Growing Up Berkeley: Changes and Choices

By Felicity Nisbet

At that critical juncture in a teenage girl's life, when she is about to enter high school and has fallen in love for the first time, Lilly Autumn Matthews' life suddenly changes in unexpected ways. She realizes that she needs to make some changes of her own. Otherwise, in the words of Bob Dylan, she is in danger of sinking like a stone. Or, as her hippy best friend, Hope, warns her, if she doesn't learn to speak up, according to Simon and Garfunkel, she could become an island. Or worse, she could be swept away in silence. For a shy person, speaking up to defend your rights after your grandmother moves in and you're forced to share a room with your French fashion freak sister, let alone having to make new friends because your one and only best friend is moving away, is a challenge. But when Lilly writes her first high school history report on the 1964 Free Speech Movement that took place twenty-one years ago at Cal Berkeley, only two miles from her house and in which her parents participated, she finds the courage to stand up for herself and for who she is. It might be the mid-eighties, but Lilly is determined to be as tough and as outspoken as the youth of the sixties.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Felicity Nisbet
• Release date: Jan 12, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005273859

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GROWING UP BERKELEY: Changes and Choices

Young Adult Fiction

By Felicity Nisbet

©2016-2021 by Felicity Nisbet

Published 2018 by Felicity Nisbet

Cover Image by Jule

First Edition published 2016 by Fiction Works

Second edition published 2018 by Felicity Nisbet

Third edition published 2021 by Felicity Nisbet

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced without written permission, except for brief quotations to books and critical reviews. This story is a work of fiction. Characters and events are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Chapter 1

MY NAME IS LILLY AUTUMN MATTHEWS. I was born and raised in Berkeley, California.

Apparently Berkeley is an unusual place to be born and raised. I wouldn’t really know because I’ve never lived anywhere else. All I know is that it’s a pretty cool place to live. It has a lot of old character houses and trees. And hills to hike in. My sister Summer likes the stores and cafes and theaters. I like the parks, especially one park in particular. Strawberry Canyon. That’s on the Cal Berkeley campus.

That’s the other reason Berkeley is a cool place to grow up. Cal. My father says Cal is a forward thinking university. It has a history of attracting students who think for themselves, have strong opinions, and stand up—or sit down—for what they believe in like freedom of speech and civil rights. Unfortunately, living two miles from the campus doesn’t guarantee that those qualities will rub off on someone. At least they sure don’t seem to have rubbed off on me. But that could change.

My best friend Hope says it’s time I stand up for myself. She says it doesn’t matter which thing on my long list I stand up for, just as long as I stand up for myself. She’s been saying that forever. When I was eight and she was nine, she thought I should have been able to get a Barbie doll even though she thought they were kind of gross. She and my mother agreed on that. But, despite my right to choose how to spend my allowance, my mother decided that I wasn’t allowed to have one. She says that dolls like that give girls an unrealistic idea of what they should look like when they grow up, and that they promote an unhealthy body image. While I agree with her now, I sure didn’t back when I was a kid.

Hope also thinks I should get to choose my activities. She says I shouldn’t have to take dance classes if I don’t want to. Which I don’t, but I’m stuck with them when I’d much rather be practicing soccer. I’ve decided to make that my goal—no pun intended—this summer. To stand up for myself. I have no idea how or when it will happen. But I’m determined it will. However, since summer is almost over, it has to happen soon.

But hey, if I live in a town where the college kids stand up for what they believe in, a town where they fought for the right to speak, and for civil rights, I can fight for myself, can’t I? Except that those things happened back in the sixties when kids were tougher. At least they sure seemed like they were. Or maybe they just cared more. They were united. And not afraid to fight. But this isn’t the sixties. This is the eighties which are nothing like the sixties.

But seeing as how I live just two miles from the campus and seeing as how my best friend is just like a hippy straight out of the sixties, some of it should have rubbed off on me. Shouldn’t it?

I walked into the hallway and turned and looked back at the sign on my bedroom door. Lilly’s Room .I remember when I made that sign and taped it to the outside of my door. I was six years old. I had just learned how to spell the word, room. The writing wasn’t so great, but what do you expect from a six-year-old? The funny thing is, no matter how much my writing improved, I could never bring myself to make a new sign. Not even in sixth grade when I changed the spelling to Lilli which I decided was much cooler. That only lasted for a year. Or maybe it was a month. Probably because I kept forgetting and writing it with a y at the end instead of an i. I remember my mother heaving a big sigh of relief when I announced at the dinner table one night that I was going back to Lilly with a y. She made some rude comment about being glad that phase was over. It made me feel kind of bad, like she hadn’t taken me seriously. It almost made me change my mind and keep spelling it with an i. But I didn’t.

I smiled at the sign. I was a proud little kid when I hung it up. I didn’t notice that one o was half the size of the other o. Or that the r was backwards. All I saw was a work of art. I had written the year in the lower left corner: 1977. Almost a decade ago. There was a tiny unicorn that looked more like a really fat horse at the beginning and a beautiful rainbow at the end and a flower in place of the apostrophe. A masterpiece. Especially because it had been hanging on the door of my bedroom for all these years.

It was a nice room. Even if I’d had a choice, I’d have chosen this room. Summer’s is bigger, but this room is special. The sun shines through the trees, glistening in the window. A sliding glass door leads to a deck with a view of the Golden Gate Bridge from one side and the Cal Berkeley Campanile from another. It’s been my bedroom since I was born fourteen years and nine months ago.

Lilly Autumn Matthews! Aren’t you finished with that room yet? Mom.

I snapped the vacuum cleaner cord into place and pulled it into the hallway. I was just about to answer, but stopped when I heard my dad trying to calm her down. I leaned against the upstairs railing and eavesdropped, something I happen to be very proficient at.

I can’t understand what’s taking Lilly so long to clean out that room!

I know you’re upset, Abby, but don’t take it out on the girls. Everything is going to be okay.

Is it? Is it really, Jim? My mother’s voice was bordering on hysteria, kind of like the mothers you see in the movies after they’ve had too much to drink and have just found out that their husbands are cheating on them. Only my mother hadn’t been drinking, and my father hadn’t cheated on her.

Of course it is, my dad said. My optimistic dad.

I wish I could believe that. And my pessimistic mom.

We’re doing the right thing, Abby.

I know we are. I’m just not sure I can live in the same house with my mother again. She can be so difficult. And we never really got along—not since I was sixteen years old. Or fifteen even. Hell, maybe it was fourteen. I just don’t know how—

Usually I’m on my dad’s side. It doesn’t really matter what it is. I just always take his side. Dad and I are really close. We always have been. I even started playing soccer because he used to be a soccer player. But right now I was leaning towards Mom’s side. I was having trouble seeing how things could be as okay as Dad was trying to make them sound. I didn’t think they’d be as bad as Summer expected them to be, but still—there is nothing great about losing my bedroom—my privacy—my sanctuary. And sharing a room with Summer? Summer and I are as different as soccer and chess.

Eavesdropping again? Speak of the devil.

I turned and glared at my big sister. Sneaking around again?

I wasn’t sneaking. If you hadn’t been so busy eavesdropping, you’d have heard me.

It must be contagious. Mom’s been yelling all day, and you’ve been—

What! What have I been? she snapped. Her face was all scrunched up like it gets when she’s mad. If she ever looked in the mirror when she’s mad, she’d never let herself get mad like that again. She’s way too vain to let herself look anything but pretty. Actually beautiful is more like it. It’s something everyone agrees on. Even me.

Like what, twerp? What were you going to say?

I resisted grabbing a mirror and sticking it in her face. Instead, I just said real quietly, Like that.

Oh. She just shrugged and leaned back against the railing beside me. Well, what do you expect? I suppose you’re happy about the changes that are being forced down our throats. Everything’s going to be different now, you know. I suppose you’re going to say we should try to make the best of the situation.

I wasn’t going to say that. I’m not any happier about this than you are, but at least we could try to—

Don’t be so naïve, Miss Bluebird of Happiness. We’re dealing with something we have no control over. Grandma’s moving in for one thing. Mom’s mood for another.

Yes, but it could be fun if we try to get along.

Give it up, Lilly. I’m sick of your constantly trying to make everything better than it is. Our lives are in for a major change and there’s not a thing you can do about it! She swung her head and her soft brown wavy hair flew out to the side, landing perfectly in place down her back. She grabbed the telephone from the banister and walked down the hall to her room. Without turning to look at me, she yelled, If you think there’s any way to make the best of sharing a room with my little sister, you’re crazy!

I blinked and swallowed really hard. Maybe she was right. Maybe things were going to be as bad as she thought they were.

Chapter 2

I STOOD IN FRONT of Lilly’s Room, staring. Gently tugging on the top left-hand corner of the fading work of art, I removed it from the door. I walked down the hall to Summer’s room, holding my sign for courage. Remembering how proud I’d been when I first made it gave me courage. I reached up to knock on Summer’s door. My hand froze in place. So much for courage.

There was no sign on Summer’s door. No Summer’s Room or Summer Rain Matthew’s Room. Nothing to indicate that it belonged to her. She probably thought it was tacky to put your name on your door like your door didn’t know who it belonged to or like everybody living in the house didn’t know who it belonged to. She was probably right. But I didn’t care. I was good with tacky.

I stood and stared at the rich grain of the wooden door. I was so close I could smell it. It smelled like old wood, comfortable wood, wood that had been there for so long it knew where it belonged.

It belonged on the entrance to Summer’s room. Only it wasn’t just Summer’s room anymore. It was my room too. My bed was already there to prove it. So, why was I having trouble knocking on the old wood door? And why did I think I had to knock in the first place?

I knocked anyway. I didn’t want to give Summer a heart attack or anything. She wasn’t exactly used to the idea that her little sister would be coming and going from this room as freely as she did. I wondered how long it would take for me to get used to it myself.

I knocked again before opening the door and stepping into Summer’s jungle of designer clothes and French magazines. The only thing that wasn’t covered with Summer-junk was my bed, my neatly-made, immaculate bed.

I walked over to the window. The view of the bridge is better than it is from my room, but you can’t see the Campanile. But you can see the tree-lined street below. I decided that would make up for it, especially in September, which was just around the corner, when the trees are their prettiest.

Autumn is my favorite time of year, and not just because that’s my middle name. Actually, I’m pretty sure it’s my middle name because I was born in autumn. Just like Summer was born in summer. Real clever, Parents. But, they had an excuse. They lived in Berkeley in the sixties. And went to Cal. In other words, they’re genuine, authentic hippies. At least they used to be.

But that’s not why I love autumn. I love it because of the breezes that blow really gently and make the air feel fresh and clean. And the changing colors of the trees. The piles of fallen leaves. And school.

I know most kids hate fall because it means school is starting up. I guess that makes me a little weird. I like school. Especially this year because I’m going into ninth grade. High school. The best part is that I’ll be at the same school as my best friend Hope who is a year older than I am.

Hope doesn’t care that I’m a year younger than she is. She’s never cared. That’s one of the reasons I love her so much. She doesn’t care a whole lot what anyone thinks. I could use some of that not caring. Unfortunately it hasn’t rubbed off on me yet. It’s taking long enough. Hope and I have been best friends since we were babies. We were in the same toddler group, the same nursery school, then the same elementary school and junior high school until she went off to the high school without me. Not only that but my mom and her mom are best friends, and Summer and Hope’s sister Willow are best friends. In other words, we didn’t have a whole lot of choice. But I think we would have been best friends even if we went to different schools and our mothers and sisters hated each other.

Summer doesn’t understand how we can be friends. She thinks Hope is much more mature than I am. Summer thinks everyone is more mature than I am. It’s not like she thinks I’m disgusting or gross or anything. Maturity just happens to be a big thing with her. And she and I just happen to see maturity as two different things. She thinks it’s refinement and sophistication. Her words, not mine. Even at sixteen, she’s into very mature magazines. The French designer kind. If it’s not French, it’s not worth talking about. That’s probably because she’s studying French, and she just happens to be a genius at it. She even takes French with the seniors because she’s so advanced. She can really be obnoxious about it too. And I’m her little sister who doesn’t speak any French. Just one of the many reasons she thinks I’m immature.

But I think the real reason she thinks I’m so immature is because I play soccer. To Summer all sports are stupid and immature. Other than that, my sister’s really not so bad.

It helps to know why she hates sports. She couldn’t throw or kick a ball if her life depended on it. Besides, her spare time is taken up with dance classes, another thing she’s an expert at. I guess it’s an even trade. I may be a disaster in ballet slippers, but I’m a genius in cleats. Slight exaggeration. But I’d much rather be a good soccer player than a good dancer.

That’s the other reason I’m especially looking forward to school starting. And why I can’t wait to go to high school. Sean O’Brien. My Irish soccer player. He’s been at the high school for three years now. That means he’s a senior. Even older than Summer.

I haven’t told anyone about him except Hope. She’s the only one I can trust. My parents would disapprove because I’m still only fourteen. Summer would laugh at me. Big time. But I don’t care what they think. Hey, maybe Hope is rubbing off on me after all. Except that I don’t care what they think just as long as they don’t find out that I have a crush on a seventeen-year-old senior who just happens to have the cutest Irish accent I’ve ever heard. Not that I’ve heard a lot of Irish accents, but I know his is the cutest. And not just that, but he’s the most fantastic soccer player in the world. At least in my world.

I met him last summer at Strawberry Canyon where a bunch of kids get together to scrimmage on Sunday mornings. My soccer has improved a hundred times over since I met Sean. One of these days he’ll notice that. One of these days he’ll notice me.

So, I can dream, can’t I?

I turned away from the window and was hit with reality. This was not going to be easy. The walls were covered with framed dance posters and Degas prints of ballerinas. The dying swan over my bed definitely had to go. I carefully tacked Lilly’s Room in its place. Perfect. My own little corner of the world.

What do you think you’re doing!

I almost swallowed the thumbtack I was holding between my teeth. Where did you come from? I stared at the pile of clothes on Summer’s bed, wondering how I’d missed her.

I fell asleep, she grumbled. She sat up and stared at me. I hope you’re not seriously considering putting that sign on my bedroom wall.

It’s my bedroom too.

Don’t remind me. Put my Degas back.

No way. I refuse to have ballerinas dancing above my head when I’m trying to sleep. They’ll give me nightmares.

Don’t be childish. Put it back!

Rather than argue, I ignored her.

She sprang off her bed with twice her usual speed. Take it down or I’ll tell Mom.

I have rights too you know. I placed the other thumbtack securely in place.

We’ll see about that. She stomped out the door and yelled over the hall railing. Mooom! Lilly’s taking down the dance prints you gave me! She’s putting up some juvenile sign!

Talk about juvenile. Summer’s voice had regressed to a five-year-old’s.

I stepped back and admired the sign.

Lilly, I’m warning you—

What’s wrong? Didn’t Mom side with you for a change? Summer has Mom wrapped around her little finger. I recognized that fact a long time ago. I always figured it was because Summer came along first. Her love child, I call her, because she loves her more than anyone else in the world. Including her second child.

Mom said she’d be up in a minute. Really, Lilly, I can’t believe you’d even want to keep that ancient sign. It looks like a child made it.

A child did make it, I said proudly.

What’s the problem, girls? Mom appeared in the doorway.

Lilly’s taking down the prints you gave me for Christmas when I was twelve.

Why?

Because I don’t want ballerinas on my side of the room.

She wants to put up her stupid sign that she made when she was a baby. Really, Mom, I couldn’t stand it.

Lilly, these prints are so nice.

I’m just taking down one! Isn’t it enough that I have to lose my room? Do I have to give up my identity too? I could play this game as well as the next guy. Or at least my mother and sister.

Mom sighed, and I could see how exhausted she was. Can’t you girls work this out?

Obviously not, Summer said. I refuse to have that juvenile sign up in—

It’s my bed! I can put any sign I want over it!

Stop it! Both of you! I mean it! I swear Mom was on the verge of totally losing it lately. Lilly, go finish cleaning out your room.

But, Mom—

Now! We will settle this later.

She obviously didn’t have the energy to deal with it, and I didn’t have the heart to push her.

Lilly’s Room in hand, I went back to my room and stuffed my empty ring box and an unopened bottle of perfume into my dresser drawer. Dad would help me move the last of the furniture.

I walked over to the corner where my soccer cleats hung from a hook. I’d screwed in that hook myself. It was six years ago when I really got serious about playing soccer. I ran my hand across the smooth leather shoes. Then I tossed them into a basket with my old, beloved soccer ball. The ball was frayed on all but one side, but I was too sentimental to part with it.

I put Lilly’s Room and a few more memories into a box with my soccer trophies.