Wish You Were Eyre Read online

  It’s nice to see Megan looking happy. I think maybe she’s a little lonely these days, what with every minute of Becca’s time devoted either to cheerleading or waitressing, and her mom and Gigi all enthralled with Sophie. Plus, Simon’s so far away.

  It occurs to me that this is a definite point in Zach Norton’s favor in the boyfriend department. His house is only a few streets away from mine, not halfway around the world.

  Becca and her mother and the Winchesters arrive next. Mrs. Chadwick looks like she’s about to burst.

  “I have wonderful news!” she tells us, before she even takes off her coat. “Henry has a new job!”

  Our moms all crowd around to hug and congratulate her, while Becca comes over to join Winky and me and the rest of our friends.

  “That’s so great!” I tell her. “Where’s he going to be working?”

  “Some big insurance company in Boston,” Becca replies. “He’s really thrilled.” She looks around. “Where’s Sophie?”

  I’ve been wondering the same thing. No Sophie, no prank.

  “She’ll be here,” Megan tells us. “My dad’s going to drive her over in a few minutes. Her grandfather called from Paris just as we were leaving.”

  “Is she wearing her black T-shirt?” We’ve been counting on this, and it’s kind of key to pulling off what we have planned. Fortunately, Sophie wears black a lot. I guess maybe she thinks it makes her look artistic. Or maybe it’s just some French thing.

  Megan nods.

  Winky tugs on my sleeve. “Okay if I show everybody the turret?”

  “Sure,” I tell her.

  As she herds the Wyoming girls upstairs, Megan leans toward the rest of us and lowers her voice. “You guys, I need to tell you something.”

  “What’s up?” I ask.

  “I caught Sophie videoconferencing with Simon earlier this week.”

  Emma gasps.

  “I knew there was something wrong, Megs, but that was the last thing I ever would have guessed,” says Becca.

  We’re silent for a moment, contemplating the awfulness of this.

  “Well, they are cousins,” Jess points out cautiously.

  Emma shakes her head. “No way,” she says, sounding furious. “No excuses this time, Jess. Stewart’s not enough for Sophie? Now she’s after Simon, too?”

  Any qualms any of us may have had about the prank vanish in the wake of this new information. Sophie totally deserves what’s coming.

  “Everybody good to go?” I ask, and they all nod.

  “Ammunition ready?”

  Megan pats her purse. “Right here.”

  “Be ready for my signal for the hand-off,” I tell her. “Winky and I will take it from there. The rest of you just try and stay between Sophie and Gigi and my mom and anybody else who speaks French, okay?”

  They all nod.

  I hold up two fingers in the V sign. My friends do the same. My mother sees us and gives me a funny look from the other side of the kitchen, Before she can say anything, Fred Goldberg, the show’s producer, walks in.

  “Let’s get this party started!” he calls, clapping his hand. “Time is money and money’s a-wasting!”

  Our pen pals come thundering down from upstairs, and soon the house is abuzz with activity. The camera crew gets busy setting up, and we’re all funneled through the makeup station while Mr. Goldberg runs around barking out orders almost as loudly as Murphy. I’m used to the chaos, and the Concord book club has been involved in filming a couple of episodes before, so it’s not a big deal to us, but I can tell that our Wyoming friends are impressed. Their eyes are round as hockey pucks and their heads are practically swiveling 360 degrees as they watch the crew tape down cables, arrange lights, set up the kitchen and dining room, and start prepping the food.

  “Cassidy!” my mother calls at one point, already looking frazzled.

  “Yeah?”

  “You’re on Murphy duty.”

  I round him up and shoo him into the garage, where he slumps into his crate, resigned to his fate. “Good boy,” I tell him. “It will all be over soon, and you can come back inside and terrorize everybody.” I give him a pat and a treat and return to the kitchen, shutting the door behind me.

  “So what exactly is it that we’re filming today?” asks Mrs. Winchester, looking at the fruit on the countertops. “And why are we dressed like this?”

  My mother thought it would be fun to keep the episode’s subject a surprise. So even though it’s late March in New England, which means it’s still cold outside, we’re all wearing shorts and T-shirts and sundresses, as if it’s the middle of summer.

  “The one thing we couldn’t do with you while you’re here in town,” my mother replies, “besides taking you swimming in Walden Pond—”

  “—or skinny-dipping!” jokes Mrs. Jacobs, and Becca’s mother buries her face in her hands in mock dismay.

  “Or skinny-dipping,” my mother continues without missing a beat, “was a trip to Kimball Farm for ice cream.”

  Kimball’s is closed for the season, which is always cause for deep mourning here in Concord.

  “So we figured we’d bring the Kimball’s experience to Cooking with Clementine, by filming a make-your-own ice cream special,” she concludes.

  Winky lets out a whoop that’s worthy of the rodeo princess she is.

  Mrs. Wong frowns. “We’re having ice cream? At nine in the morning? I thought you were planning a simple summer picnic.”

  “I guess I didn’t get that memo, Lily,” my mother replies breezily. “And I hate to be the one to break the news, but we’re not just making ice cream, we’re making hot fudge sundaes.” My mother smiles. “Just think of it as protein and fruit—well, okay, and a little chocolate, too.”

  Mrs. Wong throws up her hands. “Fine,” she says. “No one listens to me anyway.”

  “Maybe when you’re elected mayor you can outlaw sugar,” says Mrs. Hawthorne slyly, and we all laugh, even Mrs. Wong.

  The back door opens and Sophie comes in. I’m relieved to see that she’s wearing a black T-shirt. The makeup crew whisks her away, gives the rest of us a final dusting with powder, and then it’s showtime.

  As everybody starts lining up around the kitchen island, where we’ll be prepping the fruit and nuts and making the sweet cream base for the ice cream, Megan and I hang back and dart into the downstairs bathroom when my mother isn’t looking. Megan takes a square of black felt from her purse and passes it to me. I flip it over and quickly slap on a few pieces of the double-stick tape I stashed under the sink earlier.

  “Is this really going to work?” she whispers.

  “Oui oui,” I quip. “Leave it to Winky and me.”

  We slip back into the kitchen and nonchalantly take our places. Winky has stationed herself on one side of Sophie, just as I told her to. I squeeze in on the other side.

  “Ready, everyone?” Fred Goldberg asks. “Ten second warning.” The light on the camera starts blinking yellow.

  This is our cue! I look over at Winky and nod. She stretches, bumping against Sophie in the process and sending her flying into me. I wince dramatically.

  “Ouch!”

  “Excusez-moi,” Sophie replies.

  “It’s okay—no big deal.” I give her a pat on the back as I say this, neatly transferring the square of black felt to her T-shirt. It’s the oldest trick in the book, but still effective if performed properly.

  “Three, two, one—roll ’em!” says Mr. Goldberg, and the green light comes on and we’re off and running.

  I busy myself cutting up strawberries, trying to keep a straight face and not look at any of my Concord friends. The worst thing any of us could do right now is bust out laughing.

  On the back of Sophie’s T-shirt, in sparkly hot pink letters that Megan glued to the square of felt, are the words PIQUEUSE DE MEC, which Savannah assured us means “boyfriend stealer.”

  When the show airs, Sophie’s shirt will announce to the world what she’s done�
�or tried to do. Thank you, Scarlet Letter!

  Things get a little tricky when my mother starts moving us around the kitchen to the different work stations, and then to the buffet in the dining room where we assemble our sundaes. Emma and Becca and Megan look like they’re performing some intricate dance as they take turns shadowing Sophie, trying to stay between her back and any eyes that might notice something amiss with her T-shirt. She looks at them a little strangely, but our Wyoming friends and the other mothers are so excited to be on TV and so focused on not doing anything wrong that they don’t notice a thing. In fact, they probably wouldn’t notice if the T-shirt actually caught fire.

  Winky catches my eye at one point and I have to cross my arms over my stomach, it hurts so much from trying not to laugh. This is our best prank yet! One for the record books, despite the fact it has a long fuse. It’s called delayed gratification—we’ll have to keep quiet about it until the show airs in May. But who cares? It’s perfect. Subtle, too. People who don’t know French won’t pay attention; they’ll just think it’s some random T-shirt slogan. But Sophie will know what it means when she sees the show, and that’s the whole point.

  The rest of the filming goes off without a hitch, including our exit strategy after the camera stops rolling, when Savannah “accidentally” spills her ice cream on Sophie.

  “I’m so sorry!” she cries. “Excusez-moi!”

  Jess rushes to swat at the front of Sophie’s T-shirt with sponges and paper towel, distracting her long enough for me to peel off the sign and stuff it in my pocket.

  Final score: The mother-daughter book club goes for the gold! And Sophie Fairfax? Mademoiselle Velcro is going down!

  Becca

  “‘I wish he would come! I wish he would come!’”

  —Jane Eyre

  “Mrs. Wong, would you please hold still?” I put my hands on my hips, exasperated. Megan’s mother is as jumpy as our dog Yo-Yo during a thunderstorm.

  “Sorry,” she replies. “But is all this fuss really necessary?”

  “Of course it is,” says Mrs. Sloane-Kinkaid, who’s standing in front of her with a mascara wand poised in the air.

  We’re at Megan’s house, helping her mother get ready for tonight’s debate. Filming the Cooking with Clementine episode took all morning, and by the time we were done, nobody was hungry for lunch.

  “I don’t think I want to see another scoop of ice cream as long as I live,” Zoe had groaned as we got into the car.

  I’d been so focused on our prank that I barely even tasted the ice cream, although just like everybody else, I ate far too much of it. Who can resist homemade vanilla ice cream with homemade hot fudge or salted caramel sauce? Or both, in my case.

  After dropping me at home, Zoe and Mrs. Winchester and my mother headed to Half Moon Farm to join the group for a cheesemaking demonstration. You’d think girls from rural Wyoming would have had enough barns and four-legged creatures to last a lifetime, but they can’t seem to get enough of Half Moon Farm. Not that I don’t like spending time there, too, but I had cheerleading practice, and I couldn’t skip it. I’m already just barely hanging on to my place in the squad, what with my waitressing job at Pies & Prejudice. Coach O’Donnell has been really great about letting me juggle both, since she knows it’s been a help to my family while my dad was unemployed.

  And besides, I really didn’t want to skip practice. It gave me an excuse to get away from Zoe Winchester for a couple of hours. Zoe is a major pain. What’s worse, I know that my friends used to call her Becca West, which is mortifying. Was I ever really like that? Bossy and boy crazy? Plus, she’s a lip gloss addict.

  Ashley dropped me at the Wongs after practice. She’s feeling kind of left out this week, but she’s been a good sport about it. I’ll see her again tonight; she’s volunteered to help set up for the debate over at the high school, which is where most of our group is right now. I stayed behind with Megan and Gigi and Mrs. Sloane-Kinkaid and Zoe’s mother, to help Mrs. Wong with hair and makeup and last-minute wardrobe adjustments.

  Which isn’t proving to be an easy task.

  “There’s no such thing as too much fuss,” Mrs. Winchester tells Megan’s mother, who is still frowning at the mascara wand. “Whatever it takes, remember?” Zoe’s mother has been coaching Mrs. Wong all week on the ins and outs of campaigning, and she’s big on personal appearance.

  Mrs. Wong sighs gustily and relents. Cassidy’s mother swoops in again as she tilts her face up. “All eyes will be on you tonight, Lily, and you want to look your best,” she tells her, standing back to take a critical look. She nods, satisfied, and passes me the wand. “Blush brush,” she says crisply, and I slap it into her palm. We’re like a surgical team on one of those TV shows.

  It’s not every day you get to see a former supermodel work her magic with makeup. By the time Mrs. Sloane-Kinkaid is done, I’ve picked up a few tricks. She’s putting on the finishing touches when Gigi comes in carrying a dress bag.

  “What’s that?” asks Mrs. Wong suspiciously.

  “A little surprise from your daughter and me,” Gigi replies, unzipping the bag to reveal a bright red skirt and jacket ensemble.

  Mrs. Sloane-Kinkaid gasps. “Is that your Chanel suit?”

  Gigi smiles. “A flawless copy, thanks to a talented seamstress I know. Lily’s too tall to wear mine.”

  “You mean Megan made that?” Cassidy’s mother’s eyebrows disappear beneath her perfectly tousled bangs.

  Megan nods, smiling shyly. “Gigi bought the fabric, though. She sent for it from Paris.”

  Mrs. Sloane-Kinkaid whips out her cell phone and starts snapping photos. “This is the perfect kick-off for Fashionista Jane, Paris Edition, Megan,” she says. “It gives you total street cred—how many teenage girls can sew a couture knockoff that doesn’t look like a knockoff? This could totally pass for the real thing.” Tapping away at the keypad she adds, “I’m sending you these pictures right now. You have to promise me you’ll use them, okay?”

  Megan’s eyes slide over to her mother. Mrs. Wong still hasn’t said yes yet to reviving the blog. However, she’s not listening to Mrs. Sloane-Kinkaid—she’s fixated on the red suit.

  She reaches out a tentative finger and strokes the jacket sleeve. “It’s beautiful, but isn’t it a bit frivolous? I was planning on wearing my beige pants and beige sweater set. I want to be taken seriously.”

  “Beige is boring,” says Zoe’s mother, who is dressed in an anything-but-boring zebra-striped sweater and black pants. It’s a mom look, but a good mom look. “Beige makes you look like a place mat.”

  I stifle a giggle. She’s right, though—Mrs. Wong tends to pick really plain, dull colors most of the time.

  “Mom, forget the earth tones,” Megan agrees. “Red is your signature color. You always get the most compliments when you wear red.”

  “I don’t know,” her mother replies, shaking her head. “This just seems so in your face.”

  “Which is exactly where your opponent is going to be an hour from now, so you might as well dress the part and go for it too,” says Mrs. Winchester, who is starting to sound a little annoyed. “Think of yourself as a boxer going into the ring—you wouldn’t droop in wearing some ratty old bathrobe, would you?”

  Megan and I exchange a glance, then duck our heads to hide our smiles. Mrs. Winchester has obviously never seen Mrs. Wong’s bathrobe. It’s incredibly ratty. Mrs. Wong says it’s better for the environment to get the most mileage possible out of an article of clothing.

  “Of course you wouldn’t,” Mrs. Winchester continues, oblivious. “You’d enter with your head held high, dressed in your brightest silks. Red is a power color. It lets your opponent know you’re confident. In fact,” she adds, “I’ll bet you anything he’ll be wearing a red tie tonight.”

  This seems to clinch it, because Mrs. Wong takes the suit from Gigi and starts to head out of the kitchen.

  “Don’t forget these,” says Gigi, holding up her diamond stud
earrings.

  “Absolutely not,” says Mrs. Wong.

  “They bring good luck,” Gigi tells her. “And add sparkle.”

  “Sparkle? I’ll blind the moderator if the spotlight hits me at the wrong angle. You can see those things from outer space, mother.”

  “Nonsense,” says Mrs. Sloane-Kinkaid. “Gigi is right—they’re the perfect accessory. Just the right amount of pizzazz.”

  “Pizzazz, schmizzazz,” grumbles Mrs. Wong, but she takes the earrings with her as she leaves the kitchen.

  The door swings shut behind her and Cassidy’s mother sags against the counter. “Whew,” she says. “That was a job and a half.”

  “My daughter has a stubborn streak,” admits Gigi.

  “Stubborn can be a useful trait in a politician,” says Mrs. Winchester. She glances up at the clock. “We’d better get this show on the road if we don’t want to be late.”

  A few minutes later, we all pile into the Sloane-Kinkaids’ minivan and head down Strawberry Hill Road toward Alcott High. Mrs. Wong is in the front passenger seat, rifling through the three-by-five cards in her hands. I lean over the seat back and pat her on the shoulder.

  “Remember Savannah’s trick, Mrs. Wong? Just tell yourself ‘I’m not nervous, I’m excited.’ She says it really helps.”

  “I’m not nervous, I’m excited,” says Mrs. Wong.

  “That’s it.”

  “It’s not helping.”

  “Try deep breathing,” says Cassidy’s mother. “That always worked for me before a photo shoot.”

  Mrs. Wong is still huffing and puffing as we pull into the high school parking lot a few minutes later. I spot Mr. Wong in front of the entrance to the building. He waves when he sees us.

  “There you are,” he says, opening the front passenger door. “I was beginning to worry.” His eyes widen as Mrs. Wong climbs out of the car. “Ooh là là! Nice suit.”

  “See!” wails Mrs. Wong over her shoulder at Mrs. Sloane-Kinkaid. “I told you! Nobody’s going to take me seriously in this getup.”

  “Honey, calm down,” says Mr. Wong. “I’m just kidding. You look great.”

  Megan and Gigi and I hop out, and so does Mrs. Winchester. She and Mr. Wong slip their arms through Mrs. Wong’s and propel her through the front door.