The Mother-Daughter Book Club, Page 2

  “Her hair looks good like that,” I say.

  Jess nods and takes a bite of her apple.

  Sugar barks at the TV screen again as Jess’s mother starts talking to the actress who plays her best friend. Sugar misses Mrs. Delaney too. And her sister. The Delaneys actually have two shelties—Sugar and Spice. Mr. Delaney got them for Jess and her mother for Valentine’s Day a couple of years ago. They were the most adorable puppies I’ve ever seen. Mrs. Delaney took Spice to New York with her to keep her from getting lonely.

  After a while we turn the volume down. The dialogue on Heartbeats is unbelievably lame. I don’t know how Jess’s mother can keep her face straight when she says her lines. Honestly, I could write better stuff than that.

  “Help me with my math homework?” I ask Jess.

  “Sure,” she replies. Jess has skipped ahead to algebra this year, with Darcy and Kyle. I’m in regular sixth grade math. I’m terrible at it. Jess has been my tutor since, like, kindergarten.

  Keeping an occasional eye on the TV screen, we do our homework together, and by the time we’re finished Mr. Delaney is back and ready to take Jess to her voice lesson. He drops me off at home on the way.

  “See you tomorrow!” Jess calls out the window.

  “See you!” I call back, and go inside.

  My dad is just putting dinner on the table. He does all the cooking in our family. He says it’s easier this way because he works at home, but I think it’s self-defense. My mother is a terrible cook. She admits it, too. She says she can’t even boil water.

  “So, how was your first day back at school?” my father asks as we take our seats.

  “Great!” says Darcy.

  “Okay, I guess,” I mumble.

  My mother looks at me sharply. “Just okay?”

  I shrug.

  “Maybe some comfort food will help,” says my father, passing me a plate heaped with his special homemade meat loaf and mashed potatoes.

  “Better give me some of that too,” says my mother. “I had a meeting with the head of the library board this afternoon.”

  “Calliope Chadwick?” my father replies, serving her up an extra-generous helping. “And how is the wasp and her colossal bottom?”

  “Nicholas Hawthorne!” my mother scolds. “Little pitchers!”

  That’s little pitchers as in “Little pitchers have big ears.” In other words, Darcy and me. My father looks over at us. He grins. We grin back. Calliope Chadwick’s sharp tongue and extra-large backside are well-known around Concord.

  “You object to my use of the word ‘colossal’?” my dad says to my mother, the picture of innocence. “You would prefer, perhaps, ‘gargantuan’?”

  “How about ‘enormous’?” offers Darcy.

  “‘Vast’?” I suggest, feeling a twinge of guilt for poking fun at Mrs. Chadwick. I’m short, but I’m not exactly what you’d call petite myself.

  “‘Immense’?” counters my brother.

  “Enough!” cries my mother, trying to suppress her laughter. The synonym game is a time-honored Hawthorne family tradition. She looks around the table at us, shaking her head. “Honestly, what am I going to do with you three? You are incorrigible. And, Nicholas, you’re the worst offender. We’re supposed to be teaching our children to respect their elders!”

  “We are teaching them to respect their elders,” my dad says cheerfully. “Those that are worthy of respect. It’s no secret that Calliope Chadwick has a shrewish temper, and there’s no point pretending we can’t all see her massive—”

  My mother holds up both hands. “Cease and desist!”

  My father smoothly changes the subject. “Did I tell you that the Boston Post sent me a new Austen biography to review?”

  All thoughts of the Chadwick posterior fly instantly out of my mother’s head. “Is it any good?” she replies, her eyes lighting up with excitement. “Can I read it when you’re done? Can I read it first?”

  Books are my parents’ life. My mom is a librarian at the Concord Public Library, and my dad’s a freelance writer. Not surprisingly, books are a frequent topic of discussion around our house.

  Particularly books by Jane Austen. My mother is an Austen nut. She even named my brother and me after characters in her favorite Jane Austen novels. It’s a good thing my brother is as popular as he is, because a name like Darcy could get him in a whole lot of trouble otherwise. But nobody at school teases my brother about much of anything. First of all, everybody likes him, and second of all, he’s six feet tall already and a lineman on the football team. And captain of the middle school hockey team two years in a row now, and as if that weren’t enough, he’s an All-Star baseball pitcher to boot. The high school coaches are practically drooling at the thought of getting him on their teams next year.

  It’s not until dessert (chocolate pudding—more “comfort food”) that the subject of Mrs. Chadwick comes up again.

  “So tonight’s the big night for you two girls, right?” my dad asks, gazing at my mother and me.

  I give him a blank look. My mother smiles that smile she pulls out when she’s up to something. The one that makes her look just like Melville our cat after he’s made a successful raid on the bird feeder.

  “That’s right,” she says. “Although if Calliope has her way, it may not get off the ground.”

  My dad takes a bite of pudding. “How did she find out? Is she in your yoga class?”

  “No, though it would doubtless do her some good.” My mother bites her lip at this uncharitable slip, then continues primly, “She’s objecting on the grounds that the library charter forbids private clubs from meeting on public property, but I think it’s because she’s miffed at the member list.”

  My eyes are bouncing from one of them to the other like a spectator at a tennis match. I’m completely clueless here.

  “Well, don’t let it spoil your big night,” my father says.

  “What big night?” I ask suspiciously.

  My mother turns to me. “I have a little surprise for you,” she tells me. “After yoga class, some of the other mothers and I were talking—”

  “Uh-oh,” I say. I can’t help it. “Some of the other mothers and I were talking” is mom-code for “You’re not going to like what’s coming next.”

  My mother sighs. “Don’t look at me like that, Emma,” she says. “You haven’t even heard what I’m going to say.”

  It doesn’t matter. Whatever it is, I know for sure I won’t like it. Last time my mother started a sentence that way, I ended up in ballet class. Talk about total humiliation. People built like me are not meant to wear leotards. We’re maybe meant to bring in the harvest or something. The time before that, I got to volunteer at a local animal shelter, which wasn’t so bad until that windbag of a parrot nearly bit off my finger. I could go on—the list is endless.

  My mother ignores my expression. “We’ve decided to start a mother-daughter book club,” she says in her best Mrs. Hawthorne-the-librarian voice, “and tonight’s our first meeting. Won’t that be fun?”

  Darcy groans. He looks over at my father. “Man, Dad, am I glad you don’t do yoga.”

  I stare at my mother. I must look like she’s just informed me that she’s planning to shave both our heads, because she bursts out laughing.

  “Come on, Emma, it’s not that bad,” she says.

  “Who else is going to be there?” I demand, suddenly putting two and two together and getting four, for once. “Did Mrs. Chadwick make you invite Becca?”

  My mother smiles her sly, catlike smile again. “You’ll have to wait and see,” she tells me loftily. “Don’t worry—it’s going to be great, I promise.”

  But I know better. It’s just like Nicole Patterson’s hand-me-downs. It’s not going to be great at all. It’s going to be a disaster.

  Megan

  “Conceit spoils the finest genius.”

  “You can go shopping anytime,” my mother tells me.

  I don’t answer. Instead, I pull my c
ell phone out of my purse and take a picture of my face—mad—and send it to Becca. Then I text her: CAN U BELIEVE IT?

  NO, she texts back. I CAN’T!

  Becca’s mother was going to drive us to the mall tonight to celebrate our first day of middle school, but now I can’t go. My stupid mother’s signed us up for some stupid book club without even asking me!

  “By the way, honey, that catalogue came today,” she says, turning into the parking lot across the street from the library. “Remember? The one I told you about? For the science-and-math camp in New Hampshire next summer?” She reaches over and pats my hand. I pull it away. I have no interest in going to science-and-math camp, and she knows it.

  “High school is just around the corner for you now, Megan,” she continues blithely. “Your skills could definitely use a boost, especially if you want to get into Colonial Academy.”

  I glance past the library at the line of stately white buildings that house our town’s famous private school. I have even less interest in attending Colonial Academy than I do in going to science-and-math camp. “Forget it, Mom. I don’t want—”

  She pats my hand again. “You’re too young to know what you want, sweetie. That’s what your father and I are here for. We only want what’s best for you.”

  What’s best for me? My parents don’t know what’s best for me—they don’t even see me! Especially my mother. She’s too busy with all her causes and charities. “Why do we even have to talk about this now?” I grumble. “I’m only in the sixth grade, for Pete’s sake.”

  “It’s never too soon to think about your future,” my mother replies. “You’re going to make a difference in this world, Megan. You’ll do something unselfish and grand—study environmental law, maybe. And this mother-daughter book club will look great on your application to the academy.”

  I give her a withering look, which she ignores.

  As usual, my mother hears what she wants to hear, and sees what she wants to see. When she looks at me, she must see some other girl she wishes she had for a daughter—one that’s more like the stereo-type. You know, studious Chinese-American girl who’s a whiz at math and science. Instead, she’s stuck with just plain me, Megan Rose Wong. Who likes to hang out at the mall and shop and who wants to be a fashion designer someday, not go to MIT like she and Dad did.

  My mother and I are like night and day. The only thing we have in common is our hair color. But she wears hers cut short, in a no-nonsense style that isn’t very flattering. She never wears makeup, and her clothes—it’s not like she can’t afford nice things, for Pete’s sake! But no, it’s yoga pants and T-shirts with slogans like “Save the Rain Forest” on them, made only of natural fibers of course. My mother’s life is dedicated to improving the world.

  The Hawthornes pull into the parking space beside us. They’re driving the same tin can they’ve had since Emma and I were in kindergarten. I’ll bet it still smells like moldy french fries. Emma and I used to sit in the backseat after swim lessons at Walden Pond and stuff them down into the seatbelt slots, until her mom caught us and threatened not to buy us any more kids’ meals at the drive-thru if we didn’t quit it.

  Just then Zach and Ethan and Third—his real name is Cranfield Bartlett III, but everybody calls him Third—swoosh by on their bikes. I open my door quickly and hop out so they’ll see me, glad that I wore my yellow sundress and even more glad that we’re not driving the Hawthornes’ old beater. I would be embarrassed to death to be seen in that thing.

  The boys spot me and loop around the parking lot once to show off. I wave casually, like I don’t care. They all grin and wave back, then pedal furiously away. Zach glances back over his shoulder one last time before they disappear out of the parking lot. I think he likes me.

  Beside me, Emma has gotten out of her car too, and I see her staring after Zach. Fat chance. Emma Hawthorne doesn’t understand the first thing about boys. The outfits she wears! She’s worse than my mother. Tonight, for instance, she’s wearing shorts, which at her weight are not flattering, and ratty flip-flops, and her T-shirt, which I’m sure used to be Nicole Patterson’s, has some sort of stain on it. Chocolate pudding, maybe?

  “Hi, Megan!” says Mrs. Hawthorne, all cheery.

  I grunt in reply, not cheery at all.

  My mother clamps her hand down on my shoulder. “Manners,” she whispers through teeth tightly clenched in a smile.

  “Mom!” I protest, trying to squirm out of her death grip, then give up and turn back toward Mrs. Hawthorne. “Hi, Mrs. H.”

  “Glad you two could come,” Emma’s mom replies, winking at my mom. “New car, Lily?”

  My mother nods proudly. “It’s a hybrid. Environmentally friendly, you know, and great on the gas mileage.”

  I feel her death grip relax, and she prods me forward across the street. Inside, we stop at the main desk to say hello to the library staff. They all know my mother. Everybody in town knows my mother. She’s on the library’s board of trustees, and on the board of just about everything else in Concord. My mother, the charity queen. Ever since my dad sold his invention, she’s been on some kind of campaign to give his money away. It’s like she feels guilty about it or something.

  Mrs. Hawthorne leads us into a conference room. A window at the far end overlooks the children’s section. Emma and I exchange a hasty glance. We used to go there every week for story hour when we were little. I remember how much I used to look forward to it. But that was a long time ago.

  I take a seat at the table beside my mother and wonder who else is coming tonight. A second later, the door bangs open and I get my answer as Cassidy Sloane stumps into the room. She glares at us and slams herself into a chair. I’m guessing she doesn’t want to be here either.

  Her mother is right behind her. “Hi, everybody,” she says with a weary smile.

  My mother smiles back. She’s probably happy to see that there’s somebody in this world with worse manners than mine. “Hi, Clementine!”

  Mrs. Sloane is gorgeous. She used to be a fashion model—a really famous one, the kind who’s known just by her first name. Her face was on the cover of all the top magazines. She still looks like a model. She’s tall and slender with long blonde hair, and she wears the most amazing clothes. I try not to stare, but I can’t help it. Her short skirt and T-shirt look casual but I know they’re both designer and probably cost a fortune. Her high-heeled sandals show off a perfect pedicure, and she’s accessorized with big hoop earrings and a jangle of silver bracelets.

  I’m tempted to take out my sketchbook and draw her, but I don’t. My mother would have a cow if she saw my sketchbook, especially after our argument in the car. She hates my sketchbook. She thinks fashion is selfish and stupid. “Frivolous,” she calls it. Now if I designed outfits for the homeless, she’d probably think it was okay. An acceptable hobby to pursue in my spare time, after I go to MIT and Harvard Law School and become Super Megan and help save the planet.

  “We’ll wait just a few more minutes before we start,” says Mrs. Hawthorne, with a nod at the last two empty chairs.

  We’re all quiet for a bit. Cassidy scuffs her feet on the floor, back and forth, back and forth, like an angry metronome. I look at her and her mother curiously. How does a knockout like Clementine Sloane produce a freak like Cassidy? At least my mother and I look similar on the outside. Except for the fact that they’re both tall, Cassidy and her mother look like they come from different planets. Why doesn’t Mrs. Sloane at least fix her up a little? Cassidy is plain as a broomstick, with long skinny legs and ratty red hair whose bangs look like she cut them herself with nail scissors. In the dark. And her fashion sense is even more hopeless than Emma’s. I stare at her gym shorts and faded Red Sox T-shirt. I can’t believe she shares the same DNA with the world-famous Clementine.

  Apparently, neither can her mother. Every time Mrs. Sloane looks at Cassidy a pleat of wrinkles appears between her eyebrows.

  The door opens again and Emma’s face lights up. I
look over and practically fall out of my chair when I see Jessica Delaney and her father. They invited Goat Girl to join this club? The faint odor of manure wafts in with the Delaneys, and there is an honest-to-gosh piece of hay stuck in Jess’s long blonde braid. Unbelievable!

  Mr. Delaney hands my mother an egg carton and she slips him some money. The Delaneys own an organic farm on the edge of town and my mother buys all our produce from them. Anything organic, my mother will buy it. The environment thing again.

  Goat Girl gives us all a shy glance and sits down beside Emma. Jess Delaney is about the weirdest person I know. She’s been weird forever. In kindergarten she brought her bug collection for show-and-tell, and she knew all their Latin names and everything. And she actually likes math and science. Maybe my mother can send her to that camp in New Hampshire instead of me.

  “Welcome, Jess,” Mrs. Hawthorne says warmly.

  Jess doesn’t reply, of course. She just looks down at the table. She hardly ever says a word. It’s like she’s mute or something. About the only person she talks to is Emma. She’s gotten even quieter since her mother left for New York. Not that anyone could blame Mrs. Delaney—that farm they live on is disgusting. We stopped by to pick up some eggs once and there were actual live chickens walking around in the kitchen. Jess’s mother probably got tired of having to share her house with livestock.

  “There’s a chair for you, too, Michael,” says Mrs. Hawthorne, gesturing to the seat beside Jess.

  Jess’s father has a kind of dazed expression on his face, like he was abducted by aliens. My mother says that everyone who has twins looks like that. Jess has two little five-year-old brothers who are even more repulsive than she is. Mr. Delaney shoves his hands (grimy) into the pockets of his jeans (also grimy). “The boys are waiting in the truck,” he says, adding awkwardly, “Besides, I thought this was girls-only.”