Snowsisters Read online

  Chris turns her glare to me. “I am a feminist and I hope we all are at this conference. Women have to stand together for their own safety and against anything that undermines it.” Her eyes flick back to Orly. I can’t tell what’s going on between them. Maybe I should be grateful. Even though Tess and I have virtually nothing in common, at least she’s polite, which is what I was supposed to be at this conference. I’d better shut up right now or I’m going to blow this whole thing.

  Orly looks at Chris as if she’s worried. Then she shifts in her seat and asks a question. “What about spirituality, though, and the broadened concept of femininity? Isn’t that power in itself?” I’m starting to like Orly. She’s smart.

  Professor Forsythe breaks in. “Let’s try to go light on politics. We want to focus on what type of writing you do and how you want to develop it. Chris, would you care to tell us where you want to go with your work?”

  Chris responds, “I think you’re asking the wrong question, frankly. As a journalist, my work is based on what goes on in the world. I want to go where the news is. I want to find it, expose it, analyze it, and relate it to women’s power and safety.”

  Professor Forsythe nods, but withholds comment. I am surprised when Orly asks a pointed question. “Chris, do you write about women relative only to other women or are you more inclusive?”

  Chris appears dumbfounded, then knits her brows as if the question angers her. “I don’t know why you are asking me about women,” she says pointedly. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Orly’s jaw tighten. Professor Forsythe is about to say something when Chris says, “But I follow stories. Whatever comes up is what I have to react to.” She sounds defensive, and still angry.

  Professor Forsythe tries to open up the conversation again. “I wonder if anyone else might like to comment. This conversation is for the whole group, not only a few.” I recognize that Chris hasn’t answered the question, and I bet Orly does too. I’m through with my soapbox, though. I need to stop digging myself a bigger hole. Tess’s eyes shift from Orly to Chris, then linger on Orly, but she doesn’t say anything.

  The “discussion” continues. Everyone else tries to be polite. Yin describes her blog, which is about language and identity. She uses elements of free verse but also short nonfiction pieces. I’m intrigued and ask for the link. Professor Forsythe doesn’t seem to notice my attempt to make friends. Orly and Chris spend the rest of the session staring each other down. I feel as if I’m in the middle of a weird argument without knowing what the sides are or who started it. It’s only the second day. Sometimes girls make me tired.

  * * *

  During the break, Mom texts me.

  [From Mother to Soph] Darling, don’t forget, presentation interviews in a month. See if anyone there has already had theirs.

  She ends it with a little crown emoji. She and Mrs. Peckett act as if everyone wants to walk through a ballroom in their white dress on the arm of some stupid guy. Puh-lease.

  [From Soph to Mother] Not that type of crowd, Mom.

  [From Mother to Soph] Have you introduced yourself to Mrs. Forsythe?

  Predictable Mom, but not a question I need right now.

  [From Soph to Mother] Yes. Last night.

  I don’t tell her it isn’t going very well.

  My mom responds with a smiling emoji. I’m tempted to send back the rolling eyes one.

  Tess.

  I hate going first in those group things. I hate that I know exactly what I mean and exactly what I want to say in my head, but I’m never sure when it’s okay to say it out loud. And when I go first I can’t figure out the rules before I have to talk. But I’m surprised when Soph stands up for me. I wonder if she already knows what’s going on between Chris and Orly. She’s really passionate when she talks. It’s hard not to watch her get all excited.

  My mind wanders to the interview question I left in my knapsack. Describe a recent incident where you took the lead. Part of me thinks Soph is brave. And part of me thinks that in New York, people must be able to say whatever they want and no one ever gives them trouble. That’s not what happens in Castleton. I guess it really is a different world.

  We finally go around the whole room, and everyone else talks about their work. Nobody else gets criticized as harshly as I did—everyone is a little uncomfortable. Most people write fiction or poetry. Orly says she is working on a memoir about growing up in the South. She talks about her childhood as though it happened a long time ago, almost to a different person. Chris doesn’t say anything to her, but everyone else nods.

  Soph is working on a poem about trying to find love but not knowing where to find it. She wants to write English-style sonnets, but the rhyme scheme is too hard, so she’s only done an Italian-style one so far. Not that the poem is written in Italian, but the rhyme scheme is different: couplets for Italian, something more complicated for English. She says she’s attracted to the challenge of reducing emotion and experience into structured, rhythmic expressions and that she is drawn to the sonnet forms. It all sounds pretty complicated to me, and I wonder again if I’m in over my head. These girls were chosen from all over the country because they’re such good writers. When no one comments, Professor Forsythe asks Soph what she hopes to accomplish this week. Soph gives her a big smile—weren’t they just arguing about my fan fiction? She says she’s having trouble going beyond couplets, and that she hopes Professor Forsythe will help her.

  Chris flares her nostrils, but Yin seems intrigued. I don’t quite get most of these girls. Soph is very serious when she talks about her writing; and the way she stood up for fan fiction was really nice. She isn’t just a spoiled city kid—she’s here to work hard on her writing, as I am. But she has no problem sticking up for people who aren’t the same as she is and she really isn’t shy about confronting opinions she disagrees with. I wish I knew how she learned that. I find myself paying close attention to Soph. She is clearly a leader. The other girls listen to her, and even Professor Forsythe was respectful when Soph stuck her neck out about fan fiction.

  At the break, Soph makes a point of trying to talk to Professor Forsythe. She says she’s interested in applying to Minerva College next fall. “You have one of the strongest writing programs in the country,” she explains, “and I want to learn from you.”

  Professor Forsythe doesn’t seem any more impressed with Soph than she did with me. “Why don’t you focus on this week, Sophie,” she says. I wince as she messes up Soph’s name again. “There’s plenty to learn before you apply to colleges.” She turns away and asks Yin to help her distribute handouts for the second half of the session. I can tell Soph is upset even though she doesn’t say anything else.

  I go over to her and ask, “Is it that important to you to go to Minerva?”

  She narrows her eyes at me. “Why, are you applying there too?”

  “Me?” I laugh. “No, I’m a senior. Anyway, Minerva is much too fancy for me. My family wouldn’t send me there.” I don’t say my family could never in a million years afford to send me there to waste four years writing stories. “I’ve been there for school field trips, and we used to drive up for their Winter Carnival every year. They always build these ice sculptures. There’s a big bonfire in the middle of the quad. I think it was last weekend, but the sculptures might still be up when we visit later this week.” One of the planned activities of the conference is a campus tour and a faculty reception at the Minerva College English department next weekend.

  I pull up pictures of the sculptures on my phone to show Soph, and she’s fascinated. She asks about the campus. I say, “I’m surprised you’re interested in Minerva. It’s pretty, but it’s also pretty isolated.”

  “So what?” she says, as Professor Forsythe calls us all back to our seats. “Minerva is one of the oldest schools around. It has tons of traditions.” That seems odd coming from her. The one thing I wouldn’t call Soph is traditiona
l.

  Daddy always says that he learned to live with lots of different kinds of people in the military and that, despite their differences, they were all the same underneath; the guy from Alabama wanted to make it home safely the same way my dad did. That makes sense to me. I take a breath and hope that maybe Soph and I can be friends.

  * * *

  From Soph Alcazar’s Writing Journal,

  February 11, 2018

  Unfairness blossoms here at every turn.

  I try to impress, but my stomach churns.

  Chapter Six

  From the Fan Fiction Unbound Archive,

  posted by conTessaofthecastle:

  By the fire that night, they shared the last of the dried meat Astoria had in her pack. They would have to hunt or forage for nuts or berries in the morning. Daphne’s head hurt. She sighed and, leaning against a tree, tried to find a more comfortable position. She closed her eyes, listening to the crackle of the fire and the rustle of small creatures in the forest nearby. As she tried to concentrate, she felt the pain in her head lift slowly, like a scarf being pulled from her throat by gentle hands. When she opened her eyes, Astoria was watching her in the dark.

  “Is your head better?” Astoria asked.

  Soph.

  At the end of lunch, Professor Forsythe announces that she, Joan, Celestine, and Grace have determined the assignments for our group projects. “An important part of your development as writers is to train you to write in new ways. That means interacting and working with people whose own work is different from yours, but contains or does something which can bring your work to a whole new level. This is why we asked you to describe your work and discuss it with each other this morning.

  “You may find conflict at first in your group, but how you bridge the gaps between and among your partners is the very essence of writing for a broader range of readers than merely those who share your interests. This afternoon, you’ll meet and brainstorm about how you can collaborate on a written project which combines what each of you does into a single piece. The four of us will circulate among the groups to facilitate your discussion, but you will collectively control your own work product. We’ll spend the remainder of the afternoon in the conference room, but this time divided into the separate, smaller groups. Then we’ll come back together for the evening meal.”

  I get put in a group with Gabriela, Yin, whom I haven’t figured out, and a girl named Ellen, who writes songs. Everyone is excited. Yin was the only one I was worried about, but she’s into how words sound near and next to each other, which works well with the rest of us.

  Gabriela’s poetry is less structured than mine. She shows us some of it, and I like the way it’s moody but then uplifting. She writes about loss and how you can still love someone when you lose them, like her dad who died when she was young or the best friend who moved away.

  I can’t help wondering if her friend was actually her girlfriend, so I ask, “What happened to your friend?”

  Gabriela frowns. “Oh, he went off to college. We skype a lot, but he was like a brother and it’s not the same as having him around.” Her face brightens. “A guy at my new high school asked me out—if it weren’t so far, I’d introduce them so I could see what Max thinks of Evan.”

  So, not her girlfriend, and she’s straight or bi. I wasn’t interested in her or anything, but it would be nice if there was another gay girl or two here. At the midafternoon break, Ellen and Yin talk about their boyfriends and ask Gabriela about hers. I don’t say much, but I think maybe this is what Lally feels like when Gordon and I are talking about our crushes or Mibs is off with Greg. I’ll text the three of them about it later and see what they think.

  After we come back together, Yin asks us all, “How do we take the stuff we write and do a single piece? The rest of you all work in verse, but my thing is my blog with some free verse.”

  Ellen comes up with the best suggestion. “What if we do a variation on a ballad? There’s room in that for everyone. As long as we develop a storyline and some distinct forms that we repeat in short stanzas, everyone can participate in her own format, including blog posts. Would that work for you, Yin?”

  “I guess. The format would be fine. I want to think, though, about whether I do fictional blog posts or not. How do we figure out a subject or a story?”

  This is where we get stuck.

  Grace joins us and suggests, “Why don’t you sleep on it? Time’s almost up. Sometimes the hardest part is figuring out what form you are going to write in, and you’ve done that very well. When I was here a few years ago, everyone was like them.” She gestures to the group with Tess in it. Joan is sitting with them talking, but no one is nodding. Chris’s arms cross tightly over her chest, and Peggy scowls. Tess stares down, as if she wishes she could be somewhere else.

  Grace sees our reaction and laughs. “Oh, they’ll work it out. We did. By the time everyone builds snowsisters, everything will be fine.”

  Tess.

  Chris and I are teamed with two other girls, Peggy and Keisha. After what Chris said last night at the Mocktail Party, I’m pretty unhappy to find that she and I are in the same group. But the cat is about out of the bag at this point. I mean, she knows from this morning’s introduction that I’m the one at the conference who writes fan fiction, and I know exactly what she thinks of that. What I have to figure out now is how to convince her to work with me.

  I guess this is one of those uncomfortable things I’m going to have to get used to, especially after I graduate, so I pick up my notebook and go to the corner of the room where she sits, thinking that we can talk. All the other girls are breaking into small groups.

  My dad used to tell Molly and me stories about the first Iraq war and how he was deployed with a guy named Richard Oliver. Apparently, he was such a jerk that most of the guys called him “Dick All-Over.” He talked all the time and constantly insulted the guys in the squad, which my dad said got really old when you were all living packed in a barracks, far from your family. He used to moo when my dad walked by. My dad is a third-generation dairy farmer and he’s extremely proud of our farm. We supply milk to all the New England states. My dad works hard every day. Having someone he didn’t even know make fun of his home and his business was tough on him.

  But Dick was a talented tank driver, even if he didn’t know when to stop talking trash, and one day he drove my dad’s convoy through crossfire and never so much as blinked. He saved ten guys’ lives. My dad said that taught the whole squad that everyone has their strengths and you need to keep looking for them, even if you don’t like someone.

  So, okay, I need to find out Chris’s strengths. I can hear Daddy’s voice saying, “You know not to walk away from a job before it’s done…”

  I sit down and, before Chris can say anything, I go first, because I’m not going to let her steamroll me again, like this morning during the talk with Professor Forsythe. “So, Chris does journalism, and the rest of us write fiction. Anybody have any ideas for how to put something together that combines everybody’s interests?”

  Nobody says anything and I’m confused about what to say next. I don’t know how to do this. Across the room, Soph is already laughing at an idea of Gabriela’s. God, I am really bad at this. What makes me think I’m going to be able to be a leader?

  But then Keisha suggests that we do fiction that takes place a long time ago and involves a fictional character that we all know, so we can work in the fan fiction genre. Peggy chimes in that it could be Maizy Donovan, that journalist in the old Ultraman comic strip, so we can work in both journalism and fan fiction by giving her a personal life and a storyline of her own outside of the adventures of Ultraman. I take notes and I think the idea is sounding kind of cool, better than anything I could have come up with.

  Chris sits back and says flatly, “That isn’t going to work.”

  That stops all of us in
our tracks. I ask her why.

  She says, “Because the whole thing is fiction. You guys can write that, but I write real stories about true events that actually happen. You would need to come up with something that includes investigative journalism.” I notice she doesn’t say that “she” or even “we” would have to come up with it.

  I take a breath and try to tell her that the journalism part comes from what Maizy is working on, but she won’t agree. Even when Keisha and Peggy attempt to convince her to try it, she just shakes her head. I’m wondering how she thinks we can investigate something from here in only a week.

  “Well,” I say, taking a different approach. “What do you suggest we do, Chris?”

  She shrugs and says, “I don’t care what you guys write. I’m here to improve my own writing and expand my resumé for college applications. I’m going to figure out how Orly got in, since he’s really a guy. I want to know if he lied on his application and if Professor Forsythe knows and didn’t tell the rest of us and why. This is a safety issue for women. I think that sounds like a pretty good story. Y’all can do what you want.”

  The session breaks up, so we can go down for the afternoon break. Keisha, Peggy, and I aren’t sure how we can persuade Chris to work with us, and I’m definitely not going anywhere near the thing with Orly. First of all, that’s none of my business. Second, I’m not here to make trouble for anyone. But it seems… wrong. Orly’s group in the corner is talking about something that I can’t hear, and Orly has this little smile on her face as though she’s having a nice time. She isn’t bothering anyone and, from what I can tell, she’s working with her group way better than Chris is working with ours. I see Soph again. She laughs at something one of the other girls says. From across the room, I can tell it’s Soph laughing. She’s waving her hands around, explaining something to her group as though she’s really excited about her project. I wish I could pick up my stuff and just tiptoe across the room and sit down next to her.