Home for the Holidays Read online

  “Tell her hi back,” I whisper in return. Ashley was supposed to come shopping with us today too, but she ended up going to visit her cousins in Connecticut for the weekend.

  “She wants to know if you’ve heard anything from Simon yet?”

  I shake my head. I checked my computer before we left the house, but there still weren’t any e-mails or other messages.

  Becca gives me a sidelong glance. “I hope everything’s okay.”

  She knows better than to bug me about it, but Becca’s like that sometimes. She just can’t resist stirring things up. The truth is, I’m kind of worried. He knows this is Thanksgiving weekend, and that I’ve got a lot going on with my grandparents in town and our shopping day and everything, but still, we were supposed to talk yesterday morning, and he’s never missed one of our video-chat dates before. I’ve decided that if I don’t hear from him by tonight—or tomorrow morning at the latest—I’m going to call.

  To get back at Becca, I mention a tidbit I overheard at the football game yesterday. “Can you believe that Zach Norton volunteered to be the equipment manager for the Lady Shawmuts?” I tell her. “He’s down in Rhode Island this weekend, watching Cassidy play.”

  Becca’s face clouds. She obviously hasn’t heard this, but she pretends like she has. She hates it when other people know stuff before she does, even me. “Yeah, what’s up with that?”

  I feel really mean all of a sudden, because I know how much Becca likes Zach, and it’s pretty obvious that even though he asked her to Spring Formal last year, he doesn’t like her back. Not the way Simon likes me. Which has been kind of hard for her to swallow.

  I’ve tried telling Becca that Zach is just one small fish in a very big pond called Alcott High, and that there are plenty of other boys out there who would be thrilled if she’d pay them some attention—like Third, for instance, who is the nicest guy in the world, even if he is a little bit of a goofball—but she’s totally stuck on Zach Norton. And she’s not happy that he’s spending so much time this year hanging out with Cassidy.

  I’m still not sure where Cassidy fits into all this. By the end of last school year, we all thought she liked Simon’s brother, Tristan. Every time I ask Simon about it, though, he just shrugs and says his brother is “awfully closemouthed about these things.”

  I don’t know when Cassidy would have time to squeeze a boyfriend in anyway. She barely has time to breathe these days, what with elite hockey and Chicks with Sticks. Plus, sophomore classes are hard—a lot harder than freshman classes were. Especially math. Cassidy and I are in the same Algebra II class, and if it wasn’t for Becca’s brother, Stewart, who tutors us both, we’d be in big trouble.

  “So are you enjoying the Betsy-Tacy books so far, Megan?” asks Becca’s grandmother, pouring me some more hot chocolate.

  I nod. “Thank you so much for getting them all for us, Mrs. Gilman,” I reply politely, and my mother gives me an approving smile from across the table. Two points for me, I think, feeling an unfamiliar glow of virtue. I don’t always remember to be polite.

  “You’re so welcome,” Becca’s grandmother replies, giving me a mischievous smile. “It’s part of my secret plan to take over the world. I wish I could make everyone read these books—they’re so good.”

  I nod. Surprisingly, I agree with her. Even though I haven’t read all of them yet, so far I feel like these are girls I can actually relate to. Not that I couldn’t relate to the March sisters in Little Women, or Anne Shirley in Anne of Green Gables, or Judy Abbott in Daddy-Long-Legs, or even the Bennet sisters in Pride and Prejudice. But Betsy Ray and her friends seem, I don’t know, more real to me somehow. Deep Valley High in 1910 isn’t exactly Alcott High in the twenty-first century, but it’s not that far off. The characters are always talking about “the Crowd”—all their friends—and it reminds me of the friends Becca and I hang out with. And then there’s all the stuff about clothes, which I love, and the way they’re always calling one another on the phone, and the fact that they’re just as interested in boys as we are.

  “Are your shopping lists ready?” asks Gigi.

  I review mine quickly in my head. I need to find something for her, of course, and for Mom and Dad. And I want to buy presents for Becca and Ashley. I’m Emma’s Secret Santa, so I have to find six little gifts for her, plus an ornament. And then there’s Simon.

  Simon.

  I shove the thought of him away. I don’t want any worries to creep in and spoil our fun; I need to focus on the day ahead of me.

  After the dishes are washed and put away and Gigi is finished giving my mom and Mrs. Chadwick their final instructions, we all put on our coats. Becca and I kiss our moms good-bye—and in my case, my dad—and head out into the snow.

  Shopping with two grandmothers turns out to be a really, really great strategy. Half an hour later, Gigi’s already bought me a bracelet and two tops—not for Christmas but “just because,” as she puts it—and Mrs. Gilman is at the cash register paying for new boots for Becca.

  “Score!” whispers Becca happily, swinging her Arrivederci bag back and forth.

  I love it when stores take the time to design a really fabulous shopping bag. Arrivederci’s is lime green, with a wide band of black around the top, black handles, and their name spelled out in this really cool black font. I make a mental note to see if I can track it down, because the lettering would look awesome on the front of a T-shirt.

  I glance down at my own two bags, a lavender-and-white-striped one from the Whole Nine Yards and the plain brown one with little black pawprints on it from the Concord Pet Shoppe. I found the cutest present for Pip as one of Emma’s Secret Santa gifts. Both bags are nice, but neither one is as splashy as Arrivederci’s, and they’re certainly not the kind of thing I’d want to hang on my wall, like I did with the one from Bébé Soleil that Gigi brought me back from Paris.

  When I was in eighth grade, I designed this baby outfit for the daughter of Jess’s housemom at Colonial Academy. I didn’t think it was all that special, but my grandmother loved it so much she secretly borrowed it and took it with her on her annual trip to Paris for Fashion Week. She showed it to the buyers at Bébé Soleil, and now they carry a line of my clothing. My dream is to be a fashion designer someday, and even though I wasn’t thrilled at first—baby clothes aren’t exactly my career goal—now I think it’s pretty cool. For one thing, I’m piling up a lot of money in my college fund, which makes my mother insanely happy. Plus, it’s fun. And as Gigi points out, it’s a foot in the door.

  To celebrate signing the contract, Gigi had the Bébé Soleil bag framed for me, and I hung it on the wall over my desk. It’s bright orange, with a stylized yellow sun shining on a garden full of flowers that are actually babies. It’s adorable and classy at the same time, and so French. So “je ne sais quoi,” as Gigi puts it. Which now that I’m taking French at school I know means literally “I don’t know what”—that indescribable quality that makes something special.

  “Where to next?” asks Becca’s grandmother.

  “Kitchen store,” says Gigi. “There’s something I want to get for Clementine.” She glances at her watch, then at Becca and me. “Somehow I have a feeling you two aren’t all that interested in kitchen gadgets.”

  “Um, yeah, maybe not,” I reply.

  She smiles. “How about you go on ahead to Josephine’s? I called a few minutes ago, and they’ve had several cancellations due to the weather. They said they’d be happy to squeeze us all in for facials. You girls are booked first, and Grace and I will go after lunch. My treat.”

  I throw my arms around her. “Thanks, Gigi!” Josephine’s facials are legendary. They’re also very expensive.

  “We’ll meet you back at Pies & Prejudice,” says Becca’s grandmother.

  Becca and I scurry away, clutching each other in giddy excitement. I’ve had facials before, but never one from Josephine’s.

  The salesroom is decorated in a soothing palette of dove gray and lavender, a
nd equally soothing music drifts in from hidden speakers somewhere. The receptionist checks us in and invites us to browse for a few minutes while the “artistes,” as she calls them, prepare our rooms. Becca and I have to stifle our giggles as we look around at the displays of perfumes and luxury soaps and shampoos and bath things and makeup. The price tags are insane.

  “Guess we won’t be buying our Secret Santa stuff here,” Becca whispers.

  “No kidding. Isn’t it all gorgeous, though?”

  “Mmm-hmm,” says Becca, picking up one of the lotion samples and squeezing a dollop onto her palm. She rubs her hands together and sniffs them, smiling blissfully. “I think I want to live here.”

  The receptionist returns and beckons to us. We follow her down a marble-floored hallway to a pair of plush, toasty-warm rooms lit by flickering, scented candles.

  “See you when I’m beautiful,” says Becca, fluttering a newly moisturized hand at me as she disappears into one of them. I go into the other, and before long I’m lying under a towel on a table while a woman in a white coat steams, creams, exfoliates, and massages my face, all the while murmuring soft compliments. My nose is working overtime trying to decipher all the scents, and I take mental notes like crazy, thinking maybe I need to consider adding a line of facial products to my future fashion line. I could even call them “Ray of Sunshine” after Betsy, who is just as crazy about “beauty aids,” as she calls them, as Becca and I are.

  “Is it my imagination, or is the snow letting up a little?” asks Becca when we emerge a while later, our faces glowing.

  “Wishful thinking,” I tell her. “And by the way, you look amazing.”

  “So do you.”

  It’s true. Gigi got us the deluxe facials, which included an expert makeup consultation. I’ve never seen either of us with makeup this perfect.

  “Too bad we can’t stop in here every morning on the way to school, huh?” I ask.

  “No kidding,” says Becca, glancing around hopefully. “Maybe someone will notice us.”

  But the only ones who do are her grandmother and Gigi.

  “Look at these ravishing beauties, Grace!” says Gigi.

  “I only hope I’m half as gorgeous when Josephine’s is done with me,” Becca’s grandmother replies.

  Becca and I take a seat at their table, feeling pleased with ourselves. A moment later Mrs. Chadwick appears with a menu. “Ladies, may I interest you in a little lunch?”

  “Nice look, Mom!” says Becca, grinning broadly at the white ruffled cap and matching apron.

  Her mother swats her with the menu. My mother pokes her head out of the kitchen and peers at my face. She frowns.

  “Too much around the eyes,” she says. My mother hates makeup.

  Gigi leans across the table. “Don’t listen to her,” she’s whispers. “It’s just right.”

  “What was that, Mother?” asks my mom.

  “Nothing, dear. How has business been today?”

  “Brisk. You were right about the soup—it’s almost gone.”

  “I guess we’d better make sure we get some, then. Shall we order?”

  After we finish lunch, Becca’s grandmother and Gigi head off to their appointments at Josephine’s, while my dad drives Becca and me to the West Concord Five & Ten. This is my father’s favorite store in town, and he’s always happy to find an excuse to go. It’s kind of like a cross between a hardware store, a toy shop, and maybe a crafts store. They carry just about everything a person could think of, from kitchen appliances to school supplies to yarn to oddball stuff like fishing lures and Chinese paper lanterns. Becca and I snap up a couple of Secret Santa gifts while my dad happily roots around in the plumbing supply section.

  By midafternoon the snow finally starts to subside. We duck back into the tea shop—for actual tea this time—to plot our strategy for the rest of the day. We decide to skip the mall, since we’ve been able to find so much stuff right here in town, in favor of finishing up with the rest of the stores in Concord, and possibly a trip into Boston tomorrow. If I can convince my mother that I won’t be permanently damaged by a double dose of shopping, that is.

  By four o’clock it’s getting dark, my feet hurt, and I’m actually feeling shopped out, which almost never happens. I’m more than happy to call it a day. Dad drives everyone home, and I head to my room with my purchases, eager to see if maybe Simon finally left me a message.

  I dump my shopping bags on the bed and cross the room to my desk. Flipping open my laptop, I sit down and wait for it to boot up, then hop online. There’s still no sign of him—no little icon on the IM or video-chat screens—so I open my e-mail instead. Ha! He sent me a message. It’s about time.

  I click it open and scan the first line. All of a sudden I can’t breathe.

  I don’t know how to tell you this, so I’ll just say it: I

  think we should cool it for a while.

  This can’t be what I think it is. It just can’t!

  I really, really like you, Megan, but living this far

  away is just too hard, and I think we should both be

  free to date other people.

  He’s breaking up with me? In an e-mail? I can’t believe that Simon Berkeley would do something like this.

  But he did.

  I’m sorry I didn’t call you yesterday, but I didn’t want

  to ruin your holiday. I’ve been thinking about this

  nonstop, and wanted to make sure I was making the

  right decision. You’re an amazing girl, Megan.

  Not amazing enough, apparently.

  Tears trickle down my face as I force myself to read the rest. I’m not stupid—I can read between the lines. When Simon says he thinks we should both be free to date other people, he’s actually saying that he wants to be free to date other people. He probably already has—maybe stupid Annabelle Fairfax or one of her stupid friends. Annabelle is Simon’s cousin—well, distant cousin—and she’s a real piece of work. Emma nicknamed her “Stinkerbelle.” She’s pretty, though, and so are the girls she hangs out with. Maybe Simon just couldn’t resist.

  I’ll call or write in a while after you’ve had a chance

  to think this all over. I’m sure this is coming as some-

  what of a shock, but I do hope you’ll understand, and

  perhaps even see that I’m right. Happy Thanksgiving

  to you and your family. Love, Simon

  My eyes linger on the word “love” before I close my laptop and cross back to my bed. I curl up among my shopping bags and stare at the wall, numb. Tears start again in earnest.

  There’s a knock at the door. I don’t respond.

  “Megan!” It’s my mother. “We’re going to eat dinner soon.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  She pokes her head in. “Aren’t you feeling well? A touch of affluenza, perhaps?”

  I can’t believe my mother is trying to make one of her stupid anti-consumerism jokes! Talk about bad timing. I turn my head away, and she comes over and sits down on the edge of my bed. Seeing the tears on my face, her tone softens. “What is it, sweetheart?”

  The tenderness in her voice undoes me. “It’s Simon!” I wail. “He just broke up with me. In an e-mail!”

  “Oh, sweetheart.” She reaches over and strokes my hair, which makes me cry even harder. “I know how hard this must be for you.”

  I shake my head. She couldn’t possibly know. No one could.

  “Maybe it’s for the best,” she continues. “You’re awfully young to be pairing up.”

  “Mom! That’s a horrible thing to say!”

  “What I mean is, it’s way too soon for a serious relationship. At your age, you should just be having fun. Getting to know boys as friends, doing things in groups, that sort of thing. You know, being part of a Crowd, like Betsy and Tacy and their friends.”

  “This is real life, Mom, not a book,” I tell her bitterly. “And you don’t know what it’s like, anyway! You probably never had
anybody dump you!”

  She chuckles softly. “Sure I did.”

  I’m so surprised to hear this that I stop crying. “Really?” It feels strange having this conversation. My mother and I love each other and everything, but we don’t usually have these kinds of heart-to-hearts. Gigi is the one I usually go to for that.

  She nods. “Of course. And it felt like my heart would break every single time. Your father and I even broke up for a while before we got married.”

  “You did?” My voice shoots up in surprise. I sit up and reach for a tissue.

  She nods again. “We dated in college, and then after graduation we decided to go our separate ways. I had that internship in Washington, and your dad was working for a computer company here in Boston. We both dated other people, but I found myself comparing everyone else to him. Apparently he felt the same way, because he called me out of the blue one day a couple of years later, and six months after that we were married.”

  I mulled this over. Maybe it would work the same way for Simon and me. Maybe we were still right for each other, but just not right now.

  “And don’t forget what happens to Betsy,” my mother added, looking over at the pile of books on my bedside table.

  “No spoilers!” I tell her quickly. “I’m just starting Betsy Was a Junior.”

  My mother crosses her heart. “No spoilers, I promise.” She leans over and kisses the top of my head. “Would you like to come join us for dinner?”

  I shake my head. I really don’t want to have to talk about this with Dad and Gigi. Not right now.

  “Can I bring you a tray instead?”

  I lift a shoulder. “I’m not very hungry.”

  “Tea and toast, then?”

  “Cinnamon toast?”

  She doesn’t hesitate. “Absolutely. Butter, cinnamon sugar, the whole nine yards.”

  I muster a smile and point at the lavender-and-white-striped bag I’m sitting on, the one with the Whole Nine Yards logo.

  She smiles back. “Try not to worry too much, sweetheart. I know it hurts right now, but life has a way of sorting itself out.”