Snowsisters Read online

  Soph catches our attention. She’s doing an honest-to-god pirouette that has her turning backward midair and landing on one skate. You can hear everyone react.

  Without warning, Orly falls. I stop help her up when, suddenly, Soph is right there next to her, holding out her hand. She asks Orly if she’s hurt.

  “No, I don’t think so,” Orly laughs. “But I daresay I’ve had enough ice for one day, thank you very much.”

  Soph and I each take one of her hands to help her skate back to the edge of the pond. The day is cold and sunny, and everything feels fresh.

  Later, back in the room, changing for dinner, Soph carefully wipes the blades of her skates with a towel before she replaces the blade guards. I ask her about her skating.

  Her hair is still mussed from pulling her hat off; her cheeks are bright from the cold. She folds the towel over again and shrugs. She tells me she isn’t sure; her life got busy. “I still go once or twice a year, at Chelsea Piers,” she says, snapping the second guard blade into place, “but my mother ruined it for me. She made it into a girly-princessy thing and I don’t want to be her infanta in a mantilla, doing a triple axel for the social set.” She frowns and then shakes her head, as if she can shake off whatever it is that her mother did. “I’ve never skated on a real pond before today. That was amazing.”

  “It was nice of you to teach Orly,” I say without thinking and realize I’ve just opened up that conversation I told her I didn’t want to have.

  Soph looks at me hard. Then she says, “You know Chris is still at it.” Her voice sounds different, wobbly but angry.

  “I know,” I say. “I offered to teach Chris how to skate, but she didn’t want to.”

  Soph’s expression is sharp. “Why would you even bother with her?”

  I’m not quite sure what the answer to that is, so I try to explain. “I think it would be better if everyone could be friends. If Chris got to know Orly better, maybe she wouldn’t be so scared of her.”

  “Orly’s not scary,” scoffs Soph.

  I don’t know what to say to that, because she’s right.

  * * *

  We are assigned to make dinner for that night, so, a half hour later, at about four-thirty, I pull on my shoes to go down to the kitchen. Dinner is supposed to be served at six-thirty. I’m doing calculations in my head about how long the meal will take to prepare and how to organize the cooking so everything is done at once. Soph is reading something on her phone. I stand by the door and wait for her to look up.

  “Are you going somewhere?” She’s still lounging on her stomach on the bed.

  “Well, we have to make dinner tonight for everyone,” I remind her. “We only have two hours, and I thought we should go down and get started.”

  She sits up then, phone dangling in her hand, and laughs that chirpy, cute laugh she has. “Oh, can’t we just order Vietnamese or Middle Eastern dips and kebabs and let everyone choose what they want?”

  I struggle to stop myself from rolling my eyes at her. Different worlds, Tess, I repeat in my head, different worlds.

  “Soph, first of all, no, we’re supposed to cook. They said they’ve got ingredients downstairs. And second, I don’t have any money to pay for food for all these people.”

  She flinches and quickly says, “No, I didn’t mean you would have to—I can put it on my card—” but I cut her off.

  “Soph, you’re in northern New Hampshire in the White Mountains. I’ve never even seen a Vietnamese restaurant, and there probably isn’t a kebab anywhere around here either.”

  “You’ve never been to a Vietnamese restaurant? Seriously?” She is incredulous, eyes wide, staring at me like I come from Mars. This whole country mouse, city mouse routine is a little old, especially because she has come to my country. I decide to turn the tables on her.

  “You mean you’ve never cooked dinner before?” And as soon as the words leave my mouth, she looks away and then at her lap while fiddling with her phone. I hit the nail on the head.

  “C’mon,” I say, reaching out to pull her up. “It’s probably spaghetti and meatballs or something easy like that. I’ll show you. It will be fun.” She takes my hand then, briefly, and, for a split second, all I can think about is how warm it is in mine. I can feel my face turn red and I drop her hand as we walk downstairs without saying another word.

  I’m almost right. The kitchen staff has laid out all the ingredients and a recipe for lasagna. We make two huge ones, regular and vegetarian, and, once we start, Soph is a good sport. She has no idea how to hold a knife, and I don’t need to see any blood, so I cut onions and mushrooms. Soph stirs the sauce, which I tell her is important. Then I have her mix the cheese filling and lay the noodles in the pans.

  “My MeMe, my grandmother, says you have to criss-cross the layers of noodles so it holds together better when you cut it,” I tell her. Then I show her how to alternate the way the noodles stack with each layer. I stand close to her and see that her hands are a little messy from the cheese filling. When I notice her watching me intently, I back up fast. My cheeks warm again, and I turn back to the stove.

  But she just asks me, “Does your MeMe live near you?”

  “Yeah,” I say, stirring the ground beef in the frying pan with much more attention than it deserves. “She lives in the same town. My grandfather died a few years ago, so we visit a lot to keep her company.” I explain how we all go over to her house every week after church for Sunday dinner and how I always help her with the cooking.

  “There’s usually eleven of us, because my uncle comes with his family, so I’m used to cooking in big batches. I’m going to miss her when I leave next year.”

  “Wow!” Soph is watching me stir the sauce. “We almost never see my aunt and uncle. They live on the Main Line.” I don’t know where that is, but I assume it must be far from New York, or they would see each other more often. I turn the gas off.

  We layer the two casseroles side by each. That’s how we say “close to one another” where I’m from. Soph loves that expression. I tell her more about MeMe: how she still watches her soap opera on weekday afternoons and bakes cookies every Friday. Soph is practically giddy by the time the lasagnas are ready to go in the oven.

  “No, wait!” she says, as I open the big commercial oven to put them in, “I need to take a picture! No one at home will believe I made this myself!”

  She didn’t make it herself, but I smile patiently, and put the pans back on the counter while she pulls out her phone.

  “You too,” she says, and pulls me in close for a selfie with her and one of the big pans of lasagna. I do the classic selfie pose, opening my mouth and raising my eyebrows as if I am surprised to be having my picture taken. She laughs when she shows me the shot. She has a smudge of tomato sauce on her cheek, and my hair is coming out of its ponytail, so it’s messy on one side.

  “Sweet,” she says, and then holds the oven door open for me while I slide the two pans in. Then I show her how to make salad and garlic bread. At the end, I teach her to let the lasagna sit for ten minutes before cutting it so the whole dish will come together before we cut into it.

  After we put the food out on the serving tables, I turn to find a seat toward the end of the table. I expect Soph will go back to the middle where she sat with Janaye, but she surprises me by plopping down next to me instead. When Orly comes in, Soph waves her over, and Orly sits down across from us with a small sigh. Soph tells her excitedly about making dinner.

  Orly says she cooks with her grandmother. She tells us a funny story about how, when she was little, she used to think black-eyed peas really had eyes and she was terrified they were watching her eat them. I tease Soph a little about wanting to come to Minerva for four years without so much as knowing they don’t have ethnic restaurants around. It all feels comfortable and friendly, until I see Chris taking notes on the other side of the table.


  * * *

  From Soph Alcazar’s Writing Journal,

  February 13, 2018

  What I do well, I am able to teach,

  But she shows me something new, side by each.

  Chapter Fourteen

  From the Fan Fiction Unbound Archive,

  posted by conTessaofthecastle:

  The next morning, Daphne awoke with a start, looking for Astoria. No one was there. Daphne wasn’t sure how the magic had changed, but she knew she would only be able to figure it out if she found Astoria again. Sighing, she packed up the blanket and the single bowl they had been using for meals. She made sure the campfire was completely doused, strewed the ashes and covered them with leaves. If the Coven came this way they would probably be able to sense her presence, but she didn’t want to give them any obvious clues. The sun was out today at least, and Daphne checked its position as she murmured the pathfinder chant to make sure she was headed east, toward the Portal of Arden. She didn’t know what else to do.

  Soph.

  Wednesday morning when I wake up, I find, to my surprise, that Freddy has texted me. It’s Valentine’s Day, but that’s not the point of Freddy’s text.

  [From Freddy to Soph] Help! They’re insisting I ski this time.

  I suppose it was bound to happen. Mrs. Peckett can be very persuasive.

  [From Soph to Freddy] Just do the bunny trail once then say you twisted your ankle.

  [From Freddy to Soph] It’s been three years. Last time I fell it was a total yard sale. I broke my collarbone.

  [From Soph to Freddy] You can fall on the bunny slope—everyone else there does.

  [From Freddy to Soph] But ski instructor is 2 hot. He’ll laugh at me.

  Well, that answers the question: Freddy’s gay, like me, or maybe bi or pan. Did he think I already knew?

  [From Soph to Freddy] Gotta pretend to try. Then be damsel in distress!

  Freddy responds with an emoji of a princess. He turns out to have more personality than I thought.

  [From Soph to Freddy] Good to try new things.

  I attach the selfie of Tess and me holding the lasagna.

  [From Freddy to Soph] Since when is lasagna a new thing?

  [From Soph to Freddy] No, we made the lasagna. Ourselves!

  [From Freddy to Soph] Cool. And the girl in the picture?

  This time, he puts in a winking emoji.

  [From Soph to Freddy] Room8. Nice girl. Different tribe.

  He turns serious.

  [From Freddy to Soph] Don’t tell anyone.

  [From Soph to Freddy] OK.

  But I can’t help adding,

  [From Soph to Freddy] UR late to the party, F. Time to come out!

  [From Freddy to Soph] UR the only one I told. Please.

  [From Soph to Freddy] Why did you wait so long?

  [From Freddy to Soph] Too hard.

  [From Soph to Freddy] Duh. But it only gets harder.

  [From Freddy to Soph] There’s no other way?

  [From Soph to Freddy] NO!!!

  [From Freddy to Soph] Know it all.

  Tess hears me say “humph” out loud.

  “Did you say something, Soph?”

  “No, I’m getting frustrated with this guy.”

  “A guy?”

  “Yeah, well, no, not that. I know this guy, Freddy, and he just told me that he’s gay but he won’t tell his parents or anyone. I wish he would come out already.”

  “Why do you care?”

  “Because he’s going to have to at some point. You have to come out if you want to live your life. I did it. My queer friends did it too. Freddy’s parents will find out sooner or later. He should tell them now. It feels a lot better after you do.”

  Tess seems to ponder this. She probably doesn’t understand. Straight people don’t.

  “You sound pretty certain about that.”

  “It’s a fact, Tess. Coming out is better for everyone. We can’t hide in the closet forever, you know.” I’m getting worked up over this and I probably shouldn’t. If Tess is from a military family, she probably isn’t too keen on gays. I don’t think they even had Don’t Ask Don’t Tell when her father went to Iraq. That’s over now, but I bet things haven’t changed that much. Now she’s frowning at me.

  “Maybe he will someday, Soph. Why does it have to be right away?”

  “Because there are other gay kids, and the more of us who are out, the less we can be oppressed. We need to build our own community.” Tess picks up her phone and starts texting, probably to the boyfriend again.

  After a minute she says quietly, “But he did come out, didn’t he?”

  I look at her.

  “He came out to you. Isn’t that enough, if it’s enough for him?”

  Like I said, straight people don’t get it. I pick up my phone again, thinking I’ll text Gordon, Mibs, and Lally. Except I promised Freddy I wouldn’t tell. I realize Tess is right. He did come out to me. It’s a start.

  * * *

  I’m a little nervous going into the second group session on Wednesday morning. I’m glad that we decided to do a ballad, but so many of these girls aren’t what I expected. Yin seems fine when we talk, but she was hanging out with Chris and piling on Orly. I wish she’d get over that. I had a good time making dinner with Tess. Sometimes it seems she likes me, like when we were skating or when she was teasing me about going to college in New Hampshire, but we’re really different. I hope I can avoid Professor Forsythe, at least until I figure out how to make a better impression.

  We meet in one of the third-floor rooms, but no one is focused, so I start. “We’re doing a ballad. What kind of story do we want to tell?”

  “Obviously, it should be about a woman,” Ellen offers to general assent.

  “Should we do a love story? Maybe a tragic one? For Valentine’s?” It makes sense to me that Gabriela would propose this. She’s got a tragic streak and a boyfriend.

  Yin wants us to do something which has a compelling story, including a journey and something our protagonist learns after overcoming a great challenge.

  I’m fine with this, but it doesn’t help us narrow anything down. “Do we want to make up characters?”

  “No way. Too much work. Ballads like Beowulf are from oral history. Let’s work with a story which is already out there.” Ellen’s right.

  We can’t decide between comic book heroines and historical feminists until Gabriela suggests we try a goddess from one of the Greek myths. “We could do Demeter and Persephone. I love that story! Demeter helps her daughter Persephone escape from Hades, but Persephone has to return six months a year because she ate six pomegranate seeds while she was there. Demeter is the goddess of the harvest and is depressed when her daughter is away, which turns the season dark and cold.”

  “But there’s no lesson to that one. It explains winter, that’s all,” Yin complains.

  I ask if anyone knows any other Greek or Roman goddesses, maybe in nontraditional relationships. The general answer is that they’re all married with god-kids.

  “Why are we doing Greek or Roman goddesses. What about a Norse one?”

  “Does anyone know any Norse gods?” Gabriela asks.

  “I do,” Ellen volunteers. “My mom’s family is from Sweden. I grew up hearing about them.”

  We settle on Freya. Ellen says she’s the chief goddess. We use our phones to do some quick research on her. She’s the goddess of love, sex, beauty, fertility, gold, war, and death—try to beat that. She’s married to another god, Od, and has a chariot pulled by two cats. Freya has a magic necklace of desire that makes her irresistible to men and a cloak made of falcon feathers that allows her to turn into a bird and fly.

  “It says there are already epic poems about her, including an appearance in Beowulf.”

&nb
sp; “Why don’t we change her?” I suggest, thinking I want her to be bisexual and definitely have a wife.

  Yin goes along with it. “Great idea—enough with the same old binary stuff!”

  I wonder if she realizes this is basically fan fiction. For once, I decide to keep my mouth shut.

  Tess.

  Chris doesn’t bother to come to this morning’s group meeting. I don’t know where she is. Part of me thinks she might be upstairs going through Orly’s things, which gives me a slightly sick feeling in my stomach, but I decided not to involve myself and I’m going to stick to that decision unless something changes.

  Peggy, Keisha, and I are brainstorming plot points, and then Peggy drafts a description of the town. I use my phone to research Maizy Donovan’s character. We decided to stick with the original idea, because I keep hoping I can figure out a way to convince Chris to work with us and because, after finding some background online about Ultraman comics, I’m pretty excited about Maizy’s character.

  Ultraman started in the 1970s, and Maizy is described as a “bold and fearless career woman, seeking out the truth wherever it may take her.” Not surprisingly, the truth leads her straight to Ultraman over and over, but I like that Maizy is ahead of her time. Ultraman keeps flirting with her, and she keeps him at arm’s length until she solves the mystery for her newspaper article. She might let him kiss her now and then or fly her out of danger, but she’s not all clingy and needy. In fact, until the comic gets sold to a new publisher in 1985, she’s very independent. After 1985, she wears tight clothes and screams to be rescued from bad guys in almost every panel. The comic got cancelled in 1993, right after Maizy and Ultraman got married.

  We agree to go back to the early days. I research some big news stories from that time. I have a hard time understanding that this was how the world was when my mom and dad were born. I decide to write about Maizy’s fight to be paid the same amount as the dashing investigative journalist Ron Reynolds. From what I’m reading, lots of women were joining the workforce in the 1970s but didn’t have the legal protections they do now. Men weren’t fired for “sexual harassment,” nor did women always understand they were entitled to equal pay for equal work. I think that at least sounds like something Chris would be interested in following up on, if she ever shows up. Even if she doesn’t, I think it will make a good story.