Snowsisters Read online

  I push into the room past her, since my bag is getting heavy, and say, “Hi, Tess, right? I’m sorry I’m late.”

  Tess puts up a finger, turns around and says into her phone, “Hey, Joey, I’ve gotta go now. Things are starting up.” After a pause, she says, in a voice I can barely hear, “Yes, yes, you’re a great boyfriend. Be good while I’m gone, okay?” Then she puts her phone down and turns to me. Butterflies flutter in my chest. She’s obviously a girly-girl and crazy about her boyfriend. I should be able to respect that.

  “Hi, Soph, right? Or is it Sophia or something?” I fiddle with my bag, put it on the bed, and then move it to the floor. When I look up at her again, I notice her eyes. They’re blue, but with flecks of green. I’ve never seen anyone with eyes that color. Too bad about the boyfriend.

  “Just Soph, short for Sophronia. Definitely not Sophie.”

  “It’s pretty. I never heard of it. Is it Russian or something?”

  I get this a lot. “Nope, Greek by way of Spain. Sophronia is a family name. My dad’s family is Spanish. My full last name is Borbón del Alcazar. But it got shortened, for obvious reasons.”

  “Ah.”

  Tess seems puzzled, but doesn’t add anything. I babble, which I always do when I’m nervous. “Dad’s family is Spanish, but they got booted in the Civil War. You know, Franco made it a monarchy again, but he didn’t want anyone to challenge him, just Juan Carlos at the end.”

  “Juan Carlos at the end? But I thought the Civil War ended somewhere in Virginia…”

  I try to rein myself in. “Oh, well, yeah. So where are you from? Desmarais sounds French.”

  Tess blinks at me. “Ummm, it’s pronounced Dess-mare-iss, not Day-mah-ray. I’m from nearby, Castleton, New Hampshire, in the next county over. My name is French-Canadian. I don’t think anyone’s been worried about us challenging the king lately.”

  Embarrassed, I change topics. “I’m here to work on poetry. How about you?”

  “I want to learn as much as I can. I still can’t believe this kind of workshop exists, and that they accepted me. Someday I want to write a whole novel, but the piece I sent in is part of a story I write online.” She pauses. Her next sentence comes out slowly. “It’s fan fiction.”

  “Oh yeah, I’ve read some of that.” It surprises me that fan fiction impressed Professor Forsythe enough to let her in. My guidance counselor suggested I apply to this workshop to boost my college applications. Everyone at my school is flying around the country this spring, doing special “invited” group activities like Mock United Nations and Junior Theater Festival to increase their admissions chances. Don’t people outside the City do that too? I mean, I read some fan fiction every now and then, and I like it, but people are snobby about it. I wonder if this workshop will be serious enough to include on my applications.

  I ask, “Fan of what?”

  Tess hesitates, then answers, “The Witches’ Circle. You know, the television show?”

  I don’t know it, so I nod and change the subject.

  Tess.

  I pull on my loafers just before five o’clock so we can go to the Mocktail Party. Soph’s arrival has made it a little awkward, more than a little awkward. Everything she says and does leaves me feeling sort of diminished, as though I shrink an inch or two every time she mentions something casually that I’ve never heard of. The whole explanation about her name is confusing but apparently I’m supposed to know who her family is.

  She plops her bag down and pulls stuff out, making a pile of clothes on the floor by her bed. She takes out a black pen and pulls her name tag apart so she can delete the “ie” they added to the end of her name.

  Soph is from New York—the real city part, Manhattan. She lives in an apartment and took a private plane to get here, which is why she’s late. I’ve never ridden on a plane. She’s wearing dark-wash skinny jeans pushed into black suede boots, which the snow is going to ruin, and a soft black wool sweater with an asymmetrical neckline. She’s got sparkly studs in her ears that may be real diamonds, but not chips. They’re, like, the size of peas. Also, she talks almost nonstop from the time she arrives until we go downstairs. My mom would call her a “Chatty Cathy.” I’ve never met anyone like her. I mean, I know that was the point of coming to this whole workshop, but I’m still figuring out how to act.

  She tells me about going to a private school near her house. I ask her if she walks to school, and she says, “Yeah, everyone walks to school together.”

  She tells me that she writes poetry. I don’t know much about poetry. I’ve read some, obviously, in school, but it seems hard to write, as though you need to spill your innermost secrets out on paper in fragmented sentences and make them rhyme, either that or write about nature, like Robert Frost. I’m not really sure how any of that works, but I figure she must be good if she’s here.

  She went to the Caribbean over Christmas with her family, to a resort on Saint something—I didn’t recognize him. When she asks me if I ever go to the islands, I shake my head no.

  “We can’t leave the herd to go on vacation,” I tell her, before I realize what I’m saying. Oh. My. God. I am such a loser.

  She purses her lips and asks, “You mean your posse?”

  We’re from different planets, and now I need to spill it, even as I shrink another two inches. “I live on a dairy farm,” I admit. “We raise cows.” Once I say that, she actually stops talking. She looks at me through these long, dark eyelashes and just blinks a couple of times.

  I’m pretty nervous after all this, so I text Joey to reassure me, but I don’t get an answer. Then I google some of what Soph told me about her family on my phone so I won’t sound so uninformed later. Unfortunately, that makes me feel smaller, because it turns out her family used to be royalty in Spain. Great. The first time I dare to go away from home, and I end up rooming with a real princess. I feel like Cinderella. Before the ball.

  When we get down to the lounge where the party is, all the other girls are already there. A tall girl with a name tag that reads “Orly” comes over to Soph, and Soph introduces us.

  “Orly, this is my roommate, Tess. Orly was in line just ahead of me when I got here.”

  “Hi, Orly. Where are you coming from?”

  “From outside Atlanta. It’s never this cold at home!” She has a soft voice and she speaks slowly. I guess it’s her accent, but she sounds friendly. I can’t believe people came for this workshop from so far away.

  “You get used to it. I’m from nearby, well, an hour away.”

  Orly raises her eyebrows. “Don’t tell me it’s north of here and even colder?”

  We laugh, and then Orly’s roommate Chris comes over. Chris is short and kind of loud. She makes me nervous the way Soph does, even though they aren’t the same at all.

  Chris is from Dallas, Texas. She goes to a charter school and she says she is a journalist for her school newspaper. Not a reporter or a writer—a journalist. I hope Soph doesn’t mention the herd to her.

  “I’m also working on a longer investigative piece about misogyny toward high school athletes which I intend to submit to the Times.” I guess she means the New YorkTimes, but I don’t want to ask. The shrinking feeling comes over me again. Some of the other girls introduce themselves. Janaye is from New York too, someplace near Manhattan. She writes fiction, like me. She’s talkative like Soph and they chat about a new band they both know; they pull out their phones to find a video, but the cell reception is bad up here.

  “I guess we’re not in Kansas anymore, huh, Janaye?” asks Soph, with wide, excited eyes. Janaye laughs with her. I cringe, but I don’t think they notice. Orly goes to ask Joan, the organizer, about something, and Chris turns to me with a fixed glare. She’s about three inches shorter than I am, but I feel as though she’s taller. I sip at my Sprite, hoping I won’t say something stupid, when suddenly she hisses in my ear.
>
  “Two things.”

  I’m not sure if she is asking me a question or making an announcement. She’s right up close to me, her short, dark hair is gelled up straight off her head, and I can smell something herby, the way the kitchen smells when Mom roasts a chicken. I want to back up, but before I can, she speaks again. I guess she’s making an announcement after all.

  “One: They let writers in who write fan fiction, for fuck’s sake. What kind of a joke is that?” I hold my breath. I can feel my face turning red. I want to leave this room so much. But Chris isn’t done.

  “And two: My roommate’s really a guy.”

  * * *

  From Soph Alcazar’s Writing Journal,

  February 10, 2018

  I try with second and first, roommate, friend?

  But despite our efforts, none comprehends.

  So recall, Soph, concentrate on being

  Here. What’s important is your succeeding.

  Chapter Four

  From the Fan Fiction Unbound Archive,

  posted by conTessaofthecastle:

  In the morning, Daphne stretched and rose stiffly from the hard ground they had slept on. She heard Astoria singing softly to herself. She watched as Astoria secured her blanket around their food and started to cover the ashes from the fire last night. Her golden hair fell over her face as she worked. Daphne recognized the song she was singing. It was a child’s play-song, one from the schoolyard.

  Soph.

  I meet some interesting girls at the Mocktail Party, but everyone acts a little stiff and uncomfortable. Are they competitive? Shy? A funny sort of tension fills the room. I find Orly and introduce her to Tess. Janaye, from Brooklyn is super-cool, which is to be expected. Everyone I know from Brooklyn is a hipster, and I wanted to go to high school there, but my mother said that all the girls in her family went to Partridge and that ended that. Janaye, of course, goes to one of those artsy little schools that was bound to send someone to this conference. I bet Janaye’s parents don’t bug her about being presented or anything. Brooklyn is so much easier than Manhattan. When I look around, Tess is talking to Orly’s roommate, Chris, on the other side of the room. I consider going over there, but then they open the dining hall for dinner.

  The dining room is set up with two long tables. A picture window has a view of a snow-filled expanse that must be a garden in the summer. Each place has a card assigning an attendee. I am seated about halfway down, between Clover from Philadelphia and Gabriela from Hartford, Connecticut, both of whom say hi, but nothing else. Joan sits at the head of one table, and Professor Forsythe stands at the head of the other. I recognize her from my google searches: a tall woman with white hair. Younger women sit at the foot of each table. Once we are all seated, Professor Forsythe clears her throat and asks for our attention.

  “Good evening, everyone. I met some of you already, but for those I haven’t met, I’m Helen Forsythe. I’m the director of the Austen-Browning Institute and an English professor at Minerva College. Most of my scholarly work has been in poetry. I think you’ve all met my colleague, Joan Cambiabrazos, who is a writing instructor at Minerva.” She gestures toward Joan. “We also have with us Celestine Gross, a teaching assistant in the creative writing program at Minerva and Grace Koh, an alum of this very conference.” She points at Celestine, a curly-haired brunette with glasses, who nods back, and then at Grace, a petite Asian woman, who smiles. “Grace is also your Resident Assistant. She’ll be on the floor with all of you and is your go-to person for questions about the lodge.”

  “Welcome to the Young Women’s Writing Conference! You were all selected based on your writing samples and your different backgrounds. We’ve also worked hard to select a group whose members have something say to each other through their writing. During your short time here, we want you to create and share your works. We also want you to get to know each other. You are a select, but diverse, group, and this is a special opportunity for you to learn from each other. Friendships made this weekend can last a lifetime and, as a writer myself, I can tell you that there is nothing as valuable as someone who understands what you are trying to write and who can therefore react to your writing in a positive and dynamic manner.”

  We all clap politely, and Professor Forsythe sits down. I’m too far down the table to introduce myself to her, but I will later on. She’s talking to Orly and her roommate, and I wish I could switch places with one of them. But I’m here for the week, which gives me plenty of time to impress her. We are served dinner, which is not very good, a plain baked chicken breast with white rice and a pale salad. I remember that we are all supposed to be responsible for a meal, and I wonder why the girls on duty didn’t order something better.

  I turn to the people next to me. Gabriela’s still not very talkative, though she tells me she started writing poetry last year when her lifelong best friend went off to college. She’s an artist and loves to draw. Clover is more my speed: pretty, blonde, and a little butch. She’s got more of an edge than Gabriela, and I make jokes, which she laughs at. She wants to write graphic novels, and when she hears that Gabriela draws she leans forward to talk to her while I sit back.

  After “dessert,” which is a cold brownie and berries, Professor Forsythe stands up again. “We’ll expect you back here for breakfast at eight a.m. sharp. But before you go, Grace has a short activity planned. Please clear your places and put your dishes on the counter in the kitchen. We’ll see you in the lounge in a few minutes.”

  This is probably as good a time as any, so I walk quickly over to Professor Forsythe. “Hi Professor, I’m Soph Alcazar. From New York.”

  Professor Forsythe looks at me blankly. “Hello. Welcome.”

  “Thank you. Can I take this for you?” I lift her plate and pile the silverware on it.

  “Oh. That’s quite unnecessary. But, I suppose … fine. Thank you.” She frowns. I just made my first mistake.

  “No problem.” I don’t know what else to say, so I turn toward the kitchen.

  “Ah, well, you know, the glass, too? And please clear your own place.”

  I hear the edge in her voice. Did I blow it? “Of course. Sorry.” She doesn’t respond.

  In the lounge, Grace stands on a chair in front of the fireplace on one side of the room. “Hi, everyone. I’m Grace. We’re going to play a game called ‘Sorts and Mingle.’ It’s a way for us to learn about each other.” Girls are still talking so she claps her hands twice. “Can everyone hear me?”

  Everyone murmurs a general assent. Grace may be small, but her voice is clear and enthusiastic.

  “I’m dividing the room into the points of a compass. I’m at the back, which is south. North is the front, which leads to the entrance to the lodge and the hallway to the conference rooms. East is to my right, where the doors to the dining room are. That leaves west, which is to my left, toward the sliding doors to the courtyard. There, now you have your map for tonight and you know where everything will take place for the rest of the week!” She smiles, as if she’s said something very clever. “For the first half of the game, ‘Sorts,’ I’m going to call out some choices, all in pairs, and tell you to go in one direction. You have to decide between the two choices, no in-betweens. See who goes with you and who doesn’t. We’ll get to ‘Mingle’ later. Are there any questions?”

  None of us asks any questions. Everyone is avoiding eye contact. I want to make a joke, but it wouldn’t be nice, so I don’t.

  “Here we go. Urban? Go north,” she points to the wall she’s facing. “Rural, come south.” She points to herself.

  Easy. I go north, away from Grace. Janaye does too and Chris and plenty of others. Tess goes south with about a third of the girls. Orly can’t decide at first, but ends up going north.

  Before I can meet the other “urbans,” Grace calls out, “Now, fruit go west, nuts go east.” She points again as though we might be c
onfused. But if you live in New York, you know north, south, east, and west without thinking.

  Still, I’m not sure which way to go, though I know we have to choose. Gordon suffers from one of those terrible allergies, and, since I don’t, I go east for the nuts. Tess is there too, and I wonder how she chose. She seems like a strawberry, sweet but also tart at the top where it’s less pink. But then she nods at me, and I think maybe she’s here because she’s a hard nut to crack.

  “Silver, south. Gold, north.”

  Tess freezes, but then walks toward Grace. I figure gold. I mean, we do live on Park, and it is Manhattan.

  Orly comes over too, and I smile at her.

  She says, “Gold complements my skin.”

  We split up when Grace calls out, “Fire go east; water go west.” Orly, Tess, and Yin go toward the doors to the courtyard while I stand with Chris.

  I don’t understand where this is getting us until “Introverts east, extroverts west!” I’m almost alone now on the west with Janaye and a girl named Peggy. I guess most writers are introverted.

  “One last time, comedy come to the south, tragedy go to the north.”

  This puts Orly, Tess, and me together on the north side. Tess looks at me quizzically but doesn’t say anything. Does she think I write comic poetry? Limericks?

  Grace ends the “Sorts” game and explains the “Mingle.” “No more either-or, and we’ll put away our compasses. Now I’m going to throw out some general questions, and you have to find others with similar answers. When you do, stand with them. Chat if you like. It doesn’t matter if you stand alone. When I see people stop moving, I’ll ask for the answers so everyone will know. First round, what is your favorite pie?”

  Now this should be fun. Mine is key lime. Tess stands near me, so I ask her. No match. She’s an apple pie girl, which is an easy group for her to find. I wonder if they’re all the people who went north for “rural.” Before I know it, I’m standing there alone, the only one.