Disclaimer: All rights to the Mother-Daughter Book Club series belong to Heather Vogel Frederick.
Written because there is a depressing lack of Tristan/Cassidy fanfics.
I'm not British, so if anyone who is British reads this, I would really appreciate some help with British slang. Thanks in advance!
9/29/13: *squeal*! Tristan has been added to the character list! (thanks to moi :D)
Concord sucks.
Oh, the town itself is alright. Quaint white houses, sprawling green lawns, an abundance of oak trees and tulips—it's just like any other suburban town. Although a little too American-esque for my taste, judging by the number of red-white-blue flags we passed by on our first day.
Simon and I made a bet, actually, on whether there were more oak trees or American flags.
Let's just say it was the easiest five pounds I've ever made.
Or rather, easiest 7.82 dollars I've ever made. Dad just went to the local bank to exchange our pounds for dollars. Who knew that the face of old Elizabeth Fry would carry so much nostalgia?
Now I've got some bloke named Benjamin Franklin (who I've never heard of), some other bloke named George Washington (who I have heard of a few times in Dad's history lectures on long car rides, during which I usually doze off), and a scatter of unfamiliar coins.
Anyway, what really bothers me about Concord is the people. They're…they're just so…loud. Yes, that's the perfect adjective. Americans are so loud that I swear they're damaging my hearing. They're nosy about everything that isn't their business. They're so overfriendly that it borders on rude.
When I tell Simon this, he just laughs and says that my definition of friendly is everyone else's definition of unfriendly. Whatever that means.
"You have to admit it's at least odd how that woman came over here with a humongous basket of food," I tell him. "Who does that?"
"Mrs. Sloane was just trying to welcome us," he protests.
"We don't even know her!"
"Which was why she came over to introduce her and her daughter," he says.
"Well, maybe she should've let her daughter take a shower first," I mutter. Simon elbows me, but he can't tell me he didn't notice the stench.
And Mum thought we would have skating in common? Please. Hockey may also be played on ice, but while skating is classical and refined, hockey is just an excuse of a sport Americans play so that they can whack each other with sticks.
"Tris, at least try to get along with the others, alright?" Simon continues.
He seems to be getting on just fine at the secondary school—high school, the Americans call it—and in fact already has his eye on a particular bird.
"If you keep distancing yourself away from them, you're never going to make any friends."
Friends? I don't need to make new friends, I want to protest. I've got plenty back home in England.
But the thing is that we're not in England. We're in America. And we're going to be stuck here for a whole year, away from our neighbors, away from all my childhood and school friends, away from Coach and the Bath rink I've been skating at since I was four years old.
Deep down, I know the real reason why Concord sucks is not because of the town or the people, but because it represents change. I hate change. I hate going to new places, I hate meeting new people.
Simon is good at adjusting, but for me, it's a constant struggle not only because I withdraw into myself when I'm with people I don't know, but also because I always ask myself, What's wrong with the old?
What's wrong with the old?
When Mrs. Bergson first tells me who is going to be my new skating partner, I really, honestly can't believe it.
Cassidy Sloane? The smelly hockey girl?
Remember what I said about overfriendly? Well, I take that back when it comes to Cassidy Sloane. She's been unfriendly since our first meeting. Which is kind of refreshing because it means for once, I don't have to act nice and sociable and not-me.
Mrs. Bergson brags about all her hockey team achievements, which doesn't impress me all that much considering it's hockey, but I agree to partner with her.
After all, it's only temporary.
But it turns out to be a big mistake anyways.
See, I suspected that Mrs. Bergson had exaggerated about Cassidy's achievements, but what was she thinking? The girl can't even take two steps onto the ice without tripping.
As if she hears my thoughts, Cassidy glares at me. Or rather, intensifies her glare. She's been glaring at me ever since she walked into the rink, which makes me wonder why she agreed to this arrangement in the first place.
Never mind that, why did I agree to it?
By the end of our first session, I grudgingly admit that Cassidy actually isn't that bad of a skater—but she isn't very good either. Her movements are crude and unrefined, and she has absolutely no grace.
Cassidy compared to Annabelle is like a dog being compared to a swan. I tell Annabelle as much when we videochat.
"Some sort of cross between a dog and a giraffe," I muse, remembering how tall Cassidy was. "Big, bad Cassidy Sloane the giraffog."
As I expect, Annabelle burst out into laughter. I miss my cousin. Simon doesn't like her very much for some reason, but she's one of the few people who don't scold me for being mean when I'm really being honest. I can tell Annabelle pretty much anything.
"Whew, I worried for a moment that you found someone to replace me," she jokes.
Mrs. Bergson's words inexplicably pop into my head. "You two make a very good-looking couple."
I snort. "As if there's a chance."
A few weeks after, I feel a little bit bad for calling Cassidy a dog. She's not all that bad looking, for one.
She's kind of pretty actually. Especially when she's wearing a skirt.
She's also funny and really competitive, as I learned at Simon's birthday party during the ping-pong tournament. All I can say is that girl has a killer right wrist and a fierce battle face.
Boadicea, whispers the part of my mind that is shamelessly nerdy. (It's pretty much inevitable that when you are the son of a history professor, you are a nerd.) Boadicea was the dauntless queen of a Celtic tribe who led her people into war against the ruthless Roman Empire in 60 AD.
On the ice, I find myself frustrated not because Cassidy keeps messing up the routine, but because I know she can do better. Cassidy Sloane is the type of person who can do pretty much anything, at least sports-wise, if she puts her mind to it. I got a glimpse of her passion when she played ping-pong and when she coaches her little hockey girls.
With figure skating, though, she looks like she is moving simply because Mrs. Bergson is telling her to.
"What's wrong with you?" I can't help but say when she gets out of sync yet again during a side-by-side spin.
She cuts her blades sharply and comes to an abrupt stop. Her eyes flash dangerously, which I've learned is the harbinger for an outraged tirade from my not-so-great experience with girls.
Mrs. Bergson sends us home early. I call out to Cassidy in the parking lot, intending to apologize, but then I am hit with a great idea.
What if we did a videoconference with Coach and Annabelle?
Even though Mrs. Bergson is a fantastic coach and I'm sure was once a brilliant ice skater, she hasn't partaken in a competition for decades. Annabelle, on the other hand, has loads of experience and would be able to tell Cassidy exactly what she was doing wrong and how to correct it.
Cassidy—what is the exact American expression? Cassidy shoots the idea down—with the sharpest arrow she can find.
"Forget it," she says flatly. "It's bad enough that you criticize me all the time, I don't need Annabelle putting in her two cents as well."
It's hard to keep myself from snapping back. I clench my fists, allowing the slight pain of my fingernails digging into my palms to distract me from the biting words at the tip of my tongue.
I then take a deep breath and ask myself what Simon—the nicest person I know—would say.
"Look, I'm sorry if I hurt your feelings back in there. I just wanted to—"
"To what?" she hollers. Her face is almost as red as her hair. "Make me feel like a big loser? Well, you've done a great job of that, trust me!"
Any trace of Nice Tristan evaporates. I glare back at her. "Have it your way. I just wanted to help."
It doesn't matter. Even when I try to be nice to Cassidy, she still acts like I'm the world's biggest prat.
I don't get it. It's like she holds some sort of grudge against me or something.
Anyway, when I tell Annabelle about the videoconferencing idea, she seems unenthusiastic too. I guess it wasn't such a great idea after all.
Even though I've missed Annabelle a lot, I find myself apprehensive when she finally comes for a visit. I'm fond of my cousin, but I know that she can be, well, a troublemaker. Sometimes I suspect she likes making enemies, as if it's her hobby.
What can I say, people have funny hobbies.
When I show Annabelle around town—she says that the landscape would be attractive if it wasn't so American, which is funny because it's similar to something I would've said months ago, but I've gotten used to it now—I focus on the tourist attractions and avoid lingering at Kimball Farm ice cream shop, Alcott High School, and the rink.
In other words, I try to steer her clear of Cassidy.
The relationship between me and Cassidy is strained, to say the least, but Annabelle has the ability to make it 100,000 times worse.
Unfortunately, fate intends to do exactly that because just as we arrive at the rink, Cassidy skates over.
After minimal introductions, it becomes painfully clear that Cassidy and Annabelle do not like each other. If I wasn't so worried about Annabelle being, well, Annabelle, I would find their staring contest funny, since Cassidy visibly looms over Annabelle.
My cousin crosses her arms. "So Tristan tells me you play hockey. What was it he called you? Big, bad Cassidy Sloane?"
I wince and pray she doesn't mention the giraffe-dog crossbreed part.
Fortunately, Annabelle is more intent on skating, and I let her drag me onto the ice. I think about apologizing to Cassidy, but when I glance back, she is busy talking to her blond-haired friend.
Besides, she wouldn't accept my apology anyway.
Sadly, what finally brings me and Cassidy together is Mrs. Bergson's death.
I may not have known her as well as Cassidy did, but I respected her all the same. You could tell that Eva Bergson loved ice skating, no matter what age she was. She devoted her life to it.
The day after, Cassidy and I unofficially call a truce. We try to practice, but like Cassidy said, "it's hard when you don't have a coach."
Still, we say hi to each other in the hallways and managed to carry on a decent conversation several times. When my family and I leave Concord to explore other parts of America, Cassidy and I part on civil terms.
It makes sense because it was Mrs. Bergson who had first made us partners.
A month later, I am back in England. It's nice to be back at home—I can't believe how soft and cozy my bed feels, and we all missed Toby a lot when we were in America. Melville, the Hawthorne's cat, was nice enough, but kept shredding hair on our beds, which was annoying, and plus, he couldn't talk.
Despite my initial misgivings, America wasn't all that bad. American school was kind of fun, and Simon and I both made new friends.
And in Simon's case, a new girlfriend.
Immediately after we arrive back in England, Annabelle and I started practicing. It took a day or two for us to get used to each other's bodies again—the first time we tried the lift, I used too much force and sent her flying across the ice.
Nevertheless, we're ready by the day of the competition. I'm a little glad that the American girls are coming—in particular, a certain tall redhead.
Ice hockey might be the hot sport in America, but we're in skating turf in England. I'm hoping that after the competition, Cassidy will think twice before calling me an "ice princess."
I try not to think about what will happen if I mess up.
Thirty minutes before the competition starts, I spot bright orange-red. Cassidy waves to me and I skate over to the edge of the rink while ignoring Annabelle's dark look.
"You're going to do great," Cassidy says. She uses the same matter-of-fact tone and absolute manner she takes when coaching her hockey girls.
She passes me something small and cool, like metal.
"What's this?"
"Mrs. Bergson's silver whistle," she tells me.
I am deeply touched by the offering, but immediately think of a problem. "I don't have a pocket, though. Spandex, remember? Mr. Fancy Pants?"
Cassidy slightly winces, no doubt remembering when her friend had taken a picture of my skating outfit and posted it on the Internet for people to mock, to my anger and mortification. That was months ago, though, when I was still upset over the sudden move to America and secretly feeling a little homesick.
I smile now to let Cassidy know I don't hold a grudge. "How about you hold it for me. It'll be doubly lucky that way."
As I put the whistle back into her palm, our hands make contact. Her skin is cold from exposure to the bitter England wind. I brush my fingers over some of the calluses on her palm, no doubt formed from the hockey stick held there for so long and so often.
A tingle runs down my spine. There is a flicker in Cassidy's eyes.
Before either of us can say anything, Annabelle skates over and tells me Coach is looking for me. I start to skate away, but then I see Coach seems to be in a deep discussion with one of the competition officials.
A shiver runs through me, but this time, it is joined by a bad feeling that coils around my stomach and tightens. I remember the instant dislike that had sprung up between Annabelle and Cassidy the moment they met each other, and I remember that my cousin is a troublemaker.
I spin, just in time to watch Cassidy turn away and Annabelle dash after her. But her movements are furiously unsteady, and her left skate has come untied.
I open my mouth to yell at her, but I am already too late.
A sliver of shoelace, the gleam of the ice, and a tumble.
The awful clattering sound seems unnaturally loud. I glide as fast as I can toward her, Coach runs from the other direction. For a moment, Annabelle and I lock eyes, and I see fear and regret.
"She tripped me!" are the first words that come out of her mouth, accompanied by a jabbing finger at Cassidy. But I saw everything.
I cannot muster up anger at Annabelle. I only feel a numbness as I tell Coach what really happened.
His face is grey by the time I finish. I cannot imagine what mine must look like.
"A year's worth of hard work goes down the drain…"
I watch as the grim words knock into Annabelle and wait for it to sink in for me. But a flash of orange-red in my peripheral vision catches my attention, and I raise my head up. Cassidy is slowly inching away from the three of us, but I can see the expression on her face.
It is not exactly pity. It is sympathy so deep that it becomes empathy.
She knows how it feels, I realize. I wonder how many times she had been injured and taken out of a game, or had witnessed someone being injured on her team…
Wait. In hockey, just because a player is injured didn't mean the team is disqualified, because there are substitute players.
I turn my gaze onto Coach. "What are the rules about last-minute replacements?"
It is actually harder to convince Cassidy than Coach. In the end, she agrees only after I remind her of the consequences if she doesn't take Annabelle's place.
Coach and Cassidy are both dubious, and Annabelle is absolutely boiling (though she knows better to complain out loud). However, when I step onto the ice with Cassidy by my side, I realize that I am not nervous at all.
I take Cassidy's hand and squeeze it. Ready?
Her hand is still cold, but her nod is quick and decisive. Ready.
I lift our joint hands up into the air.
My brother has been sneaking glances at me for the past thirty minutes. I finally snap, "What?"
"Nothing," he says after a moment of hesitation.
"If I find out later there's something on my face and you didn't tell me, I will kill you."
"It's nothing like that, it's just that, well, you haven't gone to the Regency Ball in years," Simon finally says.
"So?"
"So, what changed your mind this year?"
I shrug, though my mind whispers, Cassidy Sloane.
As the Americans would say, I owe her "big."
Our performance at the competition went so well that Coach asked Cassidy if she considered doing ice skating as a sport, to which Annabelle tensed.
The wide, feral grin was as Cassidy-esque as her response. "And steal the spotlight from Stinkerbelle and her ice princess? I wouldn't dare."
By the time Dad pulls the car into the parking lot, I am smiling—a rare occurrence. Thankfully, Simon is too distracted looking for his new American girlfriend to ask questions.
"Look!" he says suddenly. His eyes are wide and a crowd has gathered around the entrance. The night is lighted by the bright flashes of cameras.
The American girls and their mothers have gone full out and sprung for a carriage.
Cassidy appears, in a shiny amber dress that brings out the red in her hair. She gathers up her skirts, and I choke back a laugh when I see her sneakers.
Before she can jump, however, I push my way through the crowd and hold out my hand.
Cassidy looks at it like it is a cockroach.
Her lips tug down in a familiar scowl. "You don't have to do this because of the skating competition."
I force myself not to roll my eyes. "I know."
"I don't need help getting out of a stupid carriage."
Because you are used to being Boadicea, independent and free-spirited.
"I know," I tell her. I don't drop my hand.
The evening wind passes with a sigh. Cassidy releases her skirts.
Her grasp is firm. I tuck her hand in the crook of my elbow. In the carriage, her friends openly gape at us.
I can practically hear the uniform thought passing through their minds: Cassidy Sloane doesn't do gentlemen escorts.
Well, the night is young and change is in the air. And as I lead Cassidy into the warm hall of Chawton House, I think quietly to myself, change isn't that bad at all.