Little Women and Me (12 page)

But before Amy and I could leave for school, we still had a little bit of Amy drama to get through. Something about limes.

Apparently, pickled limes were as much the rage in Amy’s school as ponytails were in France.

“The girls take turns bringing them,” Amy said breathlessly, as though she were talking about the most important thing in the world, ever. “You give the limes to girls you like, you eat them in front of those you don’t—never offering even so much as a suck—and you hide them in your desk so Mr. Davis won’t see.”

Back home, my sister Anne was only a year older than Amy. It was tough to picture Anne, usually glued to whatever was on MTV, obsessing about the distribution of limes.

“Is Mr. Davis still so stern?” Meg asked. “I remember when he banished gum.”

“Worse,” Jo said, “I remember when he confiscated all our novels and newspapers.”

“When I still went to school,” Beth said, “he forbade what he referred to as ‘distortions of the face.’ I swear, I didn’t even know I
was
distorting my face!”

“Yes,” Amy said, “he really is still so stern. But who cares about that?
I
will never be caught, since I cannot afford any limes and now the other girls will all hate me and call me cheap and I will become a social outcast since I have eaten all their limes, except for those of Jenny Snow, who refused to share with me, but never once brought any of my own to share and—”

“Here,” Meg said. “Will a quarter do?”

Amy’s face lit up like Christmas. Better than that, she stopped talking.

“I’m sure that all the girls will be simply entranced by my ponytail!” Amy babbled as we continued our walk to school, having first made a detour to town, where she bought a quarter’s worth of limes, twenty-four of which she now clutched in a brown paper bag. Seriously, had anyone ever
heard
of anything more absurd than pickled limes?

Leave it to 1862.

Leave it to
Amy
.

I’d give Jo credit for one thing at least: I doubted
she’d
ever allow herself to get caught up in something so silly as chasing the latest fad, particularly if it involved something as ridiculous as pickled limes. Me, I’d succumbed to peer pressure plenty in my time and had to admit that if I still was expected to go to school here, I’d probably be competing over pickled limes with everyone else.

“Of course, the other girls will want a ponytail just like mine,” Amy babbled on, “but they will no doubt be excited about it, while Jenny Snow will probably be green with envy.”

I had no idea who Jenny Snow was, but with a name like that, she seemed like she might be a frosty person and someone to look out for.

“Probably,” I agreed, “Jenny Snow will be green as a pickled lime.” We were nearing the schoolhouse and I saw some of the girls entering. None of them wore their hair up, let alone in a ponytail. “Hey,” I said, “how many girls are in your school?”

“Silly Emily!” Amy laughed an oddly sly laugh like she knew something about me that I didn’t. “How do you not remember? You went here yourself until not long ago!”

I did? I wondered what I’d learned there. Was I considered a smart student? Slow? “Humor me,” I said.

“Half a hundred,” she replied.

“Half a hundred? Why can’t you ever say anything simply? Why can’t you just say ‘fifty’?”

“I don’t know.” Amy shrugged, seemingly as perplexed as I was. “It’s just how people talk. Somehow it’s more complicated to say ‘fifty.’ ”

We were at the door now, she was ready to go in, and I felt it was time for me to say something inspirational.

I placed a hand on her shoulder.

“So, um, study hard,” I said, “and one day you may grow up to be president.”

“Of what?” she said.

“Duh—of the United States, of course.”

Her eyes widened and then she threw back her head and laughed, right in my face.

“Oh, Emily!” she cried, struggling to recover herself. “You really are the strangest creature, aren’t you?”

“Good luck with those pickled limes,” I said, turning away and leaving her to it.

Once Amy was in school, she was supposed to stay there until I went to get her. And yet for some reason, she arrived home late morning. Did they not like her ponytail?

“What happened?” I asked, seeing how upset she looked. “How did the ponytail go over?”

“It doesn’t matter right now about the stupid ponytail—Mr. Davis struck me!” she burst out, shoving her hands up under my nose for inspection. I could see the red welts on her palms where some object had done the damage.

“But that’s awful!” I said, outraged on her behalf.

What kind of world was this? At Wycroft we had a zero-tolerance policy about kids hitting other kids, but we also had a zero-tolerance policy about teachers hitting kids. This was child abuse!

“I know!” Amy said, still plenty outraged herself. “No one has struck me in all of my twelve years! I have only ever been loved!”

“Why did he hit you?” I asked.

“Because of the limes! Because of Jenny Snow and the limes!”

I
knew
that Jenny Snow was trouble.

“Jenny got mad because I wouldn’t share mine with her, so she told Mr. Davis I had them in my desk and then he made me … he made me throw them out the window two by two! And then he made me stand on the platform for fifteen minutes until he called time for recess! But do you know what the worst part was?”

I didn’t have a clue, but this all sounded awful to me, at least in a twelve-year-old-girl sort of way.

“As I threw the limes out the window, I could hear …
laughter
from down below!”

“Laughter?” I echoed dully.

“Of course laughter! Children were catching my limes as they fell and extruding over their good fortune.”

Extruding?
That didn’t make any sense. But then I realized it was probably just another instance of Amy garbling her vocabulary. She probably meant
exulting.

“I shall never go back to that school,” Amy declared. “When Mr. Davis called recess, I left, vowing never to return.” All of a sudden her face took on a worried expression. “Do you think Marmee will be upset with me?”

But no one was upset with Amy.

Meg, whose special pet Amy was, exclaimed over our youngest sister as though she’d been waterboarded at Guantanamo.

Jo strode up and down the room manfully, demanding that Mr. Davis be arrested at once.

Beth, who’d been at home all along but had been too busy playing with her cats and weird dolls to notice Amy’s early arrival, was horrified. “I knew no good could ever come from going to school!” she said.

Marmee’s response, arriving home later, was slightly more tempered. First she sent Jo with a note for Mr. Davis, informing him that Amy would no longer be attending his school and that Jo was to clean out Amy’s desk.

I almost felt sorry for Mr. Davis, in spite of what he’d
done, since I knew what a termagant—another PSAT word!—Jo could be.

Marmee explained that until she had the chance to discuss the matter through letters with Papa, Amy would study at home with Beth.

Oh great
, I thought,
more of Amy
. She was almost as bad as Jo, but for entirely different reasons.

Amy was suddenly looking extremely pleased with herself. Well, who could blame her? Twelve years old and she didn’t have to go to school anymore, at least not for the time being—I’d had to wait until the ripe old age of fourteen before quitting school!

But Marmee shut that down pretty quickly.

She pointed out that the only reason she was taking Amy out of Mr. Davis’s school was that she didn’t believe in corporal punishment but that Amy had broken the rules and deserved to be punished for her disobedience. In fact, Marmee was glad she’d lost the limes.

Then came what I’d begun to think of as An Edifying Marmee Lecture—yawn—in which she lectured Amy on the perils of conceit: how Amy had lots of talents and virtues but was too inclined to show them off; how much better she would be were she more like Laurie, who had many accomplishments but no conceit.

Well
, I thought,
he may not have been conceited before he met me, the March family skank, but now that he had and now that he knew he was thought by at least one March girl to be exceedingly kissable—

All of a sudden I had a premonition. There was going to be some kind of fallout from this silly lime incident, something more serious than Amy being homeschooled and me having to
put up with her around the house. And yet, try as I might, I couldn’t remember anything from the original book that might tell me what that serious something might be. It made me crazy sometimes, this occasional story amnesia.

Still, I told myself, when the moment came, I’d do my best to prevent disaster.

Eight

It didn’t take long for that fallout I’d anticipated, that “something more serious,” to materialize.

Meg and Jo were preparing to go to the theater with Laurie to see something called
The Seven Castles of the Diamond Lake
that Jo boasted had fairies, elves, red imps, and gorgeous princes and princesses. Amy, who’d had a cold, was angling to go too, but Jo dismissed her request because: one, the show would hurt her eyes; two, she could go with Hannah and Beth the following week; three, she hadn’t been invited.

I wondered why no one mentioned the possibility of
me
going to the show, either with Meg, Jo, and Laurie then, or with Hannah, Beth, and Amy the following week. Was I not known to like the theater? I debated whether I wanted to go or not. On the one hand, it would be a new form of entertainment here, plus, if the play was good, I could tease Jo about how much better it
was than the one she and Meg had performed soon after my arrival; it was always fun to tease Jo. But on the other hand, I didn’t really like fairies, elves, red imps, and gorgeous princes and princesses—it all sounded so Disney.

But I didn’t get to debate the pros and cons of staying versus tagging along because suddenly Amy was screaming, “You’ll be sorry about this, Jo March!”

Did I miss something?

Maybe I should have been clued in about what was to come based on what I knew about my sisters: that both Amy and Jo were hotheads, but that Jo had the least self-control and was always sorry afterward. Well, maybe it wasn’t accurate to say that she had the
least
self-control, since I was fairly certain Jo had never tried to slip Laurie the tongue.