Little Women and Me

Ten


Okay, maybe after getting upset about Marmee saying “… to be loved and chosen by a good man is the best and sweetest thing which can happen to a woman”—barf—it was hypocritical of me to change the way I dressed to suit a boy. If that’s the case, sue me. Anyway, there was a world of difference between Marmee’s version, in which the guy was the center of the universe, and mine, in which the guy was just a fun and interesting part of it.

Since learning that the wealthy boy next door didn’t like “fuss and feathers,” I’d started dressing down in order to attract Laurie’s attention. So far, that didn’t seem to be working, but it looked as though my new shabby dress might benefit me in another way. Now that it was fully spring, with longer afternoons for work and play, I’d discovered that the March girls all loved gardening. Every year, they were each given a plot of their own in the yard.

So one Saturday, having seen the others put on their shabby attire too, I grabbed a little spade and followed them out to a square section on our small property that someone had staked out with wooden posts and twine.

“Oh, look!” Meg exclaimed. “My little orange tree is doing nicely! Now, about some roses …”

“I haven’t decided what to plant this year,” Jo said, rubbing her chin. “Maybe sunflowers? A whole plantation of them?”

“I like my larkspur best of all the flowers,” Beth said, “but I am happiest to grow chickweed for the birds and catnip for my cats.”

People grew catnip?

“I’m thinking of redoing my bower this year.” Amy stood with hands on hips. “What do you think of more morning glories and honeysuckles?”

As I observed them excitedly planning their gardens for the year, I realized something was wrong. Where was my little plot of earth to till?

Quickly I did the math in my head, counting off the subdivisions of the squared-off plot. I was able to do it quickly since it doesn’t take long to count to four.

“Hey!” I shouted to the others. “What about me?”

“What about you?” Jo said, not even bothering to look up from her digging.

“Where’s my little plot of earth to till?”

“Silly Emily!” Beth laughed.

“You’ve never liked gardening,” Amy said.

“You don’t like getting your hands dirty,” Meg said.

According to them, I didn’t like this, I didn’t like that. So who was I supposed to be here, some kind of negative no-personality idiot?

I threw my spade down in disgust and trudged back to the house.



Every Saturday evening at seven p.m., like clockwork, the other four disappeared. Happy to have a rare hour or so alone where I could work on my writing, I’d never asked where they were going and they never said. But the night of the gardening incident, curiosity got the better of me and I followed them at a safe distance, keeping silent so they wouldn’t know I was there as they chattered amongst themselves.

Eventually, I followed them up to the garret. I again remained silent, observing as they each picked up badges off the table. The badges had “P.C.” printed on them, and they wore those badges around their heads like paper crowns. With great solemnity, Meg took a seat behind the table, while the others sat in chairs across from her.

“P.C.”? What could that mean? Not “politically correct,” but it was the only thing I could think of at the time.

“I hereby call this meeting of the Pickwick Club to order,” Meg announced.

The Pickwick Club?

“Mr. Snodgrass.” Meg turned to Jo. “Do you have this week’s edition of The Pickwick Portfolio?”

“Yes, Mr. Pickwick,” Jo said.

“Please present it,” Meg directed.

“Well, sir,” Jo said, “your own entry about a masked marriage is quite good, and the piece about the squash by Mr. Tupman”—she nodded at Beth—“was also quite good, if a little on the simple side.” Jo turned to Amy with a glare. “Unfortunately, this week all Mr. Winkle had to offer was yet another apology for laughing during club and for failing yet again to deliver a suitable piece for publication.”

In spite of Jo’s stern look, Amy giggled.

Pickwick? Snodgrass? Tupman? Winkle?

What were they doing?

The strange things people did for entertainment before You-Tube was available. And yet, they looked like they were having fun.

“What are you all doing?” I burst out.

The four others gave little jumps in their chairs as they turned to look at me. Apparently, I was better at acting invisible than I’d ever thought.

“Why, you know,” Meg, the first to recover, said.

“We’ve been doing it for a year,” Jo said.

Well—I mentally gritted my teeth—I haven’t been here a year, thank you very much!

“Jo got the idea from reading Dickens,” Amy said. “She liked The Pickwick Papers so much she thought we should put out our own paper.”

“So we each assume different characters from the book,” Beth said, “even though some of us haven’t read it yet and probably never will.”

“Well,” I said grudgingly, “it looks like fun. Why wasn’t I ever invited?”

“What do you mean you weren’t invited?” Jo snorted at me. “You said you hated Dickens. You’ve never wanted to come before.”

“Well, I do now.” I pulled over a chair from against the wall. “Perhaps I could sit in just this once …”

I tried to stay silent, I really did, but soon I realized that in spite of Meg being the symbolic head of the group as Samuel Pickwick, the real force behind The Pickwick Portfolio was Jo, who in addition to writing most of the pieces was also the editor.

“Here, let me see that.” Sick of being left out of things all the time, I snapped my fingers at the paper, which I began to read for myself.

“Yes,” I muttered, “Beth’s ‘History of a Squash’ does have something sweetly simple about it.”

“In here,” Jo said, sitting up straighter in her chair, “we address Beth as Mr. Tupman.”

“Fine, fine.” I read some more. “Oh, come on, Jo!”

“That’s Mr. Snodgrass to you,” she said.

“Fine. Mr. Snodgrass. But come on. Did you really write an ode to a dead cat?”

“Well, the cat did die.” Jo sniffed haughtily. “It’s good to have poetry in a paper, and odes do have to be about something.”

“And what about these advertisements in the back? ‘Hannah is to give a cooking lesson’? By all means, alert TMZ!”

“What?” Amy said, puzzled, but the others ignored her.

“Well, Hannah is going to give a cooking lesson.” Jo reddened. “Or, at least, she’s going to make us dinner.”

“And these hints and the weekly report? Meg using less soap on her hands would keep her from being late for breakfast? And while you accurately grade yourself as bad, Meg as good, and Beth as very good, you only give poor Amy middling?”

“Middling?” Amy echoed. “Not again, Jo! I swear you only do that because you’re still mad at me for burning your book that time!”

“The middling person is to be called Mr. Winkle,” Jo said heatedly. Then she turned on Amy. “And don’t forget to call me Mr. Snodgrass!”

Freak.

“I don’t care what any of you call yourselves,” I said, tossing The Pickwick Portfolio aside, disgusted. “This paper of yours is rubbish.”

“I suppose you think you can do better?” Jo said.

“Yes,” I said coolly. “I believe I can.”

“Fine.” Jo crossed her arms. “Prove it.”

I got up from my chair and went to stand beside Meg. “Do you mind?” I looked down at her, gesturing at her seat.

With reluctance, she relinquished the seat of power, assuming the less important one I’d vacated.

I sat down behind the table and surveyed the four journalists.

“And take those silly badges off your heads!” I directed.

Looking sheepish, they complied.

“Now then, I should like to call to order this meeting of”—and here inspiration struck me—“the Twist Club!”

“The Twist Club?” Jo echoed.

“Yes,” I said. “And our new paper will be called The Twist Times.”

“But I don’t understand,” Jo said. “Why would we call our club and our paper that?”

“For Oliver Twist, of course. You seem to have this obsession with Dickens, so I just figured—”

“It made sense with The Pickwick Papers,” Jo said. “But what does Oliver Twist have to do with newspapers or any papers at all?”

Huh. She had me there.

“It’s the only Dickens I know,” I admitted, not adding that I’d only ever seen the movie musical version. “Now then,” I barreled on, ignoring Jo’s snort, “what I really think we need to do is liven up this dreadful rag you’ve been producing. We need punchier headlines, and more timely stories—”

“And we’ll also need new names,” Beth cut in, although I must point out, she cut in as timidly as possible.

“New names?” I echoed.

“Well, yes,” Beth said. “It doesn’t make sense for me to be Mr. Tupman if I’m writing for The Twist Times now.”

“Anyway,” Amy said, “I was growing tired of being Mr. Winkle.”

Jo glared at her.

“Okay,” I said. “What new names would you like to have?”

“You pick, Emily,” Beth said. “I don’t know anything about Oliver Twist.”

“How about the Artful Dodger?” I suggested.

Beth smiled at this. “Oh, I like the sound of that very much: Mr. Artful Dodger.”

“What about me?” Amy asked eagerly.

I studied her. “Fagin, I think. You know—the nose.”

She didn’t look quite as pleased as Beth.

“And me?” Meg asked.

“Nancy would suit you,” I said. “She dies horribly; but before that, she’s terribly and tragically romantic.”

“Mr. Nancy,” Meg said, pleased.

“And what about me?” Jo asked.

“How about Bull’s-eye?” I suggested.

“The dog?” Jo was aghast. “I have read the book, you know.”

“Fine then,” I said, “you can be Bill Sikes.”

“But he—”

“And I’ll be Oliver Twist, of course. I guess now that we all have our names, the next thing to do would be to start writing.”

“But what should we write?” Beth asked. “I always do better if there’s a specific assignment.”

“Er, write what you know!” I said, remembering a phrase Mr. Ochocinco used to use. “But punchier! More timely! More lively!” I shooed them with my hands. “Get to it now!”

Jo regarded me. “And what will you be doing while we’re doing all the work?”

“Why, I’ll be editing your work as you hand it in,” I said, “just like you used to do.”

“This ought to be good,” Jo said.



The following Saturday night, the first edition of The Twist Times was presented, which I read aloud to the others.

THE TWIST TIMES



A HAPPY DEATH

by Nancy

It is a tragedy that Nancy died

But a triumph that she loved Bill,

Even while he was killing her.



OF CATS AND DOLLS

by the Artful Dodger

Cats and dolls have more in

common than people think. For

you can love them all even when

they have no limbs, or even a head,

and they make messes on the furniture.

Oh, and pianos are very nice too.

And squash.



THE TRAGEDY OF HER NOSE

by Fagin

She would have had such a good life,

but her nose got in the way of everything.

Whenever she tried to drink something,

her nose banged against the lip of the cup.

When she slept at night, her nose was so

large that the snores from it kept waking

her. People her own age shunned her.

Small children ran screaming from her

path. So she died.



ON WRITING

by Bill Sikes

When one first makes the decision

to be a writer, she must.



ADVERTISEMENTS

Hannah will once again be

offering a cooking lesson—

“Wait a second!” Jo interrupted me. “What’s going on here?”

“Oh, sorry,” I said. “It’s just that with all the confusion—you know, the friendly takeover at the newspaper and all—there simply wasn’t any time to seek out new advertisers, but I promise that next week—”

“I’m not talking about Hannah!” Jo was clearly exasperated.

“What else could be wrong?” I asked.

“I’m talking about my piece!” Jo said. “All you read was, ‘When one first makes the decision to be a writer, she must,’ and then you stopped reading without finishing the rest.”

“But I did finish,” I said, holding up the newspaper so she could see her piece with its two lines.

“What happened to the rest?” she demanded. “The piece I gave you was ten pages long!”

“Well, see, that was the problem,” I said. “Your piece was simply too long, so I had to cut it.”

“You cut it from ten pages to two lines?”

“Why, yes,” I said. “Space considerations, you know.” I held up the newspaper, pointed to the item about Hannah. “I had to leave room for our advertisers, didn’t I?”

Two things happened then.

Jo lunged for my throat and Laurie came out of the closet. “What are you doing here?” I could only gasp out the words because I was still busy trying to pry Jo’s fingers off my throat.

Seeing him there, Jo instantly let go of me.

“I invited him,” Jo said.

The others gasped.

“I just thought he might like to write for the newspaper,” Jo said.

“But he’s a … boy!” Beth said.

“No, he’s not,” said Jo. “He’s Teddy.” Teddy was Jo’s special name for him. Figured.

“But we’ve never had a boy write for the newspaper before,” Amy said.

“Yes, but wouldn’t it be nice to get a fresh perspective?” Jo said. “And as I say, it is only Laurie …” She picked up the paper, handed it to him. “What do you think?”

Why, you little rat! That’s what I thought. She wanted him to write for the paper? HA! I’d bet anything she’d hidden him away in that closet hoping that when he saw my first issue of the paper, he’d think it lame. I’d bet anything that was it because it was certainly the kind of thing I’d do to her.

And it was lame, I saw that now as I looked over his shoulder: “A Happy Death,” “Of Cats and Dolls,” “The Tragedy of Her Nose”—it was as lousy as Jo’s paper had been.

“The Twist Times.” He chuckled over the title. “Very clever.”

Well, maybe it wasn’t so bad …

“I do think there could maybe be more local news,” he continued, “you know, since it is a newspaper. And that piece on writing does seem to be a bit, er, truncated … hmm … Do you think Hannah might be willing to teach me to cook?” He folded the paper, not waiting for an answer, and turned to me with an admiring smile. “Nice work.” Then he added, surveying my dowdy dress, “I’d think, though, as editor you’d get to dress better.”

Was there no pleasing him fashionwise?

“I hope you’ll let me write for your paper,” he addressed me as though we were the only two there.

Why had his attitude toward me changed? I wondered. Oh, well. He was probably only being overly nice to me so he could get published. Everyone wants to see their names in print—fifteen minutes of fame and all that.

Still, might as well take advantage of the situation …

“Of course you can,” I said.

“But it’s not up to just you,” Jo said testily. “There has to be a vote.”

What was this? Now that it turned out that Laurie admired my paper, she no longer wanted him involved?

“Well,” I said sweetly to her, “it was your idea to invite him.” I turned to the group at large. “All those in favor?”

“Aye!” Amy said.

“Aye!” Meg said.

“Aye!” Beth said, adding, “even if he is a boy.”

“Aye!” I thrust my hand up in the air in Jo’s direction. “Aye!” I waved that hand insistently.

“Fine,” she said sourly, raising a limp hand. “Aye.”

“But he’s going to need a male name to write under,” Beth said. “I mean, I realize he’s already got one. But you know, like the rest of us use from the book?”

But I’d exhausted all the names I could remember from Oliver Twist.

“Bull’s-eye okay with you?” I asked Laurie with a doubtful smile.

“It’s perfect.” Laurie’s eyes sparkled as he smiled back at me. “I don’t mind being the dog.”

Then Laurie informed us about how, in anticipation of being invited to join our merry journalistic group, he’d set up a makeshift post office in the hedge between our properties. The box had a roof that opened so that messages and books and things might circulate more freely among us.

The others thought this was a capital idea—that was Jo’s word for it: “capital”—but I could see trouble down the road.

What if one sister intercepted a letter from another sister to Laurie? What if one sister stole a letter from Laurie to another sister?

A post office between our two houses?

How reckless!