Snowsisters Read online

Edge of the new; am I at a juncture?

  Hoping also that I find a someone.

  So far, there’s been no one, but I’m sixteen.

  My parents desperate that I conform.

  They don’t understand it’s me they demean.

  I won’t dance their steps however they storm.

  Because I know who I am. I won’t change.

  No matter if they insist, ’not their page.

  Chapter Two

  From the Fan Fiction Unbound Archive,

  posted by conTessaofthecastle:

  Daphne wasn’t sure at all, but she didn’t want Astoria to know her fears. She stopped in the path and waited for Astoria, so close she could turn, look into her dark eyes, and smell the scent of roses mixed with ash that always clung to her. When she spoke, it was barely a whisper. “We’re going to be fine. As long as we stay together, we’re going to be fine.” Astoria looked at her and shuddered.

  Soph.

  Mrs. Peckett is one of those mothers who always has an agenda. I’m not complaining, though. They were nice to let me tag along on their plane and I think their son Freddy and I may have more in common than any of our parents realize. Freddy’s a year behind me in school, a sophomore. He goes to an all-boys’ school, St. Botolph’s, so I only see him when our mothers arrange something that puts us in the same room. He’s quiet, wears glasses, and avoids sports, which makes me wonder what he’s going to do while his parents are skiing this week. A blue streak in his hair makes me smile. It’s pretty fly, but that won’t thrill his parents. They’re retro in the bad way, not cool but conservative, as if they get all their information from newspapers and cocktail parties.

  Back when we went to elementary school, Freddy was one of those boys who liked to play with girls more than boys, and we were good friends. While the other boys played with Legos and Star Wars figures, Freddy played with Barbies and he did it well, imagining all sorts of stories we acted out with the dolls. My friend Lally had a big set and all the accessories, cars, and the doctor’s office, and we used to make playdates with Freddy at her apartment. Lally told all the other girls about it one day, and those playdates ended pretty quickly. Freddy became a lot less talkative after that and now I only see him when our families get together. On those occasions, he’s usually buried in a phone or a laptop.

  I wonder if Freddy’s gay. But he’s never said anything to anyone we know. I have no patience for the closet. If he’s gay, he should come out. Coming out is better for everyone.

  Mr. Peckett sits in the far corner of the airplane cabin hidden behind his Wall Street Journal Weekend Edition. He must be the last person alive who still reads the paper version.

  Mrs. Peckett sits next to me and wastes no time. “Sophronia, it’s lovely to fly you up with us, right, Freddy?” Freddy, across the table from me, barely looks up from his iPad. He nods at his mother and me. “Norris and I understand this is going to be your debutante year. And with your family background, you must be very excited!”

  I’m excited all right, but not about that. “Oh, that’s a long way off, Mrs. P. Not ‘til next winter.”

  “Nonsense, we know all that advance preparation starts now. You have to take ballroom dancing and pick your charity. Have you thought about your escort? Your parents are not going to want you to be presented on the arm of a young man you’ve never met from one of the military academies, are they? If you don’t have a special young man of your own, wouldn’t you prefer to have a family friend?”

  She’s thinking about Freddy, of course, who is still looking at his screen. I like him well enough for a “family friend,” but we have almost nothing in common anymore and he’s so quiet most of the time that I want to yell at him to say something. He still doesn’t move from his iPad, so I can’t see his face, but I get the feeling he’s concentrating on ignoring us a little too much. My mom was pretty clear about not discussing being a lesbian and, even though I think it’s bullshit to keep quiet about it, I do. But since I’m out to everybody, Freddy must know, from the few times we’ve hung out together, that there isn’t going to be any “special young man.” I wish he’d help me out. “Escort?” I reply. “Oh, no. Not yet.”

  Mrs. Peckett turns back to me and chirps, “Well, don’t wait too long. The good ones may be taken!”

  I smile and take out my phone. “I’ll be careful, Mrs. P. Promise!” What else am I going to say? “No f-ing way am I doing it at all?” “For an escort, I’m thinking maybe a hot biker chick?” Instead, I ask, “Is it okay to use my phone now that we’re in flight?”

  Freddy finally looks up. “Yeah, the Wi-Fi code is NorrisJPeckett3, no spaces. The Arabic three, not the Roman numerals Dad uses in his signature.” The real Norris J. Peckett, III, shuffles his newspaper.

  As soon as I turn my phone on, I find a text.

  [From Freddy to Soph] Sorry! Just agree with her, and she’ll shut up.

  Maybe Freddy is cooler than I thought.

  [From Soph to Freddy] K. My parents are all over me about this.

  Freddy catches my eye across the table and smiles at me.

  I send my friend Gordon an update.

  [From Soph to Gordon] On plane. Freddy’s mom trying to make him my deb-escort!!!

  Gordon met Freddy when their mothers signed them up for indoor sports at the armory years ago—a disaster for both of them—but we don’t all hang out together. Gordon also thinks Freddy is gay, but that he’s too shy to tell anyone.

  Gordon texts back a few minutes later.

  [From Gordon to Soph] If U don’t want Freddy, I get him!

  This is getting good quickly. I add two other friends, Lally and Mibs, to the chat.

  [From Soph to Gordon, Lally, and Mibs] He dyed his hair blue.

  Gordon responds immediately.

  [From Gordon to Lally, Mibs, and Soph] I can make it work!

  The four of us go to a prep school in the City. Gordon is the only boy in our class who’s out.

  Lally chimes in.

  [From Lally to Gordon, Mibs, and Soph] S—stop. New Hampshire is to get into college. G can get his own dates.

  I laugh at that. Lally sometimes makes fun of the rest of us for being too obsessed with finding someone we can fall in love with, but she’s right. Minerva College is my dream college, a traditional small school set in a picture-perfect historic New England town. I imagine ivy-covered brick buildings and a quad littered with maple trees. I would be far away from my mother. I love the great creative writing program, but it only takes top students. I need to impress Professor Forsythe. She’s not only the director of this conference, she’s also the chair of the English Department at Minerva. Mibs doesn’t answer any of us, which is no big surprise, since she’s been busy with her new boyfriend for weeks now. I sign off the text and google Professor Helen Forsythe. I have one week to convince her I’m the perfect candidate for Minerva. I need to find out everything about her, because I can’t mess this up.

  Tess.

  I get up at five in the morning and spend the morning packing and repacking my dad’s army duffel bag. I’ve never been away from home for a week, and I check six times that I packed enough warm socks and underwear. I don’t own a laptop computer; we just have the desktop in the family room that we share, so I make sure to bring a couple of spiral-bound notebooks and a bunch of pens and pencils. At least I got a phone for Christmas this year, so I can do research on that. My knapsack is already pretty full when I go to the computer and pull up my bookmarked tabs. I hesitate and then I click open a few pages and print them out. I look over all the questions as they emerge from the printer, but my eyes come back to the one I always get stuck on. Describe a recent incident where you took the lead. I stuff the papers in my knapsack. I only have two more weeks to figure out how to respond to that. Or, you know, actually find a way to take the lead. Joey’s truck pulls in the driveway, and I go t
o find Mom and Daddy to say goodbye.

  On my way out, I stop in the small barn. Molly is there, giving a bottle to Angie. We never could get her mother to let her nurse. I took over the bottle-feeding and I offered to not go to the writing conference, but Daddy sighed and told me he knew I was leaving next year anyway and Molly could handle it while I was gone. I didn’t dare tell him I had named her too. The barn is cold. I tell Molly goodbye and that I’m sorry about leaving her with all the work. She shrugs, smiles, and tells me to enjoy myself at the conference. Angie ignores me. She’s focused on the milk.

  I’m quiet in the truck as Joey and I drive to Granite Notch. Joey turns the radio off and peers sideways at me. “What?” he says, looking back at the road. Part of me loves that Joey always gets me.

  “I’m just…”

  He waits for me to finish my sentence. When I don’t, he takes one hand off the steering wheel and pats my thigh.

  “It’ll be fine, Tess. Your story is great, and now you get the chance to see what you can do outside of Castleton, New Hampshire. You haven’t given up on that, have you?”

  We’ve been talking about how to get out of Castleton since we started high school. In the last year, since he broke his jaw and we’ve been seniors, leaving is pretty much all we talk about.

  “Fine,” I say. His hand is heavy on my thigh. “We’ll see how I do an hour away from home in Granite Notch, New Hampshire. It isn’t a big chance, Joey.”

  “Yes, it is, Tess!” He takes his hand back to adjust the steering wheel. “It’s a really big chance for you. You’re just as good as those other girls, or they wouldn’t have picked you. Minerva College is a big deal. Once you show them who you are, they’ll respect you. Think of it as basic training for Basic Training. You know, living with a bunch of strange girls and getting compared to them, like all that stuff you’re going to be doing next year.”

  “Show them who I am? Seriously, Joey? That’s the best pep talk you can come up with?” I grin at him and roll my eyes, but, despite the sarcasm in my voice, I understand what he means. I’m headed into the military next year one way or the other. That means lots of new people and places and situations. This probably is a good time to practice. The interview prompt on the paper in my knapsack runs through my head. Describe a recent incident where you took the lead. I don’t know about being a leader. I only know I’m number three in my high school class, my latest fan fiction got more than thirty thousand hits, and I absolutely, positively have to leave Castleton. The military interview scheduled in two weeks is my best chance. Somehow, I have to figure out how this writing workshop might help. I take a breath and think about what Daddy said before I left the house. “Tess, make us proud now.” He was focused on finding something in his toolbox when he said it, though.

  We pull up to the lodge where the conference is, and Joey hops out of the truck to say goodbye. I have the duffel bag slung over one shoulder and my knapsack, stuffed with notebooks and papers, in my hand.

  I must look scared because Joey gives me a quick hug and says into my ear, “Try to be yourself, Tess, and text me sometime. I want to hear all about the other girls.” Then he winks and gets into the truck. I take a deep breath, think that the last thing I’m going to be for the next week is myself, and go into the lobby.

  * * *

  From Soph Alcazar’s Writing Journal,

  February 10, 2018

  Query: what is this really all about:

  Minerva, my sonnets, just getting out?

  Or could I find someone, perfect for me,

  Not secretive, but out there, she will be.

  Chapter Three

  From the Fan Fiction Unbound Archive,

  posted by conTessaofthecastle:

  The two of them made camp in silence. They worked efficiently, each anticipating the other’s motions and each moving around the other comfortably. Astoria cleared a space for a campfire and unpacked some bread and cheese for their supper. Meanwhile, Daphne collected firewood and made note of the nearest stream for water. It wasn’t until the fire was built and they sat watching the flames that Astoria asked, “What happens if we fail?”

  Soph.

  I’m late, of course, but it’s not my fault. The little airport in New Hampshire is all jammed up because a big snowstorm is coming, and private planes don’t have priority. After I air-kiss the Pecketts, Freddy smacks his lips suggestively in my ear and actually winks at me, as if he’s up to something.

  I immediately text Gordon.

  [From Soph to Gordon] F may be a better prospect 4 U than I thought—he vamped it up with a wink and a kiss!

  Gordon responds by repeating himself.

  [From Gordon to Soph] If U don’t want him, I get him.

  Then I discover that I was wrong to expect a line of yellow taxicabs waiting at the arrivals area. Google to the rescue, but there’s no Uber up here and it takes almost an hour to find someone from the local taxi company to pick me up, so it’s after three o’clock when I finally arrive at the MacMorrow Retreat. The sky is overcast, and the weather is getting colder. The cab driver tells me they expect ten inches of snow to fall tonight. I imagined something more Adirondack-style, with pitched roofs and porches on each level, but this is a basic ski lodge: a single, squat, three-story brick building up a long, wooded driveway. I’m disappointed that the retreat is not on the Minerva campus, but I’ve never been closer before, so who cares? Excited to be here, I bound up the few stairs to the entrance.

  The lobby is tiny and marked by a card table with balloons over it. Phew, at least there are a few girls as late as me waiting to sign in. I stand at the back of the line, behind a tall, long-limbed girl with beautiful dark brown, shoulder-length hair pulled back with a thick cloth headband. She turns around when I stand behind her.

  “Hi, I’m Soph.”

  “Orly Erwin,” she says in a soft, low voice. She’s wearing dangly gold earrings which hang almost to her shoulders.

  “Great to meet you. I was afraid I’d be the last one.” I can’t help checking her out. After all, I’m already a junior in high school but still have no experience. You’d think in New York I’d be able to meet someone, but only Mibs did. Gordon says, “The bigger the pond, the fewer the fish worth looking at.”

  There aren’t even any other lesbians on the literary magazine at school. Lally, who fences, claims that the only other ones are on the field hockey team and we have nothing to say to each other. Anyway, Orly is decent looking, very put-together, a little too hair-and-makeup for my taste. She’s in loose purple harem-y pants and a heavy purple sweater—like something you’d see on an old TV show, fluffy, with a high collar—under a lightweight maroon coat. She coordinated the color of her headband with her coat.

  Orly smiles a little, as if she’s shy, and says, “You are the last one in. But the van from Boston was very late, and I think Joan here is ready to get out from behind her table.” Her voice is friendly, and she has a Southern accent, warm and welcoming. She steps back, revealing Joan, a frowning woman with glasses who is seated at the table, handling registration.

  “Hello, you’re the twenty-fourth, Sophie Al-CAY-sah.” Her tone is flat, as though she doesn’t care if I’m Gertrude Stein herself.

  “Yes. It’s Soph. Al-cah-ZAR.” I don’t mind if people screw up my last name—which is shortened from Dad’s super-long one that never fits on any form—but I am not a Sophie.

  “Yes, Soph. Room E. You’re sharing with Tess, next to Orly and Chris. On the second floor. Go up the stairs over there.” She hands us both old-fashioned brass room keys on tags and nametags in clear plastic. Mine says “Sophie.”

  Orly and I grab our luggage. Joan calls after us, “Don’t forget the Mocktail Party at five p.m.” As we climb the stairs, I notice that we’re both carrying floral-print, quilted duffels from Vera Bradley. “You too, huh? My mom loves this flowery stuff.”
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  Orly says, “Huh? You mean my ‘Tar-zhay’ special?” She smiles a little.

  “Oh, um, yeah,” I say without understanding what she means.

  “Isn’t it cute? I have a matching makeup bag to go with it.” She holds up her other hand and, sure enough, she’s carrying a smaller matching bag.

  “Neat,” I say as we reach the second floor. I don’t wear much makeup, but whatever. “Where are you from, Orly?”

  Orly pauses. Avoiding my eyes, she says, “Georgia. You?”

  “New York.”

  Orly gets to her room first. “Soph, darlin’, will you hold my makeup bag for me?” She hands the bag to me and fumbles for her key.

  Before she has a chance to use her key, the door opens, and a girl our age stands in the doorway. She’s very short, probably less than five feet tall, and sturdily built with short, jet black hair and black, plastic-rimmed glasses. She’s barefoot and wearing a pair of worn jeans and a navy-blue fleece pullover. She’s staring intently at us.

  “Hi. I’m Chris. You can’t both be Orly.” She says it without smiling.

  Orly is frozen; she doesn’t say anything, just looks at me, eyes wide. I say, “No, I’m Soph. This is Orly. I’m in the room next door.” I’m not waiting around for them to figure out what to say to each other, so I hand Orly her makeup bag. As Orly goes in and closes the door behind her, I stroll over to Room E.

  I knock, figuring that I might as well warn my roommate in case she’s all abrupt like Chris. I can hear someone in the room talking and then footsteps. The door opens to reveal a girl my height with long, straight, dark blonde hair. She is wearing a pink sweater, shell pink polish coats her fingernails and—oh, brother—a charm bracelet encircles her left wrist, one of those Pandora things that went out about five years ago. I had one in sixth grade. All the charms on it are either silver or set with pink stones. I notice hot pink fuzzy socks on her feet. I haven’t seen this much pink since elementary school. I almost feel as if I’m meeting Barbie in real life—or My Little Pony. She holds a cell phone to her chest.