“How beautiful.” I sighed happily and turned to Garrett. “This is everything I ever dreamed of.”
“A bunch of historians playing dress-up?” he teased.
“No, you idiot.” I smacked him lightly. “This . . . this lost world, this other time that I thought I’d only ever read about or see in movies. But now I feel like I’m really here. Somewhere impossible.”
“And how does it measure up?”
I looked up at him. “It’s better than I imagined.”
“Let’s dance!” Dev shimmied. “Come on, come on, let’s tear it up in here! We’re gonna party like it’s 1799! Woot woot!”
“Ooh, yes please.” I took his hand. “Garrett? You coming?”
“Uh, no.” He adjusted his glasses. “Definitely not dancing.”
“Oh, come on, don’t be lame,” I wheedled. “Maybe later?”
“Maybe later,” he agreed, but I sort of doubted he meant it.
“Well, I can’t wait for later!” Dev cried. “Away we go!”
Dev and I hopped onto the end of some sort of reel-type dance, as Garrett went off, probably in search of the punch bowl or something equally antisocial. Neither Dev nor I really had any idea what we were doing, but we tried to follow the rest of the couples. And as always, we compensated for our lack of skills with enthusiasm and flair.
“Jazz hands, Libby! Jazz hands!” Dev shouted during a rigadoon. Yes, we certainly had a style all our own. Three minuets later I was almost ready to see if I could coax Garrett into dancing, when . . .
“You!” Ashling shrieked, barreling down on me, every flounce on her beribboned ball gown aquiver with rage, and towing a skinny, gangly guy in glasses. “Look what your influence has wrought!”
I followed her pointing finger to the corner of the ballroom, where Suze and the Dread Pirate Travis, for once not looking ridiculous but rather very dashing in his costume, were vigorously making out.
“Awesome!” I shouted. “You go, girl!” Yeah, I can’t pull that off. But I meant it.
“This is all your fault!” she said.
“I wish I could take credit for this, but I really had nothing to do with it.” This was so out of left field, I think the only person to blame was Cupid. That sneaky little devil.
“Princess, can we please dance this minuet?” the gangly guy interrupted.
“Why, Martin Cheeseman, as I live and breathe!” I exclaimed with delight. “I was beginning to think you were a myth!” It must have been him. I mean, who else could it have been?
“No, I am no mythological beast! Neither nymph nor satyr I, merely a mortal LARPer,” he said with a grin.
“LARPer?” I asked.
“Live Action Role Play,” he explained excitedly. “Oh, you’ll like this. Working at a living history museum and all. And we’re always looking for more girls! Have you heard of the Alliance? We are one of the largest medieval live-action fantasy role-play games in the Americas, dedicated to recreating the Days of Legend as we would like them, not as they actually were, per se—”
“What did I tell you about talking to her?” Ashling hissed.
“But, princess . . .”
“We’re going. Now,” she snapped, and dragged him away. Martin Cheeseman waved at me as he disappeared into the crowd. Poor guy. He seemed pretty nice. Dev had run away the minute Ashling showed up, still slightly shell-shocked from his stint on the steps, so I was now surrounded by strangers. I scanned the crowd, wondering if I could coax Garrett into dancing now. But the only person I recognized was Neil, two heads taller than everyone else, doing a stately gavotte with one of the marine biologists. To get a better view, I climbed the first several steps of the grand staircase leading up to the second floor of the house and looked out over the revelers.
A telltale whistle caught my attention.
“Well, get a load of you.” Cam whistled again. “Libs, you take my breath away.” He bowed, then walked up to join me at the foot of the stairs. Devastatingly handsome as always, he was dressed as a naval officer, in a navy jacket with epaulets and red trim. A tricorn hat with red, white, and blue cockades perched at a rakish angle on his thick blond hair. More so than ever, he was Prince Charming come to life. If I hadn’t felt like Cinderella before, I sure did now. I stepped down to the bottom step, and he kissed my hand. “Care to join me for a turn around the garden?” he asked as he offered his arm gallantly.
“Oh, can we dance first?” I asked.
“Come on, don’t you want to see the garden?”
“Well, of course, but maybe we could go later? Like when the quartet is taking a break?” I suggested.
“Libs, I need to talk to you,” he said, eyes shining sincerely. “It’s really important.”
“Well . . . okay,” I acquiesced. “If it’s really important.” He did look really concerned.
“It is.” He took my arm and led me out to the garden.
The large French doors that led from the ballroom to the terrace were open. A few people milled around the flagstones, clutching punch glasses and laughing softly. Cam led me off the steps, away from the terrace, and down a hedgerow.
“Somewhere . . . a little more private,” he muttered distractedly.
We took a turn and ended up in an abandoned patch of shrubbery, where Cam promptly stuck his tongue down my throat.
“What are you doing?” I pushed him off, surprised. What was going on? He’d said he wanted to talk. And I still wanted to dance.
“Come on, Libs, you know what I’m doing.”
“You said we needed to talk.” I pushed my hands against his chest, keeping him at arm’s length.
“Isn’t this more fun than talking?” he asked mischievously, and tried to kiss me again.
“Seriously, Cam.” I turned my face away. “Let’s go back inside. I want to dance.”
“No!” he said harshly, grabbing my wrist.
“Ow, Cam, stop, you’re holding too tight.”
“Then stop fighting me and come here,” he said imperiously, all traces of playfulness gone from his voice. When I tried to pull away, he yanked me back into him and kissed me roughly.
“Cam, seriously, get off of me!” As we struggled, I toppled out of my left shoe. Breaking free, I abandoned the shoe and ran unevenly through the damp grass, hobbling deeper into the garden. In any circumstances, Cam was much faster than me, and now that I was minus one shoe, he caught up almost instantly.
“Stop playing hard to get, Libby.” He grabbed my arms so tightly, I could feel bruises forming.
“I’m not playing hard to get! Please, Cam, please let me go. You’re hurting me,” I whimpered.
“Libby! Libby! Are you all right?” Garrett called from somewhere in the distance. “I found your shoe!”
“Come on, you’ve been practically begging for it all summer, running around in those slutty outfits—”
“That was my uniform! For my job! That wasn’t me—that was all Roger!” I said desperately.
“Yeah, okay, sure.” Cam rolled his eyes. “I don’t know who you think you’re fooling. I know you want it.”
“Don’t you dare talk to her like that.” Garrett appeared from behind shrubbery, cradling my shoe, followed closely by Dev.
“Oh, come on, man, can you just be cool, for once?” Cam said. “Seriously, can you not cock-block me right now?”
“Okay, that’s it,” Garrett said angrily, taking off his jacket. “Let’s go.”
“‘Let’s go? Let’s go?’” Cam parroted, laughing. “You have got to be kidding.” He smirked. “What are you gonna do? You’re such a pussy. Come on, look at you. You’ve finally found your people—a girl and a fag.”
BAM! My fist collided with Cam’s nose, which erupted in a fountain of blood.
“Nobody calls my friend a fag,” I said fiercely, wiping the blood off my knuckles.
“I think you broke my fucking nose!” Cam shrieked, sounding eerily similar to Marcia Brady.
“I hope I broke your
fucking nose!” I shouted back.
“Libby, you punched someone!” Dev squealed in delighted disbelief.
“I know, and it really hurt my hand,” I whispered so only Dev could hear.
“Aren’t you glad I made you take that women’s self-defense workshop for your PE requirement?” Dev whispered back.
I fervently nodded my agreement. “He’s just lucky I didn’t jam his nose up into his brain and kill him instantly.”
“We should all be so lucky,” Dev said, glaring at Cam.
“I can’t have a broken nose. It’ll ruin my face.” Cam started to cry, then ran off back to the Manor House, presumably in search of a first-aid kit.
“I have got to see this!” Dev followed him gleefully.
Garrett and I were left alone in the garden.
“Wow.” He shook his head in disbelief. “I’m sure as hell gonna think twice before making another Hello Kitty crack.” He shook his head again, still stunned. “You know, I was, uh, gonna punch him.”
“I’m sure you were.” I smiled reassuringly. “I just did it first.”
“Here.” He knelt down, shoe still in hand, and slid it onto my foot. A perfect fit.
Suddenly everything was clear. Maybe Prince Charming just looked charming and wasn’t charming at all. Maybe he was just a cocky asshole with a crown and a boat. Maybe Cinderella—who was, after all, just a hearth-sweeping baker with a weakness for nice shoes—would be happier with the sarcastic nerd who liked Cinderella not just dressed to the nines at a ball, but even covered in ashes and upside down in a barrel. After all, it was the nerd who’d found Cinderella’s Choo. And if the Choo fits . . .
“I can’t believe I fell for that idiot.” I shook my head.
“Oh, I can,” Garrett said grimly, rising to his feet. “Let me guess . . . he quoted some Shakespeare at you, brought you flowers, and swept you off your feet with all the romantic bullshit you always dreamed of but were afraid only existed in books?”
“Um, yeah, actually. Pretty much exactly.” Because that was it. I hadn’t liked him just because he was cute—it was all the Shakespeare, the flowers, the chivalry. All the romance I’d spent my whole life searching for. “How did you know?”
“Last year Cam, uh, slept with my girlfriend.” Garrett cleared his throat. “Well, ex-girlfriend now.”
“Jesus, Garrett.” I looked up at him and was stunned by how handsome he was. How had I not noticed that before? I mean, he wasn’t perfect. Far from it. But he was better than perfect. Because he was just . . . Garrett. I reached, tentatively, for his hand. He let me take it. “Why didn’t you tell me this?”
“It’s, uh, not exactly my favorite topic for discussion.”
“Well, okay, yeah, understandable, but I was sort of dating the guy. I would have appreciated a heads-up.”
“I kind of thought you’d figure it out yourself, Libby.” He shrugged. “You’re really smart.”
“Clearly, not that smart,” I muttered, still mad at myself.
“And I didn’t think you’d believe me if I told you Cam was screwing every attractive girl from here to Millinocket,” he added.
“The scooper!” It hit me like a lightning bolt. That’s why Cam was being all tweaky outside the Dairy Bar. And why he hustled us away from that girl in the bikini on the beach. And why the Squaddies thought my name was Kelly. Or Melissa. God, he really must have been screwing every girl in Maine aged eighteen to twenty-five. Garrett was looking at me like I was nuts. Right, Libby, focus. “Why wouldn’t I believe you?” I asked curiously.
“Talking shit about the guy who’s involved with the girl you like? Yeah, that’s credible,” he said sarcastically.
“You—you like me?” I asked cautiously. “I mean, still?”
“Libby, I’ve liked you since the minute you geeked out and started talking about Northanger Abbey,” he admitted. “I’ve never stopped. I mean, how could I not like you?” He smiled shyly. “You’re . . . you’re . . .” He shook his head and thought hard. “Indescribable,” he said finally. “I can’t put it into words. I mean, you know enough about colonial America to host your own History Channel show; you can out-sing Beyoncé; you bake like you’re from another world . . . seriously. I had a piece of that pie on the Fourth of July, and it was unreal. And the way your face lights up when you talk about the things you love? Your passion for history and books and . . . It’s amazing. I’ve never seen anything like it. I’ve never met anyone like you. I feel like every day I learn something new about you, and every day you surprise me. I never know what to expect. Is there anything you can’t do?” He laughed. “You’re like Wonder Woman.” He picked up my wrists, where the little strings of pearls jangled. “Indestructible bracelets and all. Fighting crime, chasing ghosts, throwing punches.” He moved his hands from my wrists to hold my hands. “If I hadn’t seen your Hello Kitty underwear, I might think you were superhuman. But I’m pretty sure superheroes don’t wear Hello Kitty underwear.”
For a moment I was speechless. I mean, sure, I knew some of those things were true—but I’d never really thought about myself like that. Like I was that special or anything. But the way Garrett was looking down at me, eyes shining, I almost felt like I was Wonder Woman. Like I was invincible. It was like he was the first person who had really seen me, and seen the best possible me—and here I was thinking all summer that he was a geeky jerk who just happened to be a great kisser. How had I been so blind?
“Oh, I’m—I’m not Wonder Woman,” I muttered finally, blushing. “Far from it. I mean, if anything, I’m like . . . Stupid Girl.”
“Stupid Girl?” He raised an eyebrow. “I don’t think she was in the Justice League.”
“Argh, shut up. So I don’t know anything about comic books or superheroes. You know what I mean.” I turned red again, grateful that it was dark enough that he probably couldn’t tell just how furiously I was blushing. “I’m trying to apologize here. Because I was an idiot.” He raised the other eyebrow. “Not just because I fell for someone as fake as Cam, but even worse because I totally misjudged you.”
“You misjudged me? ” He smirked. “Miss Practically Perfect Kelting?”
“Don’t you dare gloat.” I smiled back. “I’m trying to say I was wrong. About you. About everything, really. I assumed you were a jerk, because, oh, I don’t know, you left me in that barrel, and you weren’t exactly excited to have me on the boat, and you kept calling me Nancy Drew, and I kept thinking you were all pompous and self-important and—”
“Are you going to get to any of my good parts anytime soon?” He laughed.
“No, no, that’s what I’m saying!” I protested. “You have so many good parts. I mean, you’re funny and smart and kind, and I have so much fun when I’m with you, and I really admire the way you go after what you want . . . I mean the way that you talked yourself onto the boat to write the story? That took guts. As does ghost chasing, in my opinion, because it’s really scary down there. And I’ve read your articles. You’re a really good writer, Garrett. Really talented. But you’re so much more than all of that, I mean you’re . . . you’re . . . indescribable.” He smiled as I echoed his earlier words. “For way too long, I looked at you, and I saw . . . all the wrong things.” I shook my head. “I couldn’t see past the Cylon T-shirt to what was underneath.”
“There’s nothing wrong with Cylons,” he interrupted.
“I know.” I placed my hand on his chest. “That’s exactly what I’m saying. I don’t know what a Cylon is, but I love that you love them. Because that’s part of what makes you . . . you.”
Garrett leaned down to kiss me. It wasn’t the Fourth of July anymore, yet the fireworks were there all the same.
Eleven
I didn’t just make it through the end of Girls of Long Ago Camp—I floated through the end of Girls of Long Ago Camp. I was sort of a disaster, putting salt in the sugar and sugar in the salt, but I was so happy, I didn’t care. I walked around smiling all day long, pretty m
uch completely and utterly useless.
Eventually, the girls couldn’t take it anymore.
“Miss Libby, why are you so happy?” Robin asked suspiciously, as I put together everyone’s veritable mountain of needlepoint Souvenirs of Long Ago, including the quilting project that had miraculously come together at the last minute.
“Well, Robin”—I handed over her stack of samplers and quilt—“it turns out Nick Jonas was right.”
“I knew it,” she said smugly. “The Jonas Brothers are never wrong.” As she moved to wait in the hallway with the rest of the girls who’d already gotten their stuff, she sang, “Everyone knows it’s meant to be, falling in love, just you and me . . .”
Emily came up next. “Now, Miss Libby, don’t forget to send my dad the recipe,” she reminded me for the millionth time as she rearranged my stack to make it lay neater. “As a PDF file, not a Word document, okay?”
“I got it, Em. I don’t actually live in the eighteenth century, remember?”
“Hmm.” She looked down her nose at me through her glasses.
Crazy as it was, the recipe for Miss Libby’s Colonial Caramel Apple Pie was going to be appearing in an issue of Bon Appétit coming soon to a newsstand near you, the centerpiece of a four-page spread on early American desserts. My faith in Mono Corps International had been somewhat restored.
“Goodbye, Mith Libby,” Amanda said sadly as she walked up to get her stuff.
“Oh, Scarecrow,” I said, hugging her. “I think I’ll miss you most of all.”
“Why am I a tharecrow?”
“Never mind.” I patted her head. “Let’s go to the Welcome Center, one last time.”
I couldn’t believe camp was over. I’d be back in the Bromleigh Homestead the next day, to clean everything up and get it ready for normal museum viewing once again. But without the pack of gigglers I’d come to know and love, it just wouldn’t be the same. After lots of hugs and a few tearful goodbyes, all the girls had been returned to their parents, to go home to their lives of Twitter and Twilight. But maybe, hopefully, somewhere along the way, I’d created a few future historians.
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