It seemed unjust that her few joys should be lessened, her burdens made heavier, and life get harder and harder as she toiled along.
—Little Women
The station wagon had barely stopped moving when Amy jumped out of her seat, not quite shutting the door behind her. She ran up the steps before I could call her back, Meg trailing at a slower pace.
Mom preferred us to park behind the house, where the car wouldn’t destroy the olden-times illusion. Although not actually historic, Great-Aunt Helen’s house was built in a traditional style, with a wraparound porch and a pointy roofline. Between the rattling windows, creaky floors, and front hallway lined with moderately hideous floral wallpaper, the mood was “antique” enough to fool most visitors. I didn’t care how it looked, but it would have been nice to have a bedroom door that closed all the way without me having to throw my full body weight against it.
By the time I rolled up Meg’s window, slammed Amy’s door, and grabbed my backpack, a performance was underway in the kitchen.
“We would have been home sooner, if Jo had bothered to show up,” Amy complained as she dropped into a chair at the small, round table where we ate most of our meals, the dining room being given over to Mom’s sewing projects and stacks of junk mail.
“I told you I had practice,” I reminded the room at large.
“She was off running.” From her tone, you would have thought Amy had found me selling drugs on a playground. “On the bright side, I did give Coach Solter a press release, which Jo had totally forgotten to do.”
Our mother smiled indulgently at Amy. “You know Jo needs to run. She has a lot of energy to burn off, so she doesn’t get fractious.” This was one of many things she believed about me because it was true of rough-and-tumble Jo March in the book.
“That’s not why—”
My protest was drowned out by Amy’s snort. “Doesn’t seem to be helping.”
“Amy,” Mom said, like maybe she was going to tell her off, though I should have known better. “Nice work with the press release. Did you get the rest of them handed out?”
“Yep. Everyone was super excited.”
I cough-snorted as I rummaged through the pantry in search of a snack.
“What?” Amy snapped.
I knew better than to say what I was really thinking, namely: You’re dreaming. “Can there be one small part of my life that doesn’t have anything to do with all this? Running is my thing. It’s private and personal and I’d like to keep it that way.”
“Please. We all know the real reason you started running. Speaking of getting into other people’s private business.” Amy side-eyed Meg, who was staring into the open refrigerator as though memorizing the contents.
It took me a second to realize what she was hinting at. Yes, I’d first gotten into running thanks to David, just like he’d gotten into yo-yo tricks because of me. But I’d kept at it for reasons of my own. Not that I was ready to announce my plan to get a cross-country scholarship, because I hadn’t gotten around to discussing college with Mom. Especially the part where I wanted to go somewhere out of state—which would also mean quitting the show.
“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” I told Amy.
“For your information, I’m the assistant PR director. Mom put me in charge of school outreach. So suck it.”
“Ooooh.” I fluttered my fingers in Amy’s face. “What is that, like assistant to the regional manager?”
“It’s better than being ‘captain’ of the stupid cross-country team. You’re not on a boat, okay? It’s a bunch of dirty people running around like they’re being chased. Woo-hoo.”
“You’d know, being such an athlete.”
“Excuse you, have you ever painted a mural? It’s extremely physical.”
“Have you?”
“Girls!” Our mother clapped her hands. “This is exactly what I wanted to talk to you about.”
“Sailing?” I guessed. “Bad art? People who are about to get bitch-slapped?”
Mom exhaled through her nostrils. “Communication.”
I turned to leave, tucking a box of graham crackers under my arm. “Sounds like Amy’s department. Being the PR queen.”
“Jo.”
Reluctantly, I stopped.
“This is a family business. I want all of us—” Mom glanced over her shoulder, clearly expecting to see Meg. Once again, my older sister had vanished like a passing breeze, though not before leaving an open gallon of milk on the counter next to two boxes of cereal and a splash zone of milky dribbles.
“Well.” Mom rubbed the frown line on her forehead. “I guess we’ll fill her in later.” She patted the back of a chair, beckoning me to sit beside her. “Let’s start the meeting.”
My left eyelid twitched. Why did we have to call it a meeting, like that made it businessy and official, when it was really just three of us sitting in our kitchen on a random afternoon?
“Fill her in on what?” I grumbled, sinking into my seat.
Mom laced her fingers together, resting her hands on the place mat in front of her. Her nails were short and unpainted, and she hadn’t bothered with jewelry or makeup. When not in costume, Mom was like me, a jeans and T-shirt person. Except on the inside, where she lived in a Technicolor fantasyland full of rainbows and magical thinking. “As you know, I’ve been giving a lot of thought to expanding our performance season.”
“What? No, I didn’t know that.” I set down the other half of the graham cracker that was currently turning to wet concrete in my throat.
“I did,” Amy trilled.
“You’re not talking about fall,” I pressed, ignoring my sister. The timing was tight enough with cross-country, since Mom always wanted to keep the show running through Labor Day. As if anyone was that desperate to cap off their summer with a trip to Little Women Live!
“Much sooner than that.” She tapped the table with one finger. “As in, this Saturday.” The smile on her face said, Ta-da! Like I might have been bummed about the wait. “The beginning of a new month is such a hopeful time, don’t you think?”
“It’s April first.”
Mom nodded. “There’s a wonderful synchronicity to it. A preview event on April first, school tours the first of May, and then the regular season kickoff June first.”
“Bada bing, bada boom.” Amy brushed her hands together.
“But it’s April Fool’s. That’s like holding your wedding on Friday the Thirteenth. People will think it’s a joke.” Even more than they do already.
“I don’t see why.” Mom blinked slowly at me, like I was out of focus. “That would be silly.”
“Yeah, that’s—” I blew a breath out the side of my mouth. You had to pick your battles in this family. “I already have plans.”
“Sure you do.” Amy rolled her eyes so hard I was surprised they didn’t clank like bowling balls hitting the gutter.
“I’m signed up for a 5K.” I pointed at the far wall of the kitchen, where a massive calendar displayed all our upcoming appointments. “I wrote it down.”
“Why don’t you do it Sunday?” Mom suggested.
“It’s an event, Mom. With hundreds of people, including my whole cross-country team.”
She sat up straighter, jaw tight. “I’m sorry, Jo, but we’re having our own event, and I need you here.”
“Why? Is one day really going to make that much of a difference?” I didn’t have to mention the word money, because Mom would know what I meant. The bottom line was never far from my mind.
“It’s a media preview.” Each word was enunciated with extra crispness, like it was a spell you had to say just right to make it come true.
“What media? The local paper, circulation twelve? They’ll run the same picture they always do, with a tiny caption, half of which will be misspelled.” Another performance of Little Women Live! wasn’t exactly news; they’d run out of fresh angles years ago.
“Leave that to me,” Mom replied, smiling faintly.
“And me,” Amy added, tapping herself on the chest.
It was impossible to tell whether the weird energy I was picking up meant they were faking it to seem interesting or they were keeping actual secrets. “You’re not talking about that free mailer with the grocery ads that comes out Wednesdays?”
Mom leaned back in her chair, crossing one leg over her knee. “You’ll have to wait and see.”
“Yeah.” Amy cracked open her seltzer, took a long swig, and ripped out a belch before wiping her mouth with her arm.
“You’re a real princess,” I told her.
“I know I am but what are you?” She coiled a strand of hair around her finger, considering it with pursed lips. “Speaking of which, I need a touch-up before the weekend.”
“Seriously?” Between the yellow hair and the orange tint of her self-tanning lotion, she already looked like a human candy corn.
“News flash, some of us care about our appearance. It’s called professionalism.”
“It should be called ‘if you bleach that mess any lighter it’s going to shrivel up and fall off.’”
She made an exaggerated pouty face. “Yeah, I’ll ask for your advice when I want to rock the PE teacher look.”
“Ooooh, solid burn from a person who shampoos with Roundup.”
Mom stretched an arm toward each of us, like we were going to join hands and sing. “That’s enough.”
“Enough peroxide,” I muttered.
Amy threw up a hand in the universal sign for See?
Turning to our mother, I tried to summon my most reasonable voice. “Don’t you ever get the feeling you’re pushing a boulder uphill that’s just going to slide down again?”
Mom frowned at me. “Actually, no, Jo. I can’t say I’ve ever thought of my life’s work that way.”
“But it’s like with the school tours. They’ve all seen the show a million times. Why keep doing it? What’s the point?”
Amy’s mouth fell open in outrage. “Are you trying to ruin my life?”
“Yes. I stay up at night dreaming of ways to torture you.”
“I knew it!”
“Can’t get anything past you.” I gave an oh darn snap.
“Mom!” Amy pointed at me, bouncing in her seat. “She’s doing it again.”
“All right, Jo. That’s enough sarcasm for today,” Mom said.
“Why, are we rationing it now?”
“If only,” she murmured.
I stared at our mother.
“What?” She tugged on the neck of her T-shirt, avoiding my accusatory gaze. “I was just illustrating the point.”
“Which is?” I asked.
“No one likes to be teased.” This platitude was accompanied by a Sunday-school-teacher smile.
Amy stuck her tongue out, which of course Mom said nothing about, because the only real crime in this family was being honest.
Closing my eyes, I rubbed the spot on my forehead where I would almost certainly develop stress wrinkles exactly like our mother’s: three fine horizontal lines, as if she’d run the tines of a fork across her face.
“But we don’t have a Beth yet,” I reminded her.
“We can prop a broom in a corner and call it good.” Amy kicked the floor like a toddler. “Beth is such a waste of space.”
“Nice way to talk about our dead sister, you monster.”
“I’ll show you a dead sister!” Amy lunged at me, but Mom grabbed her by the shoulder.
“Jo’s right,” she said, and my heart lifted with a mix of hope and surprise. “We’ll work around it for now. Focus on our strengths. Of which there are plenty.” Mom winked at Amy, who gave a satisfied hair toss.
Outvoted, again. “So what scene are we supposed to do?”
“Something emotional,” Mom said at once. “Primal.”
“Yes!” Amy pumped her fist. “Go for the juggernaut.”
“Um, try again, loser.”
“You know what I mean, Jo-ker. We’re going to open a vein. Let it bleed.”
“Please tell me you’re not talking about freaking Christmas.”
“Language, Jo. And no. We’ll save that for the schools.” Mom stared dreamily into the distance. “I had something more intimate in mind.”