by Ted Staunton
“Totally,” I say. I hope the camera she’s holding is for me to use. Or maybe Mark will show me how to do sound.
“Well, you sure are a good sport, Spencer.”
“Spencer!” Basil hurries up. He’s with Stef, the short pretty girl who showed up last night, the one with long brown hair. “Thanks so much for this, bud. We have to roll, like, ASAP before we lose the light. Come on in, and we’ll do wardrobe.”
“Wardrobe?”
“Yeah, we talked about this yesterday, remember? When we were watching the rushes. You were good with it. We have the costume right here. You and Stef are about the same size, so it should work great.” He’s got my arm, dragging me into the tent.
“I really, really appreciate this,” Stef says to me. “As an ethical vegan I just can’t do it, you know? It’s like…it’s animal exploitation.” Before I can ask what is animal exploitation, Basil is pulling clothes from a box in a corner of the tent. He holds them up to my shoulders. “Perfect!”
I look down. It takes me a second to realize I’m looking at a long pioneer dress, kind of like Irene Steele’s. “What the—” I splutter. “What are—”
“Lift your arms so it’s easier to put on,” coaches Stef.
I’m too confused to stop myself. “But—” The dress comes down over my head, and for a second everything is a blind tangle. “My glasses,” I yell.
“Hang on, hang on.”
My head pops out, glasses still on. The dress drops to my middle, and then Basil is stuffing my hands in the sleeves and Stef is tugging down the bunched-up material at my waist. She pulls some kind of sash strings and ties them tight behind my back. “Fantastic,” she says. “Look, you can’t even see your shoes. You can keep them on.”
I look down again. My stick legs and monster shorts have disappeared behind a waterfall of fabric printed with little pink flowers. “Ew,” I say. “I didn’t say anything about doing this. I thought—”
“Spencer.” Basil cuts me off. “Spence, buddy. Listen, man. This is our only chance to get this footage, with the reenactors and everything. It’s the key to the whole movie, and you’re our only hope. Stef would do it, but she’s got issues—”
“Ethics, Bas. I’m an ethical vegan.”
“Whatever. Please, Spencer. Nobody will even see your face. No one will know it’s you.”
“But this is so dumb. I don’t look like a girl,” I complain.
“You will in a sec,” Stef says. She straps padding across my ELO shirt and fastens it at my back.
“Aw, come on!” I squirm.
“Hold still,” she orders. “Pull up the top.” She and Basil pull the dress up to my neck. I see it has a frilly white collar and more frills at the cuffs. Stef tugs it tight, and I feel her hooking fasteners up my back. I squirm some more. It doesn’t help. “There,” she says, stepping back to look. “Perfect.”
“It is not,” I say. “It’s stupid. And what about my face? And my glasses? I’m not wearing some dumb wig either.”
“You don’t have to,” says Basil, and he jams a monster bonnet onto my head. He ties the strings under my chin. “Excellent. Your mom wouldn’t even know it was you. We’ll have the cow ready for you in a minute.”
SEVENTEEN
The bonnet has a brim that curves around my face down to my chin. I can’t see anything at my sides, and I can’t hear so great either. It feels as if I’m looking out of a train tunnel. Stef has to steer me a little to get me out of the tent. “Cow?” I’m saying. “What cow?”
Tracey appears in front of me. The camera is on her shoulder. “Wow,” she says. “You look good.”
I remember what I was looking at when I said wow this morning. “I do not look good. I can’t believe I’m doing this.”
“Well, you make a convincing girl.”
I so do not want to hear that, so I pretend I didn’t. “What are they talking about, a cow?”
“You have to lead the cow,” Tracey says. “But don’t worry, it’s not the real cow from yesterday. It’s just two guys in a cow costume. The real one is afraid of gunfire.”
“Gunfire?” I’m afraid of gunfire. “What do I have to do?”
“Didn’t Basil explain? You’re playing Laura Secord. Remember, from yesterday? We need to film Laura walking all around the reenactment, almost like a time traveler. She connects everything together. Stef can do that for us. But first we need the most important part—Laura leads her cow through the smoke of battle as if it’s 1812, and they emerge in the present day. She’s kind of a symbol. You know symbolism?”
I nod. “Like a drummer?”
Tracey looks confused. Then she says, “No, Spencer, not drum cymbals. Symbolism is… never mind. You just have to lead the cow around the reenactor battle. Get in the smoke. Then we’ll put the costume on Stef, and she can do the rest, without the cow. And don’t worry, I’m filming. I’ll never show your face or your glasses.”
“So I just walk around the battle? I sort of hoped I could do some filming today. Or sound.”
“Soon as we’re done these shots, Spencer, I promise you can. Let’s just get this done first. Basil’s right—we really need this. It’s the most important part.”
Mark swings into my tunnel vision, blocking out Tracey. He kneels in front of me and clips something to my dress, near the hem. Then he reaches under the dress and runs his hand up my leg. “Hey!” I jump back.
“Geez, Spencer, hold still.” I feel him fumbling with the pocket near the bottom of my monster shorts. “I’ve gotta get the power pack for the mic in there.” Something heavy bumps the side of my knee. “Bingo. Now don’t trip on the cord, whatever you do.” Mark fumbles at the hem of my dress. My dress? I mean, the dress that I’m wearing. “I’ll just pin it like this. See?” He holds up the fabric. I see the black wire running to the little clip-on mic.
“I have to say stuff too? To way down there? I’ll have to yell, and I don’t sound like a girl. Maybe I should just—”
“You don’t say anything,” Mark assures me. “All I want is your footsteps. Hang on.” He pulls his headphones on over his ballcap and clicks at his little computer. “Okay, walk around for me.”
I walk across the grass. Somewhere behind me a voice screeches, “Help!” I spin toward the tent. Was that Bunny’s voice? Mark calls, “Perfect, Spencer,” and then Basil has my elbow, hustling me away. At least, I think it’s Basil. It’s his voice talking to me.
“But,” I say, “I think I heard—”
Basil keeps talking. “Okay, Spencer, here’s the scene. You’re wandering, in a dream, leading the cow. All around you the War of 1812 is raging, but you don’t hear any of it. You drift through the smoke and the battle. Don’t hurry—try to float along. You can’t rush the cow anyway. It’s really hard for the guys in the cow costume to see where they’re going, so just lead them gently with the rope. Okay, let’s see you float.”
“Huh?”
“Walk for me.”
I do what I’m told. I want to get this over with and get back to look for Bunny. “Hold your dress up a little with one hand,” Basil calls. “No, lower—we can see your runners. C’mon, Spencer, glide. Float for us, baby! Okay, stop!”
Basil runs up to me. “Beautiful.” He points to the open area ahead. Ranks of redcoats and bluecoats are forming on opposite sides. “Okay, the reenactors are setting up there, tourists are on that side only…” He turns me, and I see a crowd already waiting. A bunch of them have cameras set up on tripods. One of them is Tomato Guy. Basil goes on. “Stay away from them. When it starts, you go up this other side, where the fighting will be. Try to get into the smoke, and try not to react to the noises, okay? Remember, it’s a dream. Go slow. Tracey will be shooting with the handheld the whole time, and Mark will be with her. Don’t worry about where she is. When you get to the trees, stay on this side, in the sunlight. It’s too dark to shoot in there. Got it?”
I nod. I still want to find Bun. “Yeah, but I’ve gotta—”
“Gotta what?” says Basil. Before I can answer, he says, “Oh, for sure. The port-a-potties are right over there. We’ve got a good ten minutes to wait.”
Actually, now that I think of it, I do have to go, kind of. I hustle over and join a lineup of redcoats and bluecoats. They’re all joking with each other about aiming high. When one of them says, “Ladies first” to me and lets me go ahead, I don’t bother to argue. Maybe this way I’ll have time to get back and find Bun.
Using a port-a-potty is tricky when you’re wearing a pioneer dress and monster cargo shorts and a clip-on microphone. I remember what Mark said about mics and port-a-potties and keep my mouth shut. When I step out, Mark is waiting. “It’s time.”
EIGHTEEN
The cow is standing by Basil and Tracey. It looks—surprise, surprise—a lot like two guys in a cow costume. Maybe from a distance, with the smoke and everything, it won’t matter. Maybe they can fix it with computers later. Maybe this will make vegans happier. Who knows? It’s not my problem. I just want to do my dream glide, find Bunny and move on.
Tracey hands me the end of a rope tied around the cow’s neck. “Just waiting for the start,” she says.
“Don’t you want to be reenacting?” I ask. “Battles must be the best part.”
“Not really,” she says. “They’re loud and confusing, and everybody argues about who has to die. I’d rather do demonstrations and talk to tourists. But making a movie is more fun than either one.”
Behind me, something clanks. Basil says, “Perfect.” I turn. A black bell is hanging from the cow’s neck. I say to Tracey, “Is that your Laura Secord bell?”
Tracey nods. “I didn’t think Gram would mind as long as we get it back in time for her talk. Maybe it’ll make the cow a little more authentic. Hey, speaking of which, did I see you talking with Hardcore Luther at supper last night?”
“Oh. Yeah. I need to tell you, I don’t think he likes your family very much. He was all worked up about farb stuff and Canadians and especially your gram. I really think he’s going to do something.”
Tracey sighs. “Spencer, this is Luther’s idea of doing something: one time last year he tried to mess up Gram by demonstrating how to load and fire his musket right across from her while she was talking. And he totally blew it because he got four pan flashes in a row.”
“What?”
“A musket fires when a spark strikes a little pan of gunpowder and sets it off. That fires the cartridge. But a lot of times it doesn’t go off. There’s just a flash in the pan and nothing happens. It’s a total drag when you’re demonstrating. So Luther got four misfires in a row. The last try, he was so mad he forgot to do the tap test to make sure he’d taken the ramrod out of the barrel. The musket fired and shot the ramrod right into a tree. Talk about a farb thing to do. He was lucky he didn’t get sent home for that.”
“So he’s really not worth worrying about?” I think about how I spent yesterday evening.
Tracey waves her free hand. “Forget him. Anyway, he’ll be too busy with the battle to think of anything else. He lives for this stuff—or dies for it, actually.”
“Dies for it?”
“Remember I said we argue about who has to die? One of the reasons the other guys put up with Luther is that he’s always up for dying. Most reenactors don’t like taking their turn, ’cause after you go down, there’s nothing else to do. But Luther likes it because he can do a really impressive corpse. He gets all twisty and bloated somehow, and people take his picture like crazy. It’s his thing.”
I’m thinking about dying as a hobby when a phone buzzes. Tracey pulls out her cell. “Hi, Gram.” Then she gets all serious looking. “Yeah, I did. Well, sorry, I didn’t think you’d mind if we used it for…Well, like I said, sorry.”
She’s frowning. I guess I’m not the only grandchild in the world who messes up. She says, “We’ll bring it back as soon—” A cannon goes off, and I almost jump out of my costume. “The what?” Tracey says. Another cannon roars. “Gram, I can’t hear you. We’re starting now. I’ve gotta go. Bye.” She pockets her phone as another cannon fires, and another and another. Tracey steps back and hoists the camera into position. Basil jumps in front of me with a clapperboard.
“Sound,” says Tracey.
“Speed,” says Mark.
Pause. “Mark it,” says Tracey.
Basil cracks the clapperboard. “Drift,” he reminds me, and we’re off.
NINETEEN
I tug on the rope and feel the cow start to move. I can’t see it, but I can hear Laura Secord’s bell clanking, and the rope is easy to pull. Somewhere behind me, I know, Tracey and Mark are following too. Just as I get a good glide going, I hear another phone buzz. Does everyone always call just as a battle is beginning? For a second I imagine a funny movie scene—everyone in an old-fashioned battle stopping to take calls on their cell phones. Then I notice that this phone sounds like mine. Then I remember I have mine. Who’s the only person that would call me now? Grandpa. This is not the time to answer. Anyway, they’re not going to pause the fight while I take a call. Then, ahead of me, a ragged volley of musket fire drowns out my brain and my phone, and BOOM, a cannon drowns out everything.
I feel my heart start to pound. I know it’s a pretend battle, but it doesn’t seem like one. A veil of smoke drifts apart to show a line of redcoats. A couple of soldiers are already sprawled on the ground. I wonder if Luther has died yet. Then I think I hear Tracey. “Go right! To the right!” That will take me behind them. I tug on the rope. The clanking follows me. Ahead, a voice barks an order, and the redcoats aim their muskets. A sword catches the sun.
“FIRE!”
There’s another terrible roar, and flame spits from musket barrels, and I shudder instead of glide as smoke and firecracker stink swallow us. Men cry out. A voice is shouting orders. I’m lost. Stumbling, I look for the trees. There’s too much smoke, and the soldiers fire again, muzzle flashes through the haze, and then I see the trees, with a big dead one in the middle, as the sound of yelling gets louder and metal clashes.
Where are Tracey and Mark? Red and blue shadows flit through the gunpowder fog. I stumble again and jerk on the rope as I go down. I feel the cow stumble too. The guys in the costume must be even more confused than I am. My ears are ringing. Dimly, I can hear yelling. I struggle back up to my feet, tripping on the dress, dragging the cow guys after me. “C’mon,” I shout to them. “We’re almost at the trees.” They’re not much help. I stagger to the trees. From somewhere comes a thudding I can almost feel instead of hear. I spin and glimpse a horse running through the woods. I also see I’m not dragging the cow guys after me—I’m dragging the costume, with nobody in it. “BLEEP!” I yell, except I don’t really yell BLEEP—I yell one of those words I’m not supposed to know. The exact second I do, something knocks me flat.
“BWOOF.” I hit the ground hard. My hands slap the dirt, my glasses and the brim of the bonnet twist across my face, and my knee rams into something hard. For a microsecond, stunned, I wonder if something just punished me for swearing. I try to get up, and I’m knocked flat again. I hear panting and the clank of the bell, then a tearing noise. I roll over and tug the bonnet away from my face. A skinny man with a huge beard and black shades is kneeling, furiously trying to tear Laura Secord’s cowbell away from the empty neck of the cow costume. He’s wearing orange plaid shorts and a tiny straw hipster hat.
“Hey,” I squawk, the strings of the bonnet choking me, “what are you doing?”
He doesn’t even look up, and now, as I push my glasses into place, I see he has a knife in his hand. He’s hacking at the costume with it. I scrabble back from him. Where are Tracey and Mark? Where are the cow guys? What’s going on?
The man rips the head off the cow suit and takes the bell. Then he jumps up and starts to run, the knife in one hand and the bell in the other. As he does, something falls out of the bell.
“Bring that back!” I yell. “That’s Laura Secord’s!” This do
esn’t help. I roll again and grab whatever fell. It’s a lump of something in duct tape. The guy is getting away through the trees. I do the only thing I can. I heave the lump at him.
Maybe I’m desperate, or maybe I’ve somehow learned from Bun’s hatchet toss, but I hit the guy right between the shoulder blades. It’s the best throw of my whole life. He yells, trips and goes down. His hat flies off into the weeds, and he lands on the bell.
I’m up and running at him before he hits the ground. It’s not the fastest run of my life, but hey, running is tough in a pioneer dress and cargo shorts with stuff in the pockets. Then I remember that he has a knife. I stop running.
He groans and rolls over, still clutching the bell to his polo shirt. “Oh…man…” The hand holding the knife goes up to his jaw. “I think…I broke a tooth.” He spits something out. “Awww, I did.” He looks up at me. “You broke my tooth.” The hand with the knife comes away from his face. So does part of his beard. Underneath it is a gigantic red sideburn.
“Luther?” I say. “What are you doing? Put the bell down, Luther, and just get out of here.” I try to make my voice go flat and quiet like Grandpa’s does when he gets mad. Apart from a squeak when I say bell, I think I do pretty good.
I guess Luther doesn’t. He waves the knife. “Get lost,” he snarls. I take a step back. Something bumps my knee and makes it hurt. I must have scraped it going down.
Luther lets go of the bell long enough to push at the fake beard. That makes things worse. Now it’s hanging from one ear.
“C’mon, Luther,” I coax. “Be careful with the bell. It’s not farb.”
“Yes, it is. You don’t even know your own history. I’m getting rid of this garbage.”