The Mother-Daughter Book Club

  The Mother-Daughter Book Club

  Heather Vogel Frederick

  SIMON & SCHUSTER BOOKS FOR YOUNG READERS

  1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, New York 10020

  SIMON & SCHUSTER BOOKS FOR YOUNG READERS

  An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing Division

  1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, New York 10020

  www.SimonandSchuster.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2007 by Heather Vogel Frederick

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

  SIMON & SCHUSTER BOOKS FOR YOUNG READERS is a trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  Book design by Lucy Ruth Cummins

  The text for this book is set in Chaparral.

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1

  Frederick, Heather Vogel.

  The Mother-Daughter Book Club / Heather Vogel Frederick.—1st ed.

  p. cm.

  Summary: When the mothers of four sixth-grade girls with very different personalities pressure them into forming a book club, they find, as they read and discuss Little Women, that they have much more in common than they could have imagined.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-689-86412-4

  ISBN-10: 0-689-86412-4

  eISBN: 978-1-439-10732-4

  [1. Interpersonal relations—Fiction. 2. Books and reading—Fiction. 3. Mothers and daughters—Fiction. 4. Clubs—Fiction. 5. Alcott, Louisa May, 1832-1888—Fiction. 6. Concord (Mass.)—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.F87217Mot 2007

  [Fic]—dc22

  2006024818

  For Marjorie Hamlin—children’s librarian, teacher, mentor, and friend—whose “book club” many springtime ago helped launch a fledgling writer

  AUTUMN

  “Once upon a time, there were four girls, who had enough to eat and drink and wear, a good many comforts and pleasures, kind friends and parents, who loved them dearly, and yet they were not contented.”

  —Louisa May Alcott, Little Women

  Emma

  “‘It’s so dreadful to be poor!’ sighed Meg, looking down at her old dress.”

  “Nice skirt, Emma,” calls Becca Chadwick, giving me the once-over as I head down the aisle of the school bus looking for a seat.

  This is not a compliment and I know it and she knows it. Blushing, I slide into the first empty spot I find. My brother Darcy passes me, heading for the last few rows, which, by tradition, are reserved for eighth graders.

  Behind me, I hear Becca whisper something to Ashley Sanborn. I hunch down and smooth a crease in my skirt, my stomach clenching in all-too-familiar anxiety. Its starting already. I’d hoped maybe sixth grade would be different.

  “Must have been a big back-to-school sale at the thrift store,” says Ashley, her lame attempt at sarcasm producing a burst of laughter from Becca.

  As the bus doors whoosh shut and we lurch forward down Lowell Road, I force myself to ignore them both and look out the window instead. The familiar scenery is soothing, and I feel myself relax a little as we cross the quiet waters of the Concord River and pass stately old colonial houses and meadows hemmed by time-worn stone walls. In a few weeks the leaves on all the trees will start to turn, quilting the woods with New England’s famous blaze of yellow and scarlet and orange.

  Here and there amongst the thickets I spot fat clusters of wild Concord grapes. They’ll be ripe soon, and just thinking about the way the thick purple skins burst when I bite down, releasing the sour juiciness inside, makes my mouth start to water.

  As we turn onto Barnes Hill Road and begin our slow circle back toward town, I pull a notebook from my backpack and open to a fresh page. “Ode to September,” I write across the top. I chew the eraser on my pencil, pondering my opening line. But instead of writing verse, I find myself stewing about how much I hate the first day of school.

  I never used to. When I was little, I could hardly wait for it to start. I’d get all excited about my new lunchbox and pencils and stuff, and I’d wear my new shoes around for weeks to break them in.

  Then a couple of years ago, in fourth grade, everything changed. Suddenly it was all about who’s popular and who’s not and if you’re wearing the right thing. Which I never am. Ever.

  The bus wheezes to a stop in front of the Bullet Hole House. It’s called the Bullet Hole House even though the Anderson family owns it because two hundred and fifty years ago during the Revolutionary War, a retreating redcoat—that’s what they use to call British soldiers—fired at it. Well, at Elisha Jones, who lived in the house back then. He was a minuteman and he’d accidentally slept through the skirmish across the street at the Old North Bridge. He was standing there in his doorway watching the British retreat when it happened. Sometimes I think about the Jones family, who were probably sitting at their breakfast table when wham!—all of a sudden a bullet hits the house. I’d have been scared to death. At least it missed Elisha.

  Anyway, the hole is still there and there’s a little sign explaining all about it. The Bullet Hole House is on all the maps of Concord, and tourists are always stopping to take pictures of it. They take pictures of everything in our town. You can’t turn around in Concord, Massachusetts, without bumping into history, my dad says, and I guess he’s right.

  The front door opens and someone runs out, but it isn’t a minute-man and it isn’t a redcoat, it’s only Kyle Anderson. He swats me on the head as he passes my seat. It’s more of a big brother swat than a mean swat, though. I’ve known Kyle since I was in diapers.

  “Hey, Emma,” he says.

  “Hey, Kyle.”

  Behind me, Becca and Ashley chorus their hellos too, but Kyle ignores them and takes a seat beside my brother. Kyle and Darcy are best friends.

  The bus lumbers on, round white-steepled Monument Square and on past Sleepy Hollow Cemetery, where all the famous people of Concord are buried, patriots and soldiers and writers like Henry David Thoreau and Ralph Waldo Emerson and Nathaniel Hawthorne and Louisa May Alcott. As we swing onto Old Bedford Road, the final leg of the bus ride to Walden Middle School, I start to feel sick. The butterflies in my stomach feel more like a herd of buffalo, and I’m worried I might throw up like I did the first day of kindergarten. My mother loves to tell the story of how when she dropped me off in the classroom that day, my teacher leaned down to say hello, and I was so nervous I threw up all over her shoes. “Emma really made a splash,” is my mother’s punchline. It always gets a laugh.

  I don’t feel like laughing now, though. I close my eyes and breathe deeply, trying to calm the stampeding buffalo. I can only imagine the impression I’ll make on my first day of middle school if I walk into the classroom and barf.

  It doesn’t help that I can hear Becca and Ashley whispering about my skirt again. I feel my face grow hot and I wish for the millionth time that my mother hadn’t made me wear it. It’s pretty and everything, and nearly brand-new, but still, it’s a hand-me-down. My mother said it looked fine and that no one would ever know, but I knew better.

  The bus slows as we reach Half Moon Farm, but there are no Delaneys at the bus stop except Jess’s dog Sugar, looking mournful, so we keep going. Jess’s mom always drives her and her brothers on the first day of school. Her dad must have decided to keep up the family tradition this year. I wish he hadn’t. Not that Jess could make Becca and A
shley any nicer—that would take complete personality transplants—but it always makes me feel better having my best friend around.

  Trying to block out their comments, I concentrate on my poem again. I’m working on finding a good rhyme for “grape” (ape? cape? tape?) when we pull up in front of the middle school.

  Mom made Darcy promise to take care of me this morning, and he herds me confidently through the crowded lobby. Everybody’s pushing and shoving as they crowd around the lists posted on the wall by the office. Darcy runs his finger down the sixth grade homerooms and jabs at my name when he spots it.

  “Miss Morales, 6-C,” he says. I must look panicked because he smiles at me and pats my shoulder. Darcy’s pretty nice, for a brother. “Don’t worry,” he tells me. “You’ll like her.”

  “How about Jess?”

  He looks at the list again, then shakes his head. “Sorry, Em—she’s in 6-B with Mr. Flanagan. But he’s a good dude too.”

  As Darcy steers me down the hall toward 6-C, I console myself with the thought that Jess and I will still probably see each other for most of our classes. We’re both in all the advanced groups.

  “Have fun!” my brother says, leaving me at my homeroom door.

  I nod weakly, still feeling nauseous. No one pays me the slightest bit of attention as I walk in. They’re all too busy looking for their name tags. I circle the desks nervously, hunting for mine. Great. Miss Morales put me right across from Megan Wong. I slip into my seat and slant a quick glance at her. Megan is flipping her perfect, shoulder-length black hair around and showing off her new earrings to Ashley and Becca. She must have gotten her ears pierced over summer vacation.

  Jen Webster arrives and comes over to join them. The four of them travel in a pack, like wolves. The Fab Four, Darcy calls them. They like it when he says that. That’s because they like my brother. Darcy’s a jock, and the girls all think he’s cute and call our house all the time to talk to him. Darcy and I both have the same short, curly brown hair and brown eyes, but so far, nobody thinks I’m cute.

  “You’re just a late bloomer,” my mother tells me. “Be patient.” This is mom-code for “My daughter is an ugly duckling and I’m hoping she’ll turn out to be a swan,” but still, it’s comforting to hear. Especially when you don’t see so much as a single swan feather yet when you look in the mirror.

  I watch the Fab Four surreptitiously while I unpack my school supplies and organize my desk. Becca Chadwick is the queen bee. I learned this from a book my mother was reading over the summer about adolescent girls. She’s a librarian and she’s always reading books to try and understand me and my brother better.

  Queen bees are the ones who end up being the boss. How this works, I have no idea, but every group has one. They’re popular and stuck-up and they aren’t generally very nice to the regular bees. That’s certainly true for Becca Chadwick. And for Megan and Ashley and Jen, too. The three of them are like the queen bee’s court—“wannabees,” Jess and I call them.

  The sad thing is that Megan Wong used to be my friend. Almost as good a friend as Jess. We used to play Barbies for hours after school in her sunroom. Megan made the most amazing clothes for them. I still have some of the little dresses and hats and things that she sewed. Then in fourth grade I got glasses and Megan’s father invented some computer gizmo and made a bazillion dollars, and that was the end of that. Now Megan’s all rich and conceited. The sunroom is long gone—her family traded the cozy condo it belonged to for a house that looks like a museum. Or an airplane hangar. And Megan traded me for Becca, Ashley, and Jen.

  Someone slides into the seat beside me. I look over. It’s Zach Norton. His hair is bleached streaky blond from the sun and he smells like summer. The buffalo start thundering in my stomach again.

  “Hi,” I manage to whisper.

  “Hey, Emma,” he replies casually, then turns away and starts throwing wadded up balls of paper at Ethan MacDonald. Ethan bats them back at him with a ruler. The Fab Four are practically shrieking with laughter at something Megan just said, trying to get Zach’s attention, but he doesn’t notice. He’s too busy with his baseball game. Why is it that girls think boys will notice them if they’re loud, anyway?

  I stare at the back of Zach’s neck. He obviously just got a haircut, because there’s a slim line of white skin between where his tan stops and where the edge of his sun-bleached hair begins, like the curl of surf against a sandy beach. I contemplate it for a while, then look around the room feeling a little better. Even if he ignores me all year, I’m still sitting next to Zach Norton. Things could be a whole lot worse. I could have been stuck at a desk beside Cassidy Sloane, for instance. She’s new—she moved here from California at the end of fifth grade—and her mom used to be a fashion model, but you’d never know it by looking at Cassidy. She has red hair she never combs and scabby knees, and all she thinks about is sports, sports, sports.

  “How about those Red Sox!” Zach yells over at her, and Cassidy grins and gives him a thumbs-up. The two of them played together on the same Little League team over the summer. I know this because they used to practice right before my brother Darcy’s team. Sometimes I’d ride my bike over early just so I could watch Zach. Not that anyone ever suspected, of course. They all thought I was there to watch Darcy.

  I get up to sharpen my pencil and make a mental note to start following the Red Sox so I’ll have something to talk about with Zach. On the way back to my desk, I notice Megan staring at my skirt.

  “Nicole Patterson had a skirt just like that last year,” she says. “I wonder what she did with it?”

  Becca and Ashley and Jen all snicker, right on cue. They’re like one another’s own personal laugh track. I feel my face turning hot with humiliation. The Pattersons go to our church. Nicole is an eighth grader like my brother, and her parents are always loading bags of her hand-me-downs into our station wagon after Sunday School. My mother says it’s wonderfully generous of them and a big help to our family budget, but I’d give anything not to have to wear Nicole’s rejects.

  The rest of the day goes pretty much downhill from there, with the Fab Four needling me every opportunity they get. I’m close to tears by the time the last class rolls around. Thankfully, none of them are in the advanced group for science.

  Science is okay. Nobody I know really loves it except Jess and Kevin Mullins, who skipped about four grades and is, like, eight, and will probably be accepted at Harvard before the rest of us even start high school. Jess loves it, of course. She would—she’s a total brainiac. I’m smart enough, especially at reading and writing, but Jess is a genius. And if truth be told, a bit of a nerd. She took the math part of the SAT last spring—for fun. Who takes the SAT for fun? When they’re not even twelve yet?

  Our science teacher, Mr. Reed, passes around a bunch of handouts and then launches into a speech about the joys of middle school science.

  “This year one of the exciting things we’ll be doing is dissecting cow eyes,” he tells us in the kind of voice usually reserved for telling your family you’re taking them to Disney World.

  I tug on Jess’s braid to get her to look over her shoulder at me—she has the most amazingly gorgeous thick blonde hair, which she wears in a braid down her back—and when she does I roll my eyes and moo quietly. Jess giggles. Mr. Reed drones on, and I’m yawning like crazy when the bell finally rings and school is over.

  Outside, Mr. Delaney is waiting in the pickup to take us home. Mrs. Delaney always used to do this, but she’s away right now. We stop for ice cream to celebrate (celebrate what? not barfing at school? not crying in front of the Fab Four?), then head back to Half Moon Farm. Jess’s dad drops us at the end of the driveway.

  “I’ll be back in a bit,” he tells us. “I have to pick up the twins.” Dylan and Ryan, Jess’s little brothers, are first graders at Emerson Elementary. “Don’t forget, you have a voice lesson in an hour, Jess.”

  Jess makes a face as her father drives away. “I hate voice lessons,”
she grumbles.

  “Why?” I ask. Jess adores music, and she has the voice of an angel.

  She lifts a shoulder in a half shrug. “I don’t know, I just do.”

  Jess never used to take voice lessons before her mother went away. A luxury farmers can’t afford, Mr. Delaney always said. I guess organic farming isn’t exactly the best-paying job in the world. Delaneys have owned Half Moon Farm for generations, but it was Jess’s dad who decided to make it all-organic. He plows the fields with a pair of big Belgian draft horses named Led and Zep—after his favorite rock group, Led Zeppelin.

  The Delaneys have chickens for fresh eggs and goats for milk and cheese and an apple orchard for fruit and pies, and depending on the season they sell all kinds of fresh herbs and berries and vegetables. Jess and I always help out at the farm stand in the summer. It’s fun.

  Anyway, now that Mrs. Delaney has this new job as an actress, I guess she’s making lots of money and sending some of it home for luxuries like voice lessons.

  Inside the house, we each grab an apple off the kitchen counter. Jess shoos Dolly Parton back outside. Not the country singer—a chicken. Mrs. Delaney loves country music, and she named all of the hens after her favorite stars. Sometimes they sneak into the house if somebody forgets to latch the back screen door. It’s pretty funny to see them wandering around. Once Patsy Cline hopped up on the sofa beside us and laid an egg. Jess and I about died laughing.

  “Hey, it’s three thirty,” I tell Jess, glancing at the clock over the stove.

  We take our backpacks up to her room. Sugar, Jess’s Shetland sheepdog, is close on our heels. Jess flips on the TV.

  “Hi, Mom!” she says, as her mother’s face appears on the screen.

  I wave. “Hi, Mrs. Delaney!”

  Sugar barks.

  Jess’s mom is on a soap opera called Heartbeats. She went to New York out of the blue last month to audition, and she got the part. She found an apartment and she’s living there for now. I’m not really sure when she’s planning to come back home. Jess doesn’t like to talk about it much, but she watches her mother’s show every day.