3 Willows: The Sisterhood Grows, Page 2

  Her mom averted her eyes even more quickly than Jo expected her to. Her voice got quieter. “You should discuss it with your dad.”

  Jo tried to remember -when exactly it was that her mom had stopped calling him “Dad” when she spoke of him to Jo and started calling him “your dad.”

  “Really, you should talk to him before we go. You should ask him about his plans,” her mom said again.

  What's that supposed to mean? What are you trying to tell me? Jo wanted to say, but she closed her mouth. Was torturing her mother really worth torturing herself? Did she really want to know?

  “I can talk to him -when he gets to the beach,” Jo said blithely, turning away and running up the stairs. “I can talk to him all summer.”

  •••

  Ama's sister, Esi, got into Princeton when Ama and Polly and I were in fourth grade, and she went there the next year. That's a big reason the family moved to the United States from Ghana in the first place. They wanted Esi to go to the best possible college without having to send her across the world from them. So it was a really big deal when Esi got in, and her family had a celebration and everything. Ama's mom is an incredible cook. I should know, because I ate dinner there almost every night in fifth grade and even probably a lot of sixth grade too. My dad was working a lot then, and my mom wasn't in much of a mood to cook.

  Esi started college when she was sixteen, because she skipped two grades. You'd think that would take the pressure off Ama a little, having her genius sister gone, but if anything that made it worse.

  Jo's older brother was Finn. He had wavy hair and turquoise eyes. He tried to teach us how to skateboard. He died at the end of the summer, right before fifth grade. He was going to be in eighth grade.

  Finn had a problem with his heart. Two times before he died he'd blacked out. Once when he was ten and the second time at the beginning of the school year when he was twelve—the same time Jo and Ama and I met. He'd gone to the hospital, and they'd done a bunch of’ tests but hadn't figured out what was wrong. It didn't seem like a big deal back then.

  The week he died is a blur to me, but I remember the burial. Jo left before it was over. She was supposed to pour a shovelful of dirt on the coffin after her parents, but instead she put the shovel down and just walked away. Ama and I followed her. We sat on the hood of her uncle's car in the parking lot, throwing pebbles at a metal sign. I can still hear the clink clink clink of the stones when they hit.

  It was really lucky that the three of us were in the same classroom that year, because Ama and I could stay close to Jo. She didn't talk about it and we didn't ask her anything. We were her friends; we knew what to say and it seemed like nobody else did. I felt like we made a wall around her. That was what she needed us to do.

  We knew how it was at Jo's house, so the three of us spent most afternoons and a lot of weekends at Ama's, even though Ama's parents made us do our homeowrk all the time. I never got so many As as in fifth grade.

  Ama promised she wouldn't skip any grades because she wanted to stay with us.

  Jo stopped playing the violin because she said it was too loud.

  Two or three times a year Polly -went to visit her uncle Hoppy at the old- age home a mile from her house. Sometimes when he felt spry they walked to the diner around the corner and ordered soup.

  Hoppy might not have been her uncle. She wasn't precisely sure what he was. But he was some kind of much older relative on her dad's side—the only relative she'd ever met on her dad's side—so it seemed important to stay in touch. Hoppy might have been her great- great-uncle or her third cousin five times removed. He was very hazy about the family tree, and Polly didn't want to press him too hard on it. It was just nice to think there was someone.

  That was why -when other kids were packing up and heading off to camp or to the beach, Polly was sitting in a red Naugahyde booth in a greasy- spoon diner across from a very old man -with hair fluffing out his ears.

  The two bowls of chicken noodle soup arrived, and Polly held up her spoon. “Hey,” she said. “They really do have greasy spoons here.”

  “What's that?” Uncle Hoppy s face creased up on one side and he leaned toward her.

  “My spoon is actually greasy,” Polly said buoyantly. She didn't want to say it too loudly in case she hurt the employees’ feelings.

  “Your spoon?” he barked. “Your spoon is what? Do you need a new spoon?”

  Polly put it down. “No, it's fine.” She wondered if the ear hair -was getting in the way of Uncle Hoppy s hearing.

  “Hows your mother?”

  “Very-well, thanks.”

  “She still making those … ?” Hoppy cocked his head like a Labrador. “What are those things she makes?”

  “Sculptures.”

  “What's that?” Hoppy put his hand to his ear.

  “Sculptures! Yes. She still makes them.” Polly nodded broadly to help with the hearing problem.

  “Very pretty girl, your mother,” Hoppy said.

  Polly's mother had spiky black hair and a pierced nose, but Polly didn't argue.

  “You too.” He sized Polly up through squinting, cloudy eyes. “You're a very pretty girl.”

  “Thank you,” Polly said. She didn't put huge faith in his eye sight, based on the amount of help he needed with the menu.

  “Very pretty. You could be a model.”

  Polly laughed. “You think so?”

  “Yes. Your grandmother -was a model, you know.” He bobbed his head at the memory. “Now, there was a very pretty girl.”

  Polly swallowed her mouthful of soup without chewing the noodles. “My grandmother?” Those were normal words to most people but startling -words to her. She'd never had a grandmother. Dia hadn't spoken to her mother since she left home at seventeen. “I don't know if she's alive or dead and I don't really care” was pretty much all Dia had ever said about her mother. Polly had never heard a word spoken of her father's mother. She forgot that there had to have been such a person.

  “She was a looker, all right.” Hoppy waggled his eyebrows suggestively. He was just too old to be really offensive. “Your grandmother looked like Sophia Loren. You probably don't know who that is.”

  “Yes I do,” Polly said with a touch of pride. Polly knew her movie stars, especially the old ones. In fact, his words struck Polly. Of all the truly beautiful and glamorous movie stars, the only one Polly had ever secretly believed she resembled was Sophia Loren. And also maybe Penélope Cruz a tiny, tiny bit.

  “You look like your grandmother,” Hoppy pronounced. “Like a model.”

  Polly was fascinated. She wished Hoppy could hear better. “You mean she was, like, a professional model? Like in magazines?” she nearly shouted at him.

  “What's that?”

  “Was she in magazines? Do you have any pictures?”

  Hoppy knocked his bowl around in its saucer. “Yes. All the magazines. She was in all of them.”

  “Really? Do you have any pictures of her?”

  “Do I have them? No. I don't think I have them. That was a long time ago.”

  Polly nodded, her mind flying, her heart swelling. She had a grandmother and her grandmother had been a model. She had a grandmother -who was beautiful and she looked like Sophia Loren.

  Polly -watched as though from a distance, a floating perch near the ceiling, as Uncle Hoppy wrestled with the bill and means of payment. It became such a confusion that Polly eventually had to come down from her reveries on the ceiling and settle it herself with her own ten- dollar bill.

  She walked with Hoppy around the corner to his senior residence, bouncing along beside him. She knew with the traffic rushing along Wisconsin Avenue he wouldn't hear a word she said, so she didn't try.

  A part of her -was burning to ask him -whether this grandmother -was still alive, and how her life had gone, and -what her name -was. But another part of Polly -was content to stay dreamily quiet.

  This knowledge -was a gift, shimmering like a cloud in front o
f her eyes. She -was afraid that if she tried to hold it in her hands she -would be left, again, owning nothing.

  Mrs. Sherman, assistant director of the Student Leader Foundation, -was admirably patient -with Ama on the phone -when Ama finally reached her a few hours later. Almost too patient.

  “Ama, as I said, this is not an error. This is your placement. It's an excellent scholarship. In fact, it's one of the most valuable -we offer.”

  “But it's not valuable to me. I don't really like the outdoors. I'm not outdoorsy. I'm more … indoorsy. I really didn't—this really isn't what I was hoping for.”

  Mrs. Sherman sighed for about the forty- fifth time. “Ama, not everyone gets one of their top choices. Our committee members think long and hard about what will be the best fit for our leadership scholars.”

  “But this is not the best fit,” Ama said imploringly. “This is the worst fit. Anyone who knows me knows that.”

  “Ama, maybe you can keep an open mind about this. I hope you'll realize that it represents a once- in-a- lifetime opportunity.”

  Ama couldn't keep an open mind. She didn't have an open mind. She didn't even -want an open mind. She wanted Andover! She wanted books and libraries and classes where she could get good grades! She wanted A-pluses and gold stars and extra credit.

  “I need credit,” Ama said, trying to sound practical. “I need a program that gives high school credit.”

  “Oh, this gives credit,” Mrs. Sherman said triumphantly. “It gives full course credit. Read the description. You'll see.”

  Ama felt herself shriveling and shrinking. She hated being -wrong, and she hated being -wrong on account of poor preparation even more. “Oh … really?” Ama said quietly.

  “Ama, I know it's not what you wanted, but it's a fantastic program. One of our best. I know it doesn't seem like it to you now, but you are very fortunate to get it. …”

  Ama stopped listening. She just waited for Mrs. Sherman to finish. “But do you think, for personal reasons, I could change it?” Ama asked finally.

  “Not without a valid medical condition. Of course, you could forfeit the scholarship altogether.”

  No she couldn't! This scholarship -was a big prize. It would go on her school record. Colleges would see it. She couldn't forfeit it. Anyway, her parents would never let her.

  “Do you have a valid medical reason?” Mrs. Sherman asked.

  I'm scared of heights. I hate bugs. I can't live without my flatiron and my hair products. Were any of those valid medical con ditions?

  “I don't know. I'll have to think about it,” Ama said de-featedly.

  Ama tried to be polite with her good- byes and thank-yous. She hung up the phone and went to find her mother. “The woman from the Student Leader office says it's not a mistake.”

  “I know you're disappointed, chérie, “ her mother said.

  Ama cast her eye on the check clipped to the front of her papers. She'd never gotten that kind of money before. Miserably she looked over the long equipment list. She couldn't believe she was going to spend the only easy money she'd ever gotten in her life on hiking boots and a sleeping bag, wool pants, and something called a carabiner.

  I don't want to go, I don't want to go, I don't want to go. “I guess I have to go” was what Ama said out loud.

  She looked at her mother, irrationally hoping that she would disagree and grab the phone and make calls and demand changes on her daughter's behalf.

  But her mother didn't. Her parents trusted the system. It had done well for Esi and it would do well for Ama. “You're a good girl, Ama.”

  Ama nodded, both happy and unhappy, as she often -was -with that reward.

  We first heard about the Sisterhood in sixth grade. You've probably never heard of them, but they became, like, a legend around here. They were four girls who went to our local high school and they shared a pair of jeans that were supposed to be, like, magical. The jeans fit all four of them, and the girls passed them around and decorated them and wrote all over them. These girls had been really, really close friends since they were babies. I haven't seen any of them—or the pants—except in the yearbook, but Jo knows Bridget Vreeland, and Polly sometimes babysits for Tibby Rollins s younger sister and brother. By now the Sisterhood has graduated and gone to college, but people still talk about them. They don't even seem real to me anymore. More like a story.

  A lot of girls in our school tried to follow in their footsteps. It's the best reason I can give for a lot of terrible- fitting jeans in our middle school Not every pair of jeans can fit a bunch of different girls. And I say that because I know. We tried it too. It's pretty embarrassing when I think of myself wearing Polly's jeans in s'ixth grade. This obnoxious boy shouted in the stairwell that I had plumber's crack, and some boys called me Plumber for months after that.

  After the jeans, we tried to share a denim skirt, but I had a growth spurt, and it got so short on me that my mom wouldn't let me leave the apartment in it. We had a jean jacket for a while, but Polly accidentally left it on the boardwalk when we were visiting Jo at Rehoboth Beach. Then we got a scarf—green and blue and purple—at the beginning of seventh grade. We had an induction ceremony with candles and everything, but none of us really wore it much because … because a scarf is just pretty lame when you think about it.

  Bridget Vreeland is one of the four girls of the Sisterhood. She was a coach at my soccer camp after sixth grade. She is basically the coolest girl you have ever seen. All the girls in my cabin thought that. Not just because she is gorgeous and an All- American soccer player and she hooked up with the hottest guy at our camp. But also because she has these awesome friends and the Traveling Pants. I actually saw her wearing them once. I think she's one of those people who's just lucky. Like she never had a problem or a zit or a bad day ever. That's how it seems to me.

  The girls in my cabin used to follow her around, and one time we even caught her making out with Eric Richman at the lake. We thought it was unbelievably romantic. We were all giggling behind the bushes. She probably thought we were such little dorks.

  I had the idea that being a teenager would be like that. That was how I imagined it could be for me and Polly and Ama when we got older. But you look at Polly, with her skipping and her weird doodles and sucking her thumb until she was in junior high. You can't really imagine her going to parties or having a boyfriend no matter how old she gets. You look at Ama now that she's a teenager. She won't even go to a movie with you because she has to do the extra-credit math problems. You can't imagine her having any big adventures. You can't even picture her going outside. When I think about the Sisterhood, I admit I kind of wish we were more like that.

  I've seen Bridget in Bethesda a few times. I waved to her, but I don't think she remembers me. There were a lot of campers to keep track of.

  Maybe we tried so hard to be like the Sisterhood because it was easy for them and we wanted it to be easy for us. Because they were lucky and we wanted to be lucky too. They had wonder, and we didn't have any.

  We looked for the magic, but we didn't find it. We waited for the magic, but it didn't find us.

  “Hey, Jo. It's Ama.”

  “Hey. What's up?”

  Jo meant for her to answer the question, and Ama was silent for a second. It used to be that when she called Jo, Jo didn't expect her to have a reason right away.

  “I'm packing to go on my trip. The list says I'm supposed to have a bandana. Remember that pink one I had? I think you borrowed it.”

  She heard Jo thumping around her room. “Oh, yeah. I did. That was a while ago.” Jo was opening and closing drawers. “Yeah. I have it. Do you want me to bring it over?”

  “Or I could pick it up if you want.”

  “No, I'll bring it over.”

  “Also, do you have those blue wool socks with the stars? I think I lent them to you when you went skiing, like, last year.”

  “Hang on.” Jo put the phone down and then came back. “I don't see them. I think Polly has
those.”

  “Okay, thanks. I'll call Polly.”

  When Ama called Polly Polly said she couldn't find the socks right away but she promised she'd look around and bring them over if she found them.

  Ama was dutifully somewhat miserably oiling her boots later -when she heard the door.

  Her mom got to it first. She kissed Jo on both cheeks and hugged her hard. “Look at you! How long since I've seen you? Look at your hair so long! You got your braces off?”

  “Mom, she got her braces off like a year ago,” Ama said flatly.

  “Well. She looks so grown.”

  Ama was embarrassed by her mom's exuberance, but Jo didn't seem to mind.

  “Are you staying for dinner? It's Amas going- away dinner. I'm making kyinkyinga. That's the kind of kebab you love.”

  Jo smiled and glanced at Ama a little awkwardly. “I—no, I … I can't really stay. I'm supposed to …” Her voice trailed off.

  “Mama, Jo has stuff to do,” Ama jumped in. “She's going away too.” She signaled to Jo to follow her to her room. She noticed that Jo was carrying a box.

  Jo put it down -when the doorbell rang again. This time Ama sprinted to make sure she got there first. It was Polly, carrying a brown paper grocery bag in one hand and Amas socks in the other.

  “I found them,” Polly declared.

  “Hey, thanks,” Ama said. “Thanks for bringing them over.” She led Polly back to her room. “Jo is here,” she said on the way. She kept her voice even, not registering that it was unusual to have both Jo and Polly in her apartment, not even noticing that the three of them hadn't been together there since her family's annual Easter dinner.

  “She is?”

  Ama pushed open the door to her room and there, indeed, was Jo.

  Jo looked a little surprised and a little suspicious, like maybe she'd been set up.

  “Polly did have the socks,” Ama explained.

  “Oh, right,” Jo said.