Little Women and Me (2 page)

Call me! Call Me!! CALL ME!!!
I text madly.
This is 2 big & involved & crisis-worthy 4 texting!

A minute later my phone rings and for a second I’m happier than I’ve been all day. There’s something to be said for friends you can rely on. Too bad the same thing can’t be said about sisters. Or at least not my sisters.

“Yo, dude, what’s the emergency?” Kendra says.

I ignore her “yo” and her “dude” and head straight for the emergency.

“Jackson is no longer interested in pursuing Charlotte,” I say.

“But that’s good news, right?” she says.

“Where’s the crisis?” “Where’s the crisis? I’ll tell you where the crisis is. He’s decided to switch his romantic allegiance to Anne.”

“Who is
Anne
?” she asks, echoing my question from earlier in the day and giving me a moment of nostalgia as I remember how simple
my
life was before I knew the awful answer.

I tell her who Anne is.

What do I expect when I tell her? I expect outrage. I expect sympathy. Certainly I feel plenty of both of those on my own behalf. But instead I get:

“HA!”

I’m in shock. “You’re
laughing
?” I don’t believe this!

“Come on,” Kendra says. “You’ve got to admit, it’s funny.”

“I don’t have to admit anything of the kind!”

“It’s like that old sitcom
The Brady Bunch
. Have you ever seen it? It’s like if Jan liked a boy who liked Marcia only to have him turn his attention to Cindy. You know, ‘the youngest one in curls’?” She breaks out laughing even harder.

“Stop this!” I say. “My life is not a sitcom!” It’s doubly harsh to hear her imply that it is since I’d had that thought myself earlier. “And Anne isn’t some cute little ‘youngest one in curls.’ She’s … she’s … she’s some hot little eighth-grade number—a vixen in Justice clothing!—and now somehow she’s gotten Jackson to fall for her!”

I’m fuming. Not at Kendra. She’s my best friend, meaning she can say anything she wants to me and no matter how outraged I might seem, it’s okay. Rather, I’m fuming at the unfairness of it all.

“Emily?”

“Hmm …?” I say vaguely, still fuming.

“Why do you resent Anne so much?”

I can
not
believe she is asking me this.

“Do you
not
remember the Incident of the Shawls?” I say.

“Oh no,” I hear her groan, although I’m fairly certain it’s a loving groan. “Not the Incident of the Shawls again!”

“Oh yes,” I say emphatically. “It’s the Incident of the Shawls again. When I was eight, Charlotte was nine, and Anne was seven, Mom went on that two-week trip to Spain with her women’s club. She brought back three shawls for us as souvenirs. You wouldn’t think a shawl would be a cool thing, but these shawls were
amazing
. They were pure silk and had all this really awesome fringe and each one was a different color. Charlotte got to pick first, which
was okay, since she’s the oldest. Well, of course she chose the ivory-colored one, which was far and away the prettiest. But that was okay too because the second-prettiest was this orchid purple. With my auburn hair, I figured I could look very dramatic in it. And I was all ready to say that’s the one I wanted, but then my mother said—”

“That Anne should pick next,” Kendra said, “because she didn’t think it was fair for Anne to be last in everything, just because she’s the youngest.”

“Exactly right. So Anne picked the orchid one and I got stuck with—”

“The puke-green one.”

“Yes! Green in general is my favorite color and nearly every green in the universe is cool, except this one shade that looks like what people throw up when they puke in horror films. So what did I look like in it? I looked like a Christmas tree that someone had upchucked.”

“Totally gross image.”

“You’re telling me! And that’s exactly what my entire life has been like. Charlotte or Anne gets first in everything because they’re the oldest and the youngest, and then the other gets second because the oldest or the youngest can’t possibly be last in anything, while I’m always stuck with—”

“Why do you like Jackson so much?” Kendra asks, cutting me off.

“Hel
lo
!” I say. “Because he’s gorgeous? Because he’s nice?”

“How is Jackson nice to you?”

I open my mouth to answer, but nothing comes out. Why
do
I like Jackson?

“And why did you like Kurt so much last year?” Kendra presses.
“Or Michael the year before that? Or Dale when we were in sixth grade?”

“I don’t know!” I say, exasperated. “Because they’re all hot! Because they’re nice or funny or smart or something like that. A person can’t always
explain
why they like who they like!” I pause as something hits me. “Wait a second. Are you saying that I’m …
shallow
?”

Kendra sighs. “No. I would never say that. I wouldn’t even think it! But sometimes, you go after things or people without thinking everything through first.”

Huh.

That’s a lot to think about. Only problem is, I don’t want to think about it right now. I’ve got to figure out how to fix things so Jackson doesn’t become Anne’s orchid shawl.

“I gotta go,” I say. “I’ve got a ton of homework, plus Mr. O. gave us this big English assignment.”

“You’re not mad at me, are you?” she says hesitantly. “For laughing before and because of the things I said?”

“Are you kidding me?” I say. “Sometimes I wish I could laugh at myself. Don’t worry, we’re good—bests forever.”

“Good.” She sounds relieved. “Meet you in the lunchroom for doughnuts before school on Monday?”

“I’m totally there,” I say, and snap my phone shut.

I decide to be true to what I told Kendra and get my homework done first. True, it’s a lame way to spend Friday afternoon and evening, but once that’s out of the way I can devote the rest of the weekend to plotting a new strategy for Jackson.

Not that I know what that is yet.

I work through my assignments from least favorite class to most favorite, which means moving through biology, algebra, and history before I come finally to English.

What was that assignment Mr. Ochocinco gave us?

Oh, right.

We’re supposed to take a book we feel is nearly perfect, give three things we love about it and one thing we’d change; outline due Monday.

This should be easy enough.

But which book to choose?

I go to my bookshelves. I have a
lot
of books. You could practically say I live in them.

Something modern like
Harry Potter
or
Twilight
? No. Teachers are never impressed with anything modern. They like the older stuff.

Maybe Judy Blume? But what would I change? Turn it into
Are You There, God? It’s Me, Marcus
? Nah, that wouldn’t work. Besides, to impress teachers, you need to go for the really old stuff.

Which is fine, because I like some of the really old stuff too.

A Separate Peace
? No. Even though the ending always makes me cry, I wouldn’t change a thing. It’s a perfect example of how jealousy corrodes love. People really should be careful about that.

Wuthering Heights
? No. There’s too much I’d want to change there.

Winnie-the-Pooh
? It does qualify as “old stuff,” so you’d think it would have the potential to impress, but how would I change it for the better? Add conflict by making Eeyore a depressed serial killer?

Little Women
.

Huh.

For the first time, I pull one of the books from the shelf. As I tug the volume loose from the bookcase, my fingers tingle as though zapped by electricity.

Weird.

I hold the red cloth-covered volume in my hands. I
loved
this book when I was younger, but I haven’t read it once in the last four years. How much do I still remember of it? Enough to do the assignment without rereading? After all, I’ve read a lot of books in the years in between. Still …

I go to my desk holding the book in one hand, sit down in front of the computer, and think about what to put in the outline. Hmm … Three things I loved about the book …

One. The first is easy. The name of the family: March. You’d think that with daughters named Charlotte, Emily, and Anne, my parents’ last name might be Brontë. But no. Our last name is March, which is something I loved about
Little Women
. It may sound superficial, but the characters having the same last name as me always made me identify with them, kind of like Mr. O.’s ability to identify with a football player now that they share the same last name.

Two. Jo March is a writer. I’ve always loved writing, even more than I love reading, and a lot of that can be traced back to Jo March. What girl doesn’t want to be Jo March after reading about her writing stories in her garret while chomping on crisp apples? Chomping apples may not seem like the definition of cool, but the way Jo did it, it just set her apart from everyone else, and in a good way, like it was somehow a sign of her independent spirit. Jo is the March girl every reader wants to be.

Three. The amazing relationship between the four sisters: Meg, Jo, Beth, and Amy. They were all so different, yet even when
they argued—unlike with Charlotte or Anne and me—they always managed to love and eventually support one another. They actually made having siblings seem like a good idea. Girls without any sisters want to have sisters like them. And girls like me, ones with sisters who always make you feel like the least important people in your own families—those girls
really
wanted to have sisters like them!

This is good. My outline is practically writing itself.

Now for the second part. What’s the one thing I would change to make
Little Women
a perfect book?

Hmm …

I open the book, figuring maybe reading a little bit will help me decide, flip past the first woodcut illustration to the first chapter and the first line:

“Christmas won’t be Christmas without any presents,” grumbled Jo, lying on the rug.

Having read the first line, I read another, and then another. Before I know it, I’m caught up in the story. This surprises me, given how often I’ve read it before. And what further surprises me is that even though I have read it many times already, there’s so much of the story that feels new, things I don’t remember reading before. Is that because it’s been four years since I last read it? Or is it because I’m different now, older?

I stare at the pages, still stuck with trying out what should be changed about the book.

Maybe the thing that happens to Beth? I always hated that. But wait a second. What about how things end up for Jo and Amy with the boy next door, Laurie? That has to be the most frustrating romantic outcome in any book ever.

But which to change?

The thing with Beth? The thing with Jo and Amy and Laurie? The—

V~ROOM!

What’s that sound? Is that Charlotte vacuuming in the hopes of getting our mother to think her even more wonderful than she already thinks her to be?

I cross the room, bang my copy of
Little Women
against the closed door. Rude, I know. But still.

The sound doesn’t stop, however. Instead, it grows in volume and suddenly I feel myself spinning in circles rapidly, spinning and spinning until …

WHOOSH!

Talk about being sucked into a book.

One

“Christmas won’t be Christmas without any presents,” grumbled the girl, lying on the rug.

I looked at the girl sprawled out in front of the crackling fire. She was my age or maybe just a bit older—tall, thin, large nose, gray eyes, chestnut hair piled into a messy bun, long gray dress. I
knew
her. Oh, not from school or town. No, I knew her from the woodcut illustrations—yeah, the ones in my book. And I knew the words she’d spoken, which were the opening lines, of course.

Jo March!

I blinked my eyes hard at the impossible vision—what was going on?—only to snap them open again at the sound of other girl voices.

It was so strange, coming in on the middle of the conversation. What were they talking about? Something about missing Papa? Something about the war?

I followed the voices to the speakers. They all wore long dresses, seriously ugly boots peeking out from beneath the hems. The oldest looking of the girls had soft brown hair tied up in some kind of funky ’do. She looked like a size 16 and she kept studying her hands as though she thought they were the coolest thing ever.
Whoa! That’s Meg March
, I thought.

The girl next to her looked the youngest, a skinny chick with long, curly blond hair. Her eyes were a startling blue.
Amy
.

So where was …?

I heard a soft voice say something about not minding about the money. That’s when I saw her, almost hidden like a mouse, as she knitted away in the corner. The rosy cheeks, the flat hair, the bright eyes, and the peaceful expression. Check. Had to be
Beth
.