands around my mouth, I call out “Megan!” in the deepest, weirdest, spookiest voice I can muster.

  She gives a little squeal. “Who’s there?” I can’t see her, but I’d bet my championship hockey jersey that she’s clutching Zach Norton’s arm.

  “The Headless Horseman!” I moan.

  “There is no such thing,” Megan replies, but she doesn’t sound so sure.

  “That’s what you think!” I moan again. “The Headless Horseman is for real, Megan, and he’s come for YOU!”

  I give Emma and Jess the thumbs up. They hoist the hockey stick into the air, and slowly the black-cloaked figure rises above Ralph Waldo’s grave. I motion to them again and they wave it back and forth. The movement triggers the motion detector, and the jack-o’-lantern’s eyes blink open and begin to glow red. “Mwa-ha-ha-ha,” it chuckles, the evil laugh gradually rising in pitch. “Mwa-ha-ha-ha-HA!”