Anne’s mother, Guadalupe Maria Concessa Pacheco Escobar—Lupe to her friends—was not much of a reader. She preferred movies, enough to have married renowned Latin film star Mario Pacheco. Despite a general dislike of books and a specific aversion to wrinkles that resulted from concentrating on the written word, Lupe always found time in her busy schedule of spa appointments and shopping expeditions to read from the illustrious Escobar family history. The volume was a thick, heavily bound account of matriarchal exploits that she had commissioned years ago.
Lupe spared no expense, that was for sure.
As Anne stacked handfuls of dusty books into boxes where they would soon be forgotten, she studied her mother, who stood by the library circulation desk of the Jane Austen Academy with the volume of Escobar family history laid before her. Lupe’s cherry manicured fingernail traced the finely stitched spine and stroked the red leather cover. She turned the pages with care, barely pinching each corner before lifting the paper, gentle as air, to float open on the other side.
Something sweet and poignant stirred beneath Anne’s breastbone. Her mother used to braid Anne’s hair with the same reverence. Anne would sit in a high-backed chair as her mother gently raked her nails along her scalp. She’d been easily lulled to sleep by the rhythmic, gentle slip of her mom’s loving fingers along the strands.
This woman, who discarded fur coats as if they were crumpled pieces of trash and tossed aside chandelier necklaces dripping diamonds so that they lay in spilled-over piles on her vanity, used to tousle Anne’s curls and cup her cheeks as though they were precious.
But now it was only this book that Lupe held with the awe usually reserved for the Commandments.
“This isn’t just a book,” her mother had said to Anne many, many times. “This is who we Escobar women are. Pioneers.”
Only, Anne didn’t feel like one of the intrepid women described in the book. She felt small and insignificant and oh so in over her head.
Her great-great-great-great-great-grandmother had left Colombia when she had been the same age Anne was now—seventeen—with no money and no prospects. She’d landed in San Francisco at the start of the Gold Rush. Rather than be tempted by the conquest of the sparkly yellow metal, she had set up a business laundering and cooking for prospectors who couldn’t be bothered to set down their pickaxes long enough to tend to their own comforts. It wasn’t long before she had a stable of workers, all women who came to have more power, money, and independence than most men of the time.
The next Escobar matriarch had funneled her Gold Rush inheritance into railroads, just in time for the Wild West frontier to join the rest of civilized society on iron tracks. Her daughter had founded the Jane Austen Academy near Merrywood, California, a town on the central coast that would become home to future Escobar women. Every woman would hold the mostly honorary position of headmistress and live in the small cottage on the Academy grounds—when she wasn’t busy blazing trails, of course.
Every Escobar woman… until Anne.
The Academy’s finances had run dry under Lupe’s watch, and the property had been sold to developers before Anne could have her chance. Since she had never felt as intrepid as her relatives, had never been driven by their fearless bulldozing ways, a part of her was not surprised that she would be the first Escobar to forgo the honor of serving as the head of the Jane Austen Academy.
Anne acknowledged the irony. The Academy was dedicated to helping young women find their voices. It was even in the motto written in wrought iron over each entrance, in each direction the wind blew.
WE WILL BE HEARD
Yet Anne had spent most of her life feeling muffled and gagged.
As Anne watched her mother flip through the pages of their family history, she knew the book would remain as it had been commissioned, with a final entry detailing her mother’s contribution to the fashion world—a trendsetting ombre double-wrap dress that had been worn by dozens of celebrities, two prime ministers, and the First Lady. Vogue had claimed that the dress “ushered in a new wave of power femininity.” Whatever that meant.
Now the book would be frozen in time with no future Escobar accomplishments worth documenting. Nothing to report, it would imply, of Anne Escobar.
Lupe threw a quizzical look at Anne over her dainty shoulder. “Does Mary have a copy? I should send her one.”
Anne murmured in noncommittal agreement. Her sickly younger sister, Mary, had parlayed her mysterious, ever-changing, but somehow more inconvenient than serious illness into a permanent residence at a fancy Swiss spa instead of in Merrywood. Anne was living proof that it was possible to simultaneously admire and resent someone you loved.
“Will you be sure to pack one up for her?” Lupe asked. “I’m sure they won’t notice.”
They was how her mother insisted on referring to the currently standing Jane Austen Academy Board charged with the preservation of historical Academy resources and the sale or demolition of anything that was left. Her mother had also used the terms vultures, mercenaries, and another choice descriptor she only uttered when she thought Anne wasn’t listening.
The only way Anne placated her mother on their being in charge was by promising that she would oversee the day-to-day operations. Hence… the packing.
Anne set aside a copy of the family history for Mary and went back to loading the remaining books in the Local Histories section. Every volume, except for a select few on loan from local families, was due to be sold. As Anne reached for another set—Chinese Immigration and the Gold Rush—a plume of dust mushroomed in her face. She coughed and waved her hand in front of her nose. Dirt settled into her navy wrap dress—from her mother’s juniors collection—making it the third outfit she had soiled this week while packing and cataloging Academy assets.
She wondered if it was too late to invest in a pair of sweats. Her best friends Ellie and Fanny wore sweats so often they could be mistaken for school uniforms, but she supposed that was the kind of leeway afforded a surfer and a track star. As heir apparent to the Academy and daughter of a fashion icon, it had been important to Anne’s mother that Anne put forward the right appearance at her boarding school. Never a curl of her long, dark hair or a fiber of her neatly pressed clothes was ever out of place.
Not that it mattered anymore.
Yes, sweatpants, Anne decided. Two pairs.
“When are your little friends arriving?” her mother asked, closing the volume gently.
Anne glanced at the gold Elysian mantel clock. The antique item was tagged with a green Post-it note, for sell. Every item in the library, from the shelves to the chairs to the works of art adorning the walls, had been tagged with green or yellow—sell or return. Every item, that is, except those tagged in red. Trash.
“They should be here in a few minutes.”
At least Lizzie, her roommate, would arrive on time to the exact second. Fanny would be a few minutes behind, likely in full sprint. Another quarter hour would yield Kat and Emma, throwing elbows as they vied for most dramatic entrance, which would be wasted on Ellie, who would stroll in at any time, likely by accident, having forgotten she was even supposed to meet them but somehow finding her way there anyway.
Lupe fingered the pearl necklace draped at her collarbone. “It will be so crowded with all of us. Perhaps I should retire. I’ll need my rest before our meeting this afternoon.” Her mother made a distressed clucking noise. Her eyes strained at the temples, and her ruby lips flattened.
Even though Anne had spent all week tagging and packing since her mother couldn’t bear the thought of common movers touching what had been family heirlooms, there was still so much to be done—as evidenced by the piles and piles of books littering the library’s surfaces and floors. Lupe’s normally patrician nose flared at the nostrils as she took in the sight.
“You’ll be fine, Mom.” Anne almost sounded as if she believed it, but the continual breakdown of the Academy would only take more of a toll on both of them. Anne had memories in every square inch of these grounds—many of them with him—Rick. And she knew she would relive each heartbreaking memory of their relationship, the one she had singlehandedly dismantled years ago with much more expediency than she was demonstrating now.
Unfortunately, she hadn’t been able to squash her feelings for him as easily.
“It’s absurd.” Lupe’s hands fluttered as she walked through the library, gently touching and righting the frames and the Tiffany-style lamps. “All this, gone, to make way for a mall? I had thought the developers might build a winery or a museum. But a mall? With florescent lighting and linoleum floors?” She shuddered. “It’s all so common. As if architects don’t care about character anymore. I remember when a building had as much life as the people living within it.”
“No one lives in a mall.” Anne’s attempt at humor was ignored, but it was a safer play than reminding her mother that she had agreed to and signed off on the very absurdity she was lamenting, to ensure she would be able to live in the style to which she had become accustomed.
Her vexed mother pouted as she considered the stained glass windowpanes that looked over the school courtyard. “Where shall we live?”
Anne turned toward her mom expectantly. She had wondered when they would have this discussion—the one upon which her entire life rested. Would they move to Switzerland to join Mary? She doubted it; her mother preferred temperate weather. Would they adjourn to one of their family’s homes in Cartagena or Istanbul? She assumed the houses would have to be sold off to assist with her mother’s living expenses. They had already auctioned their Merrywood properties, which dashed all her hopes of staying in California.
But hope she did. She hoped, oh, she hoped. “Wouldn’t you love to find a small place here, Mom? You know how much you love the weather.”
“Why must we declare a home at all? It’s so last century, having a home. We have many homes. Couldn’t we live in all of them, going where we pleased?” Her mother turned away from the window, her smile stretched wide across her cheeks. “We’ll breakfast in Paris and lunch in Florence if we like. Isn’t it freeing, not having to worry about the Academy?”
It was, in some respects. Anne had spent her entire life worried about the Academy when her heart’s desire lay somewhere else. But not having a home, a place that bound her mother like a string to draw a wayward, wandering bird back to its perch, worried her more. “We could move around—for a bit. But for the long term, doesn’t it make sense to stay in one place? For my school, and eventually for college.”
“College?” Lupe’s mouth moved around the word as if it were in a foreign language. “Why would you want to attend college?”
“Well, because…” Anne picked at a loose thread of her navy-blue tights. “If I’m not to be headmistress, couldn’t I be something else?”
“That’s what I’ve been telling you, dear. You can be anything else. Live anywhere. Why would you want to go to college? Do you think Estella Escobar needed college when she set out for San Francisco? Did Melanie Escobar need an education to know railroads were the wave of the future? Did my mother need a university professor to educate her in the wisdom of investing in Silicon Valley?”
Anne’s hands tightened into fists against her thighs. Her voice was a whisper. “But I’m not like them, Mom.” She didn’t even want to be like them.
“Mi’ja, look at me, look at me.” Lupe crossed the library, and for a moment, Anne thought her mother would cradle her head like she used to. But instead, she stood stiffly in front of Anne. “If you want to go to university, of course you should. Four years to explore to your heart’s content. The very best. Yale?” She turned sharply, her hands slicing the air. “No, Connecticut seems so dreary. We should find the best in New York.”
“Wouldn’t it be better if we stayed in Merrywood? If we lived in Manhattan, then all your friends would be the same as we are. But here, people look up to you. They respect you.”
Her mother tapped a painted fingernail against her chin. “I am a blessing to the community.”
Anne winced. She hoped her mother never expressed such sentiments out loud to others.
“I suppose Stanford would do,” Lupe said on a sigh.
“Yes, Stanford would be nice,” Anne allowed. “But I was also considering going north. To UC Davis.”
“A state school?” Her mother bellowed the words with the same indignity as she might state penitentiary.
“A highly rated state school,” Anne said. “And isn’t the point of attending college to be exposed to different people and their experiences?”
Her mother shook her head, concern etched on her brow. “If you go to university at all, it will be to solidify your position among the future leaders and thinkers who will mold the very world we live in.”
That had always been the problem with being an Escobar. Escobar women changed the face of the world with their exploits and the place of women within it by bringing their experience and mentorship back to the girls of the Academy. Whereas Anne just wanted to help animals—and not even on a grand, global scale. One by one, she wanted to hold each broken, furry little creature in the palm of her hand and make it whole again.
She’d known it since the first day she’d met Rick. The wonder of that day—of meeting him, of realizing what she wanted to do with her life—still burned brightly within her. It had taken more than a year for their friendship to blossom into romance, but the change had crept up on them so naturally she knew they must have loved each other from the start.
Maybe that was why she’d had such a hard time letting go of him, even though they’d broken up years ago. It would mean she’d let go of everything from that day, including the dream that she kept branded on the inside, against her ribs, where no one could see it.
As Anne had predicted, her roommate Lizzie was the first to arrive, just a few moments after Anne’s mother left. Upon walking into the library, Lizzie craned her neck, hands on her hips. Her gaze slipped over the green and yellow tags. Her brown eyes were heavy with tears, but she blinked them away before they fell to her cheeks. By the time Lizzie’s gaze met Anne’s, she’d restored her take-charge expression.
“Where do you need me?”
“Anything green should be packed for sale. Anything yellow is on loan and should be returned to its owners.” Anne gestured to the empty boxes with open flaps next to the circulation desk. “Wrap any delicate items in newspaper.”
“And the rest of it?” Lizzie asked.
Anne waved a red post-it. “Goes down with the rest of the building.”
Lizzie’s gasp was barely louder than her expression of horror.
“It’s not much,” Anne said quickly. “If it isn’t nailed down, trust me, the Board will try to sell it.”
Lizzie shook her head angrily as she pulled three hardbound books from the nearest shelf, stalked to one of the boxes, and dropped them inside with a loud thunk. They worked quickly and in silence, but with each whack of books landing in boxes, Lizzie’s shoulders rose up until they tensed at her ears. It was a look Anne recognized well after eight months of rooming with her—the one she got right before a rant.
“This feels like quitting,” Lizzie said finally, with another whack of books. “It is quitting. Generally quitting feels like quitting, so that’s why this feels like quitting. Because we quit.”
“We didn’t quit.”
“We shouldn’t have given in so easily.” Whack.
Anne laughed. “You think this year was easy on us?”
Her friend stared at her, silent. Sometimes looking at Lizzie felt like looking in a mirror that reflected back the very best she could become. Both girls had long brown hair to their shoulders and dark eyes, but Anne had always wished for Lizzie’s posture and confidence. The way she held herself so that everyone looked to her. Not because she was beautiful and popular like Emma, or talented and semi-famous like Kat. Lizzie held every eye in the room because her expression held the sheer promise of greatness. If you trusted anyone to lead you, it would be Lizzie.
Lizzie crossed the library toward Anne, eyes blazing with determination. “I should have kept protesting or done more media appearances. Maybe if we tried another staged protest. Maybe if we threatened—”
“How will you become president if you’re on record as a domestic terrorist?”
Lizzie crinkled her nose. “I hate failing.”
“Good thing this isn’t about your feelings.”
The two girls, once enemies and now friends, stared at each other for a split second before they let out short laughs. Lizzie turned to the nearest shelf, grabbed another handful of books, and set them in a box. “Enough about feelings. Get to work. You better not make me do all your packing.”
Anne grinned. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
They made fast work of the shelves and turned their attention to the paintings and fixtures.
Lizzie turned to Anne and crinkled her brow. “Did your mom say anything about where you’re going to live?”
“She mentioned a few places.”
“Do you like any of them?”
“What’s not to like about tropical beaches and international capitals?”
“That bad, huh?”
Anne carefully wrapped a small butterfly painting in newspaper. “I shouldn’t complain. At least we’ll have a home.”
Lizzie rolled her eyes. “Doesn’t being a martyr get old? Why don’t you stand up for yourself for a change?”
Anne bit her tongue and tasted blood.
“Sorry,” Lizzie mumbled finally. She wrapped a cord around a glass Tiffany pinecone lamp and covered it with enough newspaper and duct tape to survive a drop from space. “I didn’t mean for it to come out that harsh.”
Anne shrugged off the comment, but felt the sting of it beneath her sternum. It wasn’t as though she wanted to be a martyr. It wasn’t as though she got some kind of twisted enjoyment out of being miserable. She’d tried challenging her mother many times before.
When she was eight, she had asked for a dog. She’d begged and begged, even while her mother said no, and when Lupe finally relented, Anne had been overjoyed. Until her puppy sent Mary into asthmatic shock. “See,” her mother had said as Anne kept watch over Mary’s hospital bed, petrified of the tubes and needles and vials that poked and prodded her sister to keep her breathing. “This is what happens when you don’t listen to your mother.”
When she was nine, she’d wanted to visit her father over the summer in Bogotá. Her mother had cried herself sick over sending her away. The constant calls and check-ins had finally made her father frustrated enough that he’d sent Anne back after only four days. She had expected her mother to pamper and primp her upon her return, only to be ignored in favor of the “once-in-a-lifetime opportunity” to cook with some renowned French chef.
When she was ten, it had been riding lessons. The pony had not fared well.
When she was eleven, a pop concert. It ended up cancelled entirely, and it felt as though the thousands of girls who had traveled from afar knew the blame lay at Anne’s feet.
By the next year, she’d stopped fighting her mother. It was easier to give in. Kinder to let her mother have her way. Anne slept better. They fought less.
Then she’d met Rick.
Maybe she’d always known her mother wouldn’t let her have Rick. Maybe that was why she’d never asked. She’d kept him a secret when they had started being friends and that friendship had bloomed and blossomed into something more and then something more.
But then one day he wasn’t a secret any longer, and instead of fighting her mother, instead of standing up for herself and for Rick, she had let him slip away.
She realized it had been a few minutes since she’d heard a whack from Lizzie’s side of the library. She lifted her head. Lizzie was standing at the circulation desk where her mother had stood minutes ago. She was flipping through the pages of a hardback, but Anne couldn’t see the title, so she walked over and stood by her friend.
Lizzie closed the book to reveal the cover: an image of a big-screen television set up on the beach in front of a crashing wave. She didn’t recognize the title or the author.
“I wrote my freshman thesis on this book,” Lizzie said. “The book that redefined how I approached journalism, and they’re going to sell it.”
“You could always buy it,” Anne said.
Lizzie reached over the desk to grab a pad of Post-it notes—red ones. She ripped off the top one and slapped it on the cover.
“Red?” Anne asked. “That’s for trash.”
“Not anymore. Now it’s for steal.”
At that moment, Fanny ran into the library as if she’d come straight from the track. Her black hair was gathered in a high ponytail that swished like a pendulum as she jogged inside. She flipped the buds out of her ears and stuffed them in the pockets of her running shorts. “What did I miss?”
Lizzie tossed her the pad of red Post-it notes, which Fanny caught single-handed.
“Slight change of plans,” Lizzie said.
* * *
All the girls were finally gathered in the library around the circulation desk. Lizzie had quickly taken charge by handing them each a red Post-it note and with no preamble, declared, “Everyone, come up with something to steal.”
“You can’t make us steal something,” Emma said.
“Make you?” Lizzie rolled incredulous eyes. “Don’t you want to steal something? Have you seen what’s happening to our school? Room by room, every piece of furniture and artwork, and even every book, is being disassembled and sold. That’s what the green tags mean. And the money from those sales? Back to the company that is tearing down our school and putting in a mall.”
The girls were no strangers to Lizzie’s impassioned speeches, and they knew that once she got going there would be no stopping her.
Lizzie looked slowly from one girl to the next. “We were supposed to graduate from the Academy. We were supposed to have another year of memories—our senior year—and it’s been stolen from us. Don’t tell me there isn’t something you want to keep. Some token, some little piece of this school you can’t bear to leave behind. It’s simple. They are taking the Academy away from us, but we’re going to keep one little piece of it for ourselves. So think long and hard about what you want to take with you.”