My Faire Lady

by Laura Wettersten

  When I’m done, gloriously clean and smelling like my favorite rose body wash, I wrap myself in the towel and head back to the tent, smiling. It seems like it might be a great day, much better than yesterday, since I’m not hung over, and with my hair wet, I might be able to do something fun with it for once.

  A nail sticking out of the doorframe seems to have other ideas. It catches my towel. There’s a horrifying ripping sound and I look down.

  About half my towel is gone, shredded apart from the rest of it, so that nothing but fringe hangs down over my thighs.

  The curse I let out bounces around the walls of the showers and comes back at me angrily. I try to adjust, moving the towel down slightly so that my butt isn’t hanging out in the back, but then the front is way too low. I have no other choice but to use one hand to pull down the back, and the other to pull up the front, which bends my body into a misshapen Z and makes me walk like a pigeon. It’s not until I step out onto the grass that the magnitude of the situation hits me, full force.

  Walking. Pigeon-toed. Almost naked. Across the camp. If there ever was a time to think about a quick cup of mead for courage, this is it.

  I take a deep breath, grimace at the indignity of it all, and make toward my tent.

  I almost make it to my tent unseen, by some miracle of the Renaissance Faire gods. Almost. But just as I’m entering the clearing the worst possible thing happens, and I mean The Worst.

  Christian and Grant are on the path, heading in the direction of breakfast. I don’t have time to jump behind a bush or a tree or anything like that, because Grant’s already spotted me, calling out my name followed by several chuckles. All I can do is own it. So I straighten myself a bit (but just a bit, otherwise those boys would be getting a real show), and acknowledge them with a nod of my head. “Hey, guys.”

  Christian purses his lips as if he’d like to laugh but knows better, and Grant says, “I think you might need a new towel.”

  Christian looks me up and down, and I think I might melt into a pile of embarrassment and shame. Christian catches my eye, and there’s a wicked twinkle in his. “I don’t know, Grant. I kind of like this towel.”

  Oh God, please kill me now. Strike me dead.

  “Can’t complain,” Grant says. “Maybe we’ll see more of you at breakfast, Ro. Not that there’s much left to see . . .”

  Because God or the universe or whatever isn’t compassionate enough to answer my pleas, all I can do is nod and desperately try to avoid eye contact as they both pass me by. Christian keeps his gaze on me the whole time, so potent that I can feel it on my skin.

  Humiliated, I resign myself to a sucky day and pigeon-walk back to my tent.

  Thanks to my accidental near–peep show this morning, I’m ten minutes late to the face painting tent. I’m running toward it, unladylike, skirts hiked up and flip-flops obvious, when I catch a flash of shiny auburn hair in the sunlight, the exact shade that has been burned into my brain forever, ever since I saw Kyle twist it around his fingers.

  Lacey. It had to be. And unless I’m hallucinating, she was walking with someone, a someone whose hair I’d twisted around my own fingers a time or two.

  So many emotions battle inside me that all I can do is stand there in the middle of the busy Renaissance Faire street, utterly useless, completely in shock.

  “Ro?” Will’s voice is warm but concerned, and I turn to him, full of gratitude. He’s ten paces from me but he closes the distance quickly, jogging across the grass. “You okay? Jeff didn’t get to you, did he?”

  “I’m . . . I’m okay,” I lie. Will obviously doesn’t believe me because he reaches out and runs a hand along my arm, rubbing some warmth into my clammy skin. “You haven’t seen a silver Saab in the parking lot today, have you?”

  Will’s eyebrows scrunch together. “No. I can keep an eye out if you want. But please tell me what’s got you so spooked.”

  I try to laugh off his concern, but my laugh sounds shallow and tinny, even to my own ears. “It’s nothing. I thought I saw my ex-boyfriend, that’s all.”

  Will’s face contorts into an expression that is either confusion or anger, I can’t be sure. “I take it you two didn’t part on good terms?”

  “I think he’s here with the girl he cheated on me with.”

  “Oh.” Will squeezes my arm. “I’ll definitely look for the Saab and let you know. Want me to slash his tires?”

  I force a smile. “Nah. But thanks for offering.”

  “Any time.”

  Will pauses, studying me for a moment, his eyes boring deeply enough to see the sadness I’ve tried in vain to hide there. Then he leaves, off toward the parking lot, and I take a moment to gather myself and tuck away the embarrassment and nerves. When I reach the face painting tent, Cassie looks at me with disapproval and then nods toward the small line of children waiting to get their faces painted. I motion the first one toward my chair and plaster on a bright smile, hoping that painting some kitty whiskers or a Spiderman mask will at least make someone’s day less sucky.

  Late is apparently my theme for the day. I dash into the tavern, almost knocking over a few innocent patrons who had the misfortune to be in my way. Suze is swamped, which makes me feel even guiltier about my tardiness. It’s not my fault; an unruly child thought the face painting tent was more a game of war, and put his whole hand in my collection of greens, trying to fingerpaint everything within his grasp. His mortified father tipped me a whole twenty, but I had to scrub my face and hands before my shift at the tavern.

  Still, when I see Suze carrying a huge tray full of food and barking at the busboy to help her out, I feel like the rottenest person ever.

  She’s Suze, though, not Cassie, and she merely gives me a grateful smile and points me toward a table in the corner, mouthing, “Thank you!” at me as I pass by.

  I pull out a notepad and pen from my skirt and saunter up to the table. I’m not in the wench groove just yet, so instead of flirting, I try for sass.

  “What’ll it be?” I ask, marking the table number at the top of a new sheet.

  “Ro?”

  At the sound of his voice, my heart plummets into my stomach. I lower the notepad, revealing Kyle’s familiar face and Lacey’s shocked expression.

  There’s nothing I can do but pretend he’s not the boy who made me cry for a week solid, and she’s not the reason why he did it. I smile through gritted teeth.

  “Hi, Kyle. Lacey.”

  “You work here?”

  No. I just love the stress of waiting on demanding, drunk idiots all day long.

  I nod. “Yep. Just started this week. What can I get you?”

  “Ro,” Kyle says. His voice is cautious, low, and anxious. It’s the voice he’d use when we’d had a disagreement and he was trying to make sure I wasn’t pissed enough at him to break up.

  But that’s the thing—Kyle and I only had disagreements, not fights, and he always made sure I was okay. That’s a big part of the reason why his cheating was a total shock. Kyle just never seemed like the type.

  But it’s obvious he’s just good at acting. Liars and cheaters need to be, I suppose.

  “I didn’t know. If I’d have known . . . ,” Kyle says, and I glare at him, daring him to finish that sentence.

  What? If you’d have known, you wouldn’t have paraded your new girlfriend in front of me? You wouldn’t have been a total asshole? Just what are you trying to say, Kyle?

  “I mean, Brian said Kara was all upset about you working outside the city this summer, but he never mentioned where. I’m so sorry.”

  I hate that he truly looks like he’s sorry.

  “Yeah, we didn’t know,” Lacey says. She doesn’t look nearly as earnest as Kyle, but she’s just started dating him. Maybe his sleaziness hasn’t rubbed off yet. “Kyle just wanted to bring me out for my birthday. He thought it would be fun to see the joust, since I’m such a geek about Game of Thrones.”

  Lacey likes Game of Thrones? Of course she does.
It’s that weird show Kyle was always trying to get me to watch, raving about how it was the best show ever made. And why is she trying to make conversation? Can she not feel the awkward vibes pouring off me and Kyle? Obviously not, as she continues on, oblivious. “We thought we’d check out the Fairie Queen’s Revel in August. Do you know if it’s really as fun as everyone says it is?”

  “It’s fun, yeah,” I say, not thinking to lie and tell her it’s the worst, most boring party ever so that they won’t come. “So what do you want to eat?”

  Lacey frowns and looks down at her menu. “Want to split the ribs and fried potatoes?”

  “Sure, baby,” Kyle replies, then winces, I assume because he’s used a term of endearment in front of me. No matter, I winced too.

  I write it down and walk away without another word, and instead of going into the kitchen, I signal to Suze and she sets her empty tray aside and meets me behind the bar.

  “Emergency,” I say to her. My voice is surprisingly steady, considering how much I’m shaking, inside and out. “That’s Kyle. With his new girlfriend.”

  “That jerk,” Suze says, and looks over at them, eyes narrowed to slits. “He had the audacity to come in here with her?”

  “He didn’t know,” I say, but then I realize I shouldn’t be defending him. “Can you just take that table for me?”

  “Of course! And I will spit in his food.”

  I can’t help myself, I smile at that. What is it about Renaissance Faire workers that make them so inclined to revenge?

  I take Suze’s tables, trying hard to keep my back to Lacey and Kyle until they leave, but it’s no use. I still see them smiling, laughing with each other, spooning food into each other’s mouths. They look so happy. It’s salt in the wound, and I have to sniff back a few tears nearly every time I look at them.

  When they’re getting ready to leave, Suze drags me into the kitchen. Amidst the cooks tossing food to one another and the smoke and rising steam, I can see Ramón glare at us.

  “You two, work. Not gossip,” he says, irritated, then grumbles something in Spanish.

  Suze looks over her shoulder, eyes narrowed at Ramón. “We’re in the middle of a crisis, Ramón.” Then Suze leans in close so he can’t hear. “She’s totally not as pretty as you.”

  I smile at Suze’s loyalty and say, “She’s prettier.”

  Suze shrugs. “Only if you go for the vapid, vacant stare type.”

  I giggle at that, although I’m not sure Lacey qualifies now, not if she geeks out over TV shows with Kyle.

  “Who is waiting tables if you two are in here?” Ramón calls. “Crisis is over. Out! Now!”

  We both bite down on our lips so we don’t laugh, then continue to ignore Ramón. Suze drapes an arm around my shoulders. “You okay?”

  “I think so.”

  “You’re okay, she’s okay, we’re all okay, but there are hungry people out there who are not okay!” Ramón barks. He shovels turkey legs and mashed potatoes onto two plates and holds them out, one for each of us. “Get. Before you make me angry.”

  I blink at Suze. “This isn’t angry?”

  “You haven’t seen anything yet.”

  That is apparently the last straw, because Ramón balls his hands into fists and his face turns a violent shade of red. “NOW!” he roars.

  Suze and I give Ramón a snappy military salute before scrambling back out into the tavern, which, in spite of everything, puts a smile on my face.

  I take my time walking from the tavern to my face painting shift, not caring if Cassie shoots me another dirty look.

  Kyle and Lacey left quickly, not dawdling, and for that I was thankful. But I couldn’t get the image of the two of them out of my head, sitting there so happily. I don’t think I ever saw them quiet when I looked over, as if they always had something to say, and they never stopped smiling.

  Out of pity for me—I don’t dare call it kindness—they hadn’t kissed or anything, at least.

  The rest of my shift was a blur. As much as Suze’s presence had helped me, it was harder than usual to flirt with the guests. Suze gave me a huge hug as my shift ended and invited me to dinner at her parents’ wagon tonight. I was so grateful for the invite that I got a little teary.

  I’m just about to lift the tent flaps and face Cassie when a hand clamps down on my shoulder. I gasp and turn around. Jeff.

  “I don’t believe proper ladies wore flip-flops in the Renaissance . . .”

  He scowls down at my feet. My rainbow toes poke out from beneath the folds of my dress. “I know. I need to get some sandals from The Bone Needle, but there hasn’t been time.”

  Jeff holds a hand up in my face to make me stop speaking. The urge to slap it away is so strong that I have to knot my hands together behind my back so I won’t. “This is a strike on your record, Rowena.”

  I can’t believe it. Of course Jeff would find me today of all days, just to put icing on the cake of walking through camp nearly naked and seeing my ex with his new girl. Never mind that I see the cooks on their cell phones all the time, or the vendors using calculators, or Cassie pulling out lip balm every other minute.

  I screw up my face, wanting to show him my righteous indignation, even if I can’t speak it out loud. “Okay. Sorry.”

  Jeff, unfazed, launches into a lecture about the importance of historical accuracy, and I stand there pretending to listen. Over his know-it-all voice and the angry thoughts in my head, though, there’s the hum of a distant melody. It’s pretty but unfamiliar, and I can’t imagine where it’s coming from. It’s not the musicians, who are probably parading around the square at the moment. It’s too deep and powerful, and it’s coming closer.

  Leaving Jeff mid-speech, spittle gathering in the corners of his mouth, I walk around to the other side of the tent, toward the direction of the hum. Cassie comes out the front and stands next to me, barking, “What is that racket?”

  I shrug just as the answer comes into view. Rounding the bend where the bridge with the trolls is, about ten men come, all in matching gambesons of red and gold. They each have their lips pressed together, humming louder than it should be possible, and they’re coming up the hill, straight toward us.

  Jeff steps behind us, sneering. “I suppose one of your boyfriends hired the troubadours. You should know that employee relationships must be filed in my office. As article twelve of the employment agreement states—”

  “Shhh,” Cassie hisses at Jeff. “They’re going to sing.”

  The troubadours—very dapper-looking gentlemen with toothy smiles—stop humming all at once, at some unseen cue. Then, again from an unseen cue, they all sink down to one knee and hold their arms out in my direction, and it’s only then that I understand what’s going on. The troubadours are going to sing. For me. And if Jeff’s right, someone hired them to do so, and I’d bet a hundred dollars I know who hired them.

  I giggle, half delighted, half embarrassed, and Cassie’s head snaps in my direction.

  “What?” she demands.

  I shrug and try not to look too proud of myself. “Christian must have sent them. He’s so sweet.”

  Cassie is not nearly as impressed with that as she should be, but I don’t care because one of the troubadours sounds a note on a pitch pipe and suddenly ten strong, beautiful voices are singing to me. It takes me a moment to recognize the lyrics of the old Renaissance tune, but when I do, I blush even more furiously.

  “Alas my love you do me wrong to cast me off discourteously,” one of them croons, and then another joins in, his tenor overlapping the baritone of the first.

  “For I have loved you well and long, delighting in your company,” he sings, and then all the troubadours join in, adding layer upon layer of harmony, so pleasing to my ears that it feels like a caress.

  “Greensleeves was all my joy, Greensleeves was my delight. Greensleeves was my heart of gold, and who but my lady Greensleeves.”

  One of the men moves toward me, taking my hand in his and p
ulling me onto his knee. I gasp and then laugh at myself, then settle in while the man croons to me. Cassie and Jeff watch with expressions of mild disgust, but I don’t care. No one has ever sung to me before, and this is definitely baptism by fire. The power of the blush in my cheeks makes my whole face tingly.

  But then, as I listen to his strong, slightly operatic voice, the words he’s singing level me. I guess I’d never paid much attention to the lyrics of Greensleeves, or I would have realized how heartbreaking they are. The song, which I had merely guessed was a tribute to a girl in green sleeves, much like my own dress today, is actually about unrequited love. The man is pleading for the lady in green to give him a chance and love him.

  By the time the troubadours reach the last verse, where the narrator is praying to God that the lady in green will notice him, the troubadour is singing with such longing that I can’t help but be moved. My eyes have filled and I have to wipe tears from my cheeks as the troubadours finish with a low bow. I thank them, calling it out as they walk away, and they respond with nods and tips of their hats.

  When they’ve disappeared over the bridge, I turn back to Cassie and Jeff. “That was so beautiful,” I say.

  Cassie looks bored. “It was okay. I’m going to get back to work.” She gives Jeff what can only be called a suck-up smile as she walks by him, and then calls back over her shoulder, “We’ve been slow this morning so brace yourself. The afternoon is going to be hell.”

  “Okay, thanks for the warning,” I mumble.

  Jeff is looking at me, half disgruntled, half like he’s trying to figure me out. “Find shoes, Rowena, and remember what I said about filing a report. It’s against faire policy to have an undisclosed relationship.”

  I open my mouth to protest; after all, I wouldn’t qualify what Christian and I have as a relationship. Not yet. But Jeff holds up a hand, and I stop myself.

  “Please. If someone’s sending troubadours to sing ‘Greensleeves,’ I have to take it seriously.”

  He walks off, his whole body crouched as if he’s stalking the faire, which isn’t far from the truth.