Little Women and Me

Five


I settled in to my first week as the jack-of-all-trades.

On Tuesday I went to Aunt March’s with Jo. For once, Jo hadn’t exaggerated. Aunt March was as obnoxious as Jo said she was. And while whenever she bellowed “Josy-phine!” I laughed, it was substantially less amusing when she started bellowing “Emi-ly!” As my own mom used to say: “It’s always funny until it happens to you.” Still, Aunt March did nap often, and when she did, I followed Jo to the most amazing private library, where Jo showed me the one thing we really had in common: books. All those books made me itch to get back to writing.

Wednesday turned out to be the best day of the week, being at home with Beth. Yes, doing the housework was hard. There were no vacuum cleaners, no dishwashers or dryers, no laundry machines, no Dustbusters—everything had to be done by hand. My beautiful hands—honestly, I grumbled to myself, someone should have invented rubber gloves by now. And if doing the housework was hard, watching Beth play with her six dolls could be a little odd too. That limbless castoff she’d gotten from Jo, the one with no head—it was creepy! But that was Beth: she was capable of loving anything and everything, even the most loveless creatures, even me. And that was why it was the best day of the week, even if it was the hardest work and there were those creepy dolls: because a person couldn’t be around Beth and not feel a little more peaceful, a person couldn’t be around Beth and not feel inspired to be just a little better than the person they normally were.

You’d think that Thursdays with Amy would be the easiest of my jack-of-all-trades days since all I had to really do was walk her to school and then I was free until I had to pick her up later, and help her with her homework if necessary. But you’d be wrong. Thursday wound up being a loose-ends day for me, with me spending a good deal of it staring over the low hedge at the Laurence estate—a McMansion compared to the little brown March house—and wondering what went on inside there.

As for Friday … the others had grilled me on what I did on my free Fridays, but I still wasn’t saying, in large part because I hadn’t figured it out yet!

But then Saturday finally came and everyone was home again with lots to do.

At least, there should have been lots to do, except there wasn’t, because it turned out to be a blustery and snowy Saturday, leaving the others happy to do totally exciting activities, like reading and sewing.

All except for Jo, of course.

Meg was lying on the sofa reading Ivanhoe, of all things—bo-ring!—while Beth played with her kittens, Amy drew pictures, and I tried to figure out how to sew a straighter stitch. That was when Jo entered wearing rubber boots and an old sack and hood. In her hands, she carried a broom and shovel.

One thing you had to give Jo: she never cared how she looked or what anyone else thought. You’d never catch her wearing skinny jeans or eating salad just to impress a boy.

“Where are you going dressed so abominably?” Amy asked lazily. “I hope no one recognizes you as my sister.”

“I’m going to get some exercise,” Jo announced.

“But you’ve gone for two walks already today,” Beth pointed out.

Beth was right. Honestly, was there ever anyone so hardy as Jo March? It was annoying.

“Beth’s right,” Meg said, laying aside her book with an air I now knew signaled an older-sister lecture. “I would advise you—”

“Never take advice,” Jo cut her off.

That suddenly sounded so familiar, the idea of Jo being the sort of person who never took advice. No, of course she wouldn’t.

“Anyone want to go with me?” Jo asked brusquely, giving none of us any time to answer as she hurried on with, “No, of course you don’t, so I guess I’ll just—”

“I’ll go with you,” I said, getting up so fast my sewing got dumped on the floor, which was fine: I was a lousy sewer.

I don’t know why I did it. I hated being cold, would never volunteer to go outside when I could remain in here, even if in here was slightly boring today. But there was something suspicious about Jo’s attitude. I got the sense she didn’t want any of us to go with her.

“No, you won’t,” Jo insisted. “You’ll hate it out there.”

“I can assure you, I’ll love it,” I said brightly.

“No, you won’t,” she insisted again. “You hate the cold and all you’ll do is complain of it all the time.”

I knew it! For some reason Jo didn’t want anyone to go with her.

“I’ll be a perfect soldier about the cold,” I said, still brightly. “And if I’m not? You can always send me back. Now, wait here”—I paused to check out her ridiculous outfit—“while I hunt down a pair of rubber boots. And an old sack and hood. And a broom and shovel.”



Gee, Emily, you really showed her, I grumbled internally as I proceeded to sweep and shovel the walkway with my hardy sister. And to think, you could have been comfortably inside, seated by the fire, even if you had to do something stupid like sewing. But instead you had to insist on accompanying her outside. You couldn’t leave well enough alone. You were so certain that Jo was up to no good, or at least up to something interesting, when in fact all it was is that Jo March is the most annoyingly hardy person who ever lived!

WHAP!

I felt the wetness penetrate my hood, soaking my neck beneath the fabric, before it occurred to me: I’d been struck by a snowball!

“Why, you little—” I whirled on Jo, who was holding her sides, she was laughing so hard at my outrage.

I thought for sure she’d stop laughing when I scooped up twin handfuls of snow, packed it into a tight ball, and hurled it at her head. But she only laughed harder.

Seeing her laughing, in spite of the cold her big nose must be feeling with the snow dripping off it, I began to laugh too.

Suddenly, we were laughing together, scooping up snow and flinging it at each other, using our brooms to sweep even more snow at each other. I couldn’t believe it, but I was actually having fun.

Now, this was a Jo March I could get along with: impulsive, vibrant, full of life, zingy.

Of course I’d been wrong to suspect she had something up her sleeve because she wanted to go outside by herself for the third time on a blustery and snowy day. She was merely a spirit too big to be caged indoors. There was nothing underhanded about her behavior, nothing nefarious—ooh! good PSAT word!—about it.

I’d just thrown a snowball at her and she was bending down to scoop up some snow to return the favor when she saw something that brought her up short. “Oh, look,” she said.

I followed her gaze across the expanse of snow separating our house from the Laurence estate.

Of course, I thought.

“Mr. Laurence is driving away,” Jo went on, as though she couldn’t stop herself. “And look, Laurie is up there in that window.”

She turned to me, as though snapping out of her trance. “You can go back into the house, Emily,” she said hurriedly.

“Not on your life,” I said.

“But you always hate the cold,” she objected, “and we’ve already been out in it so long.”

“I’ve changed my mind.” I laughed. “Now I love the cold!”

“Do not.”

“Do so.”

“Do—” She shook her head in exasperation. “Never mind that now.” Then she raised her old sack and, vaulting the low hedge that separated our property from our neighbors’, began trudging as quickly as she could through the snow toward the Laurence house.

“Hey!” I shouted after her. “Wait for me!” Then I raised my own sack and began to run too.

That low hedge turned out to be higher than it looked.

“You can’t just throw snow at his window,” I started to say. Now it was my turn to be exasperated, five minutes later, as we stood beneath Laurie’s window.

I had to hand it to Jo, though: she had one heck of an arm. And her snow-throwing thing had worked because a guy had appeared in the window.

This was the first time I was seeing Laurie in person, even if it was only through a window. Before I’d only ever heard him described by Jo or Amy or the book.

Woo-hoo! He was a hottie.

“I’ve been sick for a week with a cold,” he shouted down to her, having finally forced the window open. The way he talked to only her, it was as though I wasn’t even there. “I can’t go out,” he added, “and it’s awfully boring in here with no one to read to me or amuse me. I can’t, after all, be asking Brooke all the time.”

In the time it took me to puzzle over who Brooke might be, and failing to remember, due to my problems with story amnesia, Jo shouted up to Laurie, “I can take care of that.”

“We’ll take care of that,” I muttered under my breath, hurrying to keep up with her as she raced for the front door.

“Remember your pact,” she reminded me.

Did she mean that time I made her swear that we wouldn’t let that “Laurie boy” come between us March girls?

Just when I’d seen what a hottie he was, she had to remind me of that now?



She’s got nerve, I thought, watching as she waltzed into the unfamiliar house as if she owned the place.

“You must be Miss Emily,” Laurie said to me as I entered, leaving me surprised.

How did he …?

“I realize we’ve never been formally introduced,” he went on, his cheeks coloring, “but I hear you all call to one another. And at night sometimes, when you forget to draw the curtains, I can see you.”

Okay, I thought, that’s just a little creepy.

“If you enjoy watching us,” Jo said cheerfully, “if it entertains you, then I shall make sure those curtains are never drawn again.”

Oh, good one, Jo, I thought to myself. Way to enable the stalker.

“But if Emily and I are to stay,” Jo went on, “one of us should really go back home to get Marmee’s permission.”

I remained standing where I was. Well, it was her idea.

“Emily?” she prompted after a long moment of silence.

“What?” I returned. I didn’t want to leave her alone with Laurie. What I really wanted was to have him all to myself. Even if he was a stalker.

To heck with the pact. If there was only one guy in the story, why should I be the one to go without?

“Well, you are younger than me by one—”

“Oh, fine,” I said through gritted teeth.



When I finally returned fifteen minutes later, not only had I gotten Marmee’s permission, but my arms were full.

The others had all insisted I bring something for the invalid.

Beth had insisted I bring three kittens to cheer him up, which seemed a weird thing to send to a sick person, plus they kept scratching me. Meg had insisted I bring a blancmange she’d made. I remembered reading about blancmange in the original book and not knowing what it was but thinking it sounded revolting. Now I knew. It was a sweetened dessert made from gelatinous or starchy ingredients and milk. And yes, it was so gross. The only thing that saved the disgusting white mess were the flowers and leaves from Amy’s pet geranium that she’d insisted I use to decorate the border. Leave it to one of the March sisters to have a geranium for a pet—a March Chia Pet! At least it didn’t scratch.

As for me, what did I bring? Myself. Wasn’t that enough?

“I’m back!” I called as I reentered the house.

“We’re up here!” Jo called from somewhere up above me. “In Laurie’s room!”

You fast mover, Jo March, I thought as I took the stairs with determination, juggling cats and blancmange and geranium decorations. Well, two of us could play at this!

“Laurie tells me they haven’t lived here long either,” Jo informed me as I entered the room, breathless, depositing the kittens and blancmange on the first available surface: the astonished invalid’s lap.

Wait a second. Did she just say “either”? But I thought we always lived here. At least I thought the Marches did.

“So I’ve been advising Laurie on how to make friends,” Jo said.

HA! For one who never took advice, Jo was awfully good at dishing it out.

“I told him how I’ve already gotten to know all the neighbors except for him,” Jo said. Hands on hips, she looked around the room. “Look at this messy room! I told Laurie it should be set to rights before I read to him.”

It really was amazing how much they’d managed to discuss in the time I’d been gone, although somehow I sensed Jo had done most of the talking.

“Emily?” Jo cocked an eyebrow at me.

“What?” I finally spoke. Sometimes it was tough to get a word in edgewise with Jo.

“The room.” She glanced at our surroundings with a meaningful look: the messy sheets, the scattered clothes, the disorderly bookshelves.

“You don’t mean—” I started to say. “But that’s wack!”

“ ‘Wack’?” Laurie asked, looking extremely interested in me all of a sudden. “I love words, and that’s one I’ve never heard before, or at least not quite in that way.”

“Wack means crazy,” I informed Laurie, thinking: Yay! We have something in common! We both love words!

“Then why didn’t you just say ‘crazy’?” Jo pressed. “Or even ‘wacky’? Although there is no such word as wacky, it would make more sense than wack if you were looking for a synonym for crazy.”

Wait. No wacky? What kind of world was this? Oh, right. It was a world in which, not only was there no wack yet, there wasn’t even a wacky. I was going to have to get my hands on a good dictionary, I realized, and memorize the whole thing.

“So what you really meant to say was ‘wacky,’ “ Jo persisted.

“No,” I finally said, annoyed. Suddenly I didn’t care how wack it made me look in their eyes, I refused to let her win another argument. “I meant to say ‘wack,’ “ I informed her defiantly. Then I looked at Laurie, shrugged. “What can I say? I love words and I like inventing new ones.”

Laurie’s eyes lit up. “Miss Emily! How charming!”

“You can just call me Emily,” I said, “now that we’re friends.”

“Emily,” Jo said.

“Hmm?” Gosh, Laurie was cute.

“The room?” Jo said.

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous, you silly goose,” I said, still gazing into Laurie’s beautiful dark eyes. “You know I spend all day every Thursday cleaning our home with Beth. If you think Laurie’s room should be cleaned so badly, clean it yourself.”



While Jo grumbled around the room, “setting things to rights,” it was my turn to learn a few things.

I learned both his parents died when he was little—sad.

I learned Brooke was Mr. John Brooke, his tutor—useful.

I learned his grandfather didn’t like him to play the piano—perplexing.

“Are you two just going to sit there and talk all day?” Jo huffed, plumping the last pillow and placing it on Laurie’s bed.

“I know!” Laurie clapped his hands on his thighs. Since we’d arrived, he already looked less sick than when we first saw him from the window. At least he was more cheerful. “I’ll show you Grandfather’s library!”

The library he led us to was even bigger than Aunt March’s, with a large portrait of Mr. Laurence dominating the room.

“What an amazing room,” Jo said. In moments like these, I didn’t resent her at all, because I was feeling the exact same thing—all those books to fall into.

“Grandfather lives among his books,” Laurie informed us.

HA! Don’t we all! I thought half bitterly, suddenly tired of being a fly on the wall in someone else’s life. If this had followed the original book, Jo was meant to be alone here with him. I was just an extra in their play.

Well, at least by being here I could enforce the pact.

“Don’t you think Grandfather looks frightening in that picture?” Laurie asked Jo.

“No,” Jo said. “I’m not afraid of anything.”

And in that instant I realized she wasn’t afraid of anything and that that was part of her magic. Me? I was afraid of all sorts of things, always had been. I was afraid of remaining in this world, but now I was also afraid of going back to my old life. It’s not like I’d ever fit in so great there to begin with, and what with the changes in me since being here, that would probably only get worse. What if I started spouting “shall” at everybody? Kendra would think I’d gone nuts. Plus, if I left here too soon, how would I ever save Beth?

A servant came to inform Laurie that the doctor had come to check up on him.

How quaint—house calls!

A moment later, I was left in the library, studying the old man’s portrait with Jo.

“You know,” Jo said, “the old man knew our grandfather.”

No, I hadn’t known that, and it didn’t make much sense to me. Didn’t Jo say earlier that we and the Laurences were both relative newcomers to our houses? And yet now she was saying that our grandparents had been friends?

I heard a door open and click shut, a sound Jo appeared oblivious to.

“Of course, he’s not as handsome as our grandfather,” Jo said, comparing the portrait in front of us to some vision in her mind of a grandfather I’d never seen, never known.

I heard the sound of footsteps approaching, glanced over my shoulder.

“Jo?” I warned her.

“And that mouth,” Jo went on, “so grim!”

The footsteps drew nearer.

“Jo?” I tried again.

“I’ll bet he has a tremendous will,” Jo went on.

Oh, to heck with it, I thought. This could be fun.

Jo tilted her head to one side. “Although from this angle, he does look like he might be a little wack. But no. I’m not scared of him at all.”

I watched as the gnarled hand gripped Jo’s shoulder, watched the look of horror on her face as she spun around and saw the person I’d known had been in the room with us for some time: Mr. Laurence.

“Not scared of me, huh?” he demanded.

She may have blushed like crazy, but still Jo stood her ground. “No, sir.”

And she continued to stand her ground as he asked her about what she’d said about his mouth and his will. She may never have intended to offend him, but she’d meant what she said and, even having been overheard, wouldn’t back down now.

“And you think I look … wack?” the old man said, puzzling over that last word.

“I only said a little wack, sir,” Jo corrected, blushing even more as she shot me a hard look. Clearly this was all to be my fault for having taught her that word in the first place. “Only a little, but yes, sir, in that picture I’m afraid you do.”

Good, I thought. Now he will kick her out, for her rudeness and her impertinence and for calling him a little wack. He will kick her out for good and then I will have Laurie to myself for—

That’s when the old man roared. Only it wasn’t in anger, I realized after a moment. He was roaring in laughter. And what was worse, he wasn’t laughing at Jo, he was laughing with her.

“How delightfully honest you are!” he said, struggling to control his laughter. “I wish there were more girls in the world like you!”

I glared at Jo.

I couldn’t help it, I was jealous. Jo had said all those things, and still the old man found her charming? Jo could get away with anything!



One thing Jo couldn’t get away with. Spotting the grand piano in the drawing room, she begged Laurie to play so that she could tell Beth about it, and Laurie played beautifully. The part she couldn’t get away with was that the old man, hearing him play and realizing she had urged him to, hustled us toward the front door.

“I think that in Theodore’s condition,” the old man said, “he has had quite enough entertainment for one day. But it would be wonderful if you March girls spent more time in the future with him. I think Theodore could benefit greatly from your society, so long as there isn’t any more piano playing.”

“I could come every Friday!” I offered. “I’m free every Friday!”

Jo glared at me.

“What?” I said as we trudged off toward home. “It’s the truth. I have every Friday free, and—”

“Oh, do be quiet, Emily. Sometimes I think you must be wack.”



That night over supper, Jo and I told the tale of our joint adventure that day.

“Did he like my blancmange?” Meg wanted to know.

“I believe, er, he wanted to save it all to enjoy himself later,” I said, not wanting to hurt her feelings by telling her he hadn’t touched the gross-looking thing.

“I hope he doesn’t think the geranium flowers and leaves are edible,” Amy said, “for I believe they might be poisonous.”

“I am sure,” Jo said huffily, “that he is intelligent enough not to eat the flowers.”

“That piano sounds heavenly,” Beth said, chin in hand. “But it is perplexing: Why does his grandfather not want him to play it?”

That’s when Marmee had some insider information to share with us.

“Mr. Laurence doesn’t like the boy to play the piano,” she said, “because his daughter-in-law, the boy’s mother, was an Italian musician whom he blames for taking his son away from him. He worries that the boy will also want to be a musician and that he will lose him as a result too.”

“Italians are always nice,” Meg said.

“Perhaps,” Marmee said, considering. “The boy was born in Italy, and I fancy he is not very strong. Still, I agree with Mr. Laurence. You girls would do that boy a world of good, and I have the feeling he would do the same for you. You have my permission to spend more time with him.”

“I have Fridays off!” I piped up.

Jo narrowed her eyes at me. I could almost see the wheels turning in that brain of hers: Remember the pact, Emily. But I didn’t care. I didn’t care anymore about trying to avoid conflict with my new sisters by not competing over some guy. I’d once thought I wanted to switch things in Little Women so that Laurie would wind up with Jo rather than Amy. But now that I was here, why shouldn’t he wind up with me?

Laurie was good-looking, he was nice, and he was impressed with my ability to come up with new words. I couldn’t remember the last time any guy had been impressed by me. Plus, he was the coolest guy in town. Okay, so maybe he was the only guy I knew in town, but still …

Meeting Laurie for the first time that day—talk about getting lost in a good book!

I no longer wanted to leave it.