She began to see that character is a better possession than money, rank, intellect, or beauty.
—Little Women
Maybe this was Andrea’s version of a time-out, since apparently I’d adopted her as a mother figure. Mean Mommy dropped her truth bombs and then took off so I could reflect on the error of my ways. I’d have to be a lot dumber than she thought I was to miss the run along home theme. Did she really care about my unresolved family issues, or just want me out of her hair?
Something else niggled at me, now that it was too late to argue. I was a loser for being trapped in that Little Women life, but when Andrea used the book to diss me, it was a brilliant insight? It felt like whatever was convenient for her became true, at least temporarily.
None of that changed the fact that I needed to leave, and there wasn’t anywhere to go but home. Now that I’d accepted this reality, the longing to be back in a familiar place was growing stronger by the minute. It would be a relief to feel more welcome than a migraine, despite the humiliation of my big adventure only lasting two days.
I would have headed straight to the airport if not for the small detail that I didn’t have a ticket home. My brilliant plan had been to use some of my earnings (ha!) to pay for my return trip. Unless I could find a fare that cost less than my remaining bank balance, I was going to have to ask one of my parents for help.
Definitely looking forward to that conversation. Hi, it’s me, your selfish jerk of a daughter. No, the other one. Can you give me a lot of money you don’t have because it turns out I’m an idiot?
That was tomorrow’s nightmare. I still had to get through tonight first. Pretending to be asleep so I didn’t have to talk to anyone was probably my best strategy. It took about three minutes to gather my things. In the kitchen I downed some water, carefully washing the glass and putting it back in the cabinet afterward. There was a surprisingly fine line between “polite guest” and “hiding forensic evidence.”
Wandering back into the living room, I took a last look around. Here was a place I would never see again. I tried to picture a different me coming to work here every day for a less hostile Andrea, while dating a not-two-faced version of Hudson.
The door to Andrea’s office was ajar. I drifted in that direction, curious to see where the great reporter did her work. The light spilling in from the living room showed a cluttered desk and a rolling stool. I took another step inside, fumbling for the wall switch.
The first thing I noticed was the couch, clearly the kind that folded out into an actual bed. That must be where favored guests spent the night. Then my gaze landed on the whiteboard next to the desk.
No wonder Andrea hadn’t wanted me to sleep in here.
The board was covered in black-and-white photos. Some I remembered Hudson taking; others were new to me. What they all had in common was that we looked like crap. Amy on the floor with her dress hiked up, flipping me the bird. Meg sprawled across a bed with her friends. Mom with lipstick on her teeth, smiling too big.
Me dripping with pond scum.
Leaning over a giant trash can as if about to dig through it.
Glaring like I was about to cut someone, with a bonnet dangling off the back of my head.
We looked pathetic. A pathetic family.
I heard Hudson’s voice: It was a total freak show. He’d certainly framed it that way.
My brain grasped at excuses. Maybe these were the rejects, the pictures so bad they couldn’t be used. Only why put them on display? Especially right next to the desk, where all Andrea had to do was glance to the side for inspiration. Was this how she saw us too?
Tearing my gaze from the pictures, I grabbed the nearest handful of loose papers from her desk. They were printed with double-spaced type on one side, ballpoint scribbles and strike-throughs littering the lines. On the back of one page was a list of handwritten phrases:
Brittle Women
Middling Women
Illicit Women
Too March, or Not Enough?
Little Women Live! Or Do They?
Louisa, May I?
March Madness
And then, circled in red pen: Belittled Women.
I sifted through more pages, needing to know what kind of story went with those pictures and that headline. Near the bottom of the stack, I found these words:
Like the proverbial preacher’s daughter, the modern-day March girls are desperate to prove they are more than their reputation. Forget Alcott’s prim and proper little women. Conventional morality is a distant dream for these hard-partying, sexually adventurous sisters. Onstage, they simper. Behind-the-scenes, acts of rebellion range from talking back to petty larceny. Even the most fevered work of fan fiction would shy away from the image of Jo March indulging in casual hookups in the front seat of a car.
“No effing way,” I said to the empty room. How dare that little weasel tell his mom about our make-out session. And I was supposedly using him?
It went on. Quotes I was sure had been taken out of context, things I’d said to Hudson when we were alone. Like the pictures, the story was slanted to show my family in the worst possible light. And some of those images were from the very first day, as if they’d already had an angle in mind.
The bad snapshots of me were embarrassing, but the thing that made me want to vomit all over Andrea’s desk was that the worst lines came straight from my mouth. She might have twisted the context, but they weren’t lies. I’d said those things. All the cozy chats, when I thought Andrea and I were bonding? She’d been collecting ammunition.
I’ll lose my mind if I have to stay here forever.
That quote was set off on its own, italicized and underlined.
My mother was going to read this story. Mom, who thought this article was our lucky break. Whose voice I’d just heard in the recording telling Andrea that the thing in her life she was most proud of was Little Women Live!
I had to do something, stop it from coming out. Without realizing, I’d crumpled a page in my fist.
As if I could pull an Amy and burn it all to ash. And then Andrea would turn on her computer and print another copy, because this wasn’t the 1800s. For the first time in my life, I almost wished we were living in Alcott’s world.