When the second boy sits down, I ask him if he wants the same. I’m relieved and wholeheartedly approve when he tells me he wants a mustache like Jacques.
“Did you like Jacques?” I ask, and all of the boys answer.
“He was so cool!”
“Did you see how big the flames got?”
“I bet I could swing on a whip like that . . .”
I smile down at the boy in my chair and grab a thin brush and some brown paint. “I like Jacques too. He’s funny.”
The boy nods and lets me paint the scrolling mustache on him. He looks kind of like a mini Will when I’m done with him.
When Cassie and I are done with the boys and they’ve paid, I sit back in my chair, satisfaction coursing through me. I wonder if Will has any idea how his performances affect people, or really, if any of the performers realize. Richard’s obviously affected that kid today, and my first day, Grant’s did the same to the child who wanted to be a badger. It’s fascinating and so cool to see these kids react, imagine, and dream.
I have to wonder if my face painting has the same effect, and my mind drifts naturally to the boy earlier with his fuchsia dragon. I loved seeing him smile, loved giving him something his older brother’s harsh words couldn’t take away. Maybe my art can inspire people, just like the knights’ performances, just like Will’s. Maybe my art can change people, or help them see things about themselves, or help them heal. It’s a gratifying thought, but heavy at the same time. To think I could do something that could change someone, even if it’s just temporarily making their day a little brighter, is a mind-blowing thing. There’s a lot of responsibility in that. The troubadours changed my mood almost instantly yesterday, and to have that kind of effect on people is a gift.
The thought of the troubadours brings me back to reality. I still haven’t thanked Christian for that, so as soon as my shift is over, I head down to the stables.
Thankfully, Christian’s there, untacking his horse. Unfortunately, Richard and Grant are also there, but it doesn’t matter. All I can think about is Christian and the last time we were in the stables together. The memory of his hand over mine, brushing the horse’s soft coat, is enough to make my insides heat up like mead on a chilly summer night.
“Hey,” he says simply when he sees me, and that heat inside me gets a little warmer.
“Hey,” I say back. I rub Blaze’s muzzle and get a soft whinny of gratitude in response. “Thanks for yesterday, Christian.”
“Yesterday? What was yesterday?”
“Just . . . you know, the troubadours. It was a completely awful day. You have no idea how much it cheered me up.”
Christian looks at me strangely, as if I’m speaking another language or maybe I’ve got a piece of spinach caught in my teeth. “The troubadours?”
“The troubadours,” I say louder, like that might help. I reach over and squeeze his forearm, which is delightfully muscular. “You know . . .”
“Oh, uh, sure,” he says, half laughing. “I’m glad it made you feel better.”
“It really did.” I smile at him. “So, what are you up to?”
Christian looks over at Blaze’s stall. “I’ve got to do some squire training right now. The little boys need to be shown how to ride with a lance. Hopefully, we’ll knight one of them before the season’s out.”
“You actually knight them?”
“Well, no. Not me. King Geoffrey. But yeah, we love our ceremonies here, fake as they are. Besides, if a guy goes through enough training to pull off our stunts, he deserves a title.” Christian reaches up and brushes a rogue curl from my cheek. It’s not a sexy move, not like the other day when he was wrapped all around me, his mouth pressed to my ear, but it’s so intimate that it makes me dizzy. “Will I see you at the campfire Sunday?”
I completely forgot that campfires were a weekly thing, but thank goodness they are. A campfire means another chance to hang out with Christian, and hopefully this time he’ll kiss me.
“Of course,” I tell him. “I had a great time at the last one.”
Christian gives a slight nod. “Unfortunately, this one is officially sanctioned, so . . . best behavior and all that.”
“Well, I’d love to go, even if I have to be on my best behavior,” I say quickly.
“Me too,” Christian says, and then his voice dips low. “Maybe we’ll misbehave a little anyway?”
He doesn’t wait for my answer. Probably because he already knows what it is. He slides his fingers over my hair as he passes on his way out the door, giving me goose bumps, and in response I make a hideous gurgling noise that I pray he doesn’t hear. I walk out of the stables, trying hard not to capture the attention of Richard and Grant, who, thankfully, are too involved with what they’re doing to notice my presence.
It’s only been a few days at this place and already I’m so filled with news and secrets that I might explode if I keep them all bottled up. And although Suze has been great to talk to, I desperately need to spill my guts to Kara and Meg. Nearly a week has gone by without hearing from them or talking to them, and not knowing if they’re still pissed at me. It’s like I’m homesick for them and only them because, in truth, I haven’t missed my actual home much. This place easily settled into that void. But Kara and Meg? Irreplaceable.
I need to make a phone call that’s long overdue, and even though it’s almost time for the faire to close, I don’t want to risk being caught by Jeff. That leaves me with only one choice:
It’s time for a little road trip.
It only takes me a few minutes to throw on some modern clothes and pack my purse with my phone, phone charger, keys, and a few dollars. I tell Suze what I’m up to, and she promises to squirrel away some dinner for me. In return, I vow to bring her something tasty from Starbucks.
Soon I’m in my car, phone plugged into the charger, the radio cranked to the first modern music I’ve heard in what feels like forever. After only a few minutes, though, the never-ending beat grates on my nerves, and by the time I’ve pulled out onto the country road that leads to the faire, I’ve switched the music off. I guess after only a week I’ve gotten used to the quiet of the campgrounds, and the melodious, calming music played by the lutes. It’s kind of a scary thought that I’ve adapted so fast, but at the same time it makes me smile. Maybe the remote community of artists suits me even better than I’d hoped.
Suze had given me directions into the nearest town, a small place called Sugar Grove, which is short on stoplights but long on everything we might need. It has a Starbucks inside the lone supermarket, a strip mall where the faire workers sometimes get their hair cut at a salon chain, a laundromat, a Target, and a dollar store.
As soon as I reach the town, I recognize it: It’s where Suze took me to get the air mattress my first night. We’d been too busy gabbing for me to note the town’s name, or even notice much of what was around me. I smile at that, thinking about how we were instantly friends.
When I pull into the supermarket parking lot, the miraculous happens: My phone gets service. Texts ding in, so long withheld, one right after another. It’s so fast that it sounds like Morse code. They’re all from Meg and Kara, about twenty of them total.
I read them as I walk into the market, slowly, savoring each one as precious contact and connection to the best friends I’ve had since elementary school.
Kara Tuesday 8:43am: I’m so sorry. I know you’re still sick over Kyle. I shouldn’t have said anything.
Meg Tuesday 9:29am: Ro, answer me, dammit. Kara’s a mess that you’re fighting.
Kara Tuesday 12:03pm: Are you still angry? I hate fighting. I don’t know how to fight with you! We don’t fight!
There are a few more messages from earlier in the week, pleading with me to get in touch as soon as I can. Guilt wells up inside me over that. Then, the messages continue.
Meg Wednesday 5:40pm: OMG RO. Is it true? Did Kyle go to your Renaissance thingy? Did you see him? Was he with that awful freshman chick?
/> Kara Wednesday 5:42pm: Ro . . . I’m so sorry! I didn’t know Kyle and Lacey were planning on going to the Renaissance Faire. Ugh, you didn’t see them, did you? I would have told them the whole place was infested with fleas if I’d known they were going.
I find the Starbucks inside the market, order an iced tea to beat the heat and a giant Rice Krispies treat to satisfy my sweet tooth, and find a seat at a round table by the window. I hit number one on my speed dial and Kara answers.
“ROWENA DUNCAN!”
I laugh. “I’ve missed you!”
“ME TOO!”
Excitement isn’t quite the reason why Kara’s yelling, although I can tell she’s psyched that we’re talking. There’s loud music in the background on her end, the syncopated thump-tha-thump of a deep bass line, and voices shouting and laughing. “Are you at a party?”
“WHAT? YEAH.” There’s some rustling, a thunk, and the music dies down a little, like perhaps Kara’s either gone into another room or she’s outside. When she speaks again, it’s with a much calmer voice. “We’re at Sylvia Reynolds’s place by the beach.”
The beach. Where I could have been with them as much as we wanted all summer, if the TK’s schedule worked out that way.
I don’t ask her if Kyle’s there. I know he is. Kyle doesn’t miss beach parties. Instead, I start my apology, and Kara jumps in, our sentences overlapping like they do when we’re both really emotional, or when we both agree completely about something.
“I’m really sorry about what I said to you,” I say, voice soft. “I like Brian, you know I do.”
“I know, and I shouldn’t have pressed you about Kyle.”
“No, you should have. I was running away from Kyle and you knew that.”
“But I shouldn’t have judged you for that. I was just worried.”
“And I was angry that you could see right through me.”
“Well, I should have just let you do what you needed to do instead of trying to make you stay here and see him every day, practically.”
“I miss you,” I say, and it’s the most truthful thing of all. It’s heavy, too, hovering sadly between us somewhere above our heads in the cell phone towers, and it completely stops the momentum of the whole conversation. “I wish I could be at the beach with you guys tonight.”
“Do you hate it there?”
“No, actually. I love it.” I settle deep into my chair. “I’m learning how to paint better. And there’s a knight who . . . I don’t know. He’s just so hot.”
Usually that would have gotten Kara all nosy and excited, and she would have pressed me for more, but suddenly there’s the thumping bass and voices in the background again, as if someone’s opened the door back into the party. There’s some murmuring, and then it’s relatively quiet again.
“Shoot, Ro. I’ve got to go. Everyone’s jumping in the water,” she says, and I know she didn’t hear my last words. I suppose it’s just as well. That conversation is going to take a while, and it’s Friday night there, even though it’s a work night for me.
“Okay,” I say, and try to mask my disappointment. “Tell Meg I’ll call soon. I just wanted to call you first, you know, to make sure everything was okay.”
“Oh yeah. Meg will understand. We miss you. I’ll talk to you later!”
“Bye!” I say, and hear a couple of shouts (one of them unmistakably Meg, the other Brian) before Kara ends the call.
Let down, though relieved that we got to talk at all, I resign myself to calling my parents and making good on the promise to call weekly to check up. My mother answers, then insists my father pick up the other phone in the den so we can all talk together. Mom asks me if I’m getting enough to eat and if the tents are warm enough at night. Dad asks me if the job is bringing in good tips.
I try to tell them about my art and how I’ve made some kids feel really good about themselves with my work, but they seem to ignore the point.
“That’s great, dear. You can put that in your essays when you apply for colleges.”
“Yes,” my father agrees. “Did you bring your laptop? You could get to work on it while it’s all fresh in your mind.”
“No, Dad. Even if I had, there’s not exactly electricity out here.”
“The old-fashioned way, then!” he exclaims, too excited about the concept for my taste. “Paper and ink.”
We make plans for their visit the last Sunday of the summer, but after a while I end the call, mumbling some excuse about needing to get back to the faire. Emptiness floods my insides. Did everything have to lead back to college applications?
I order a mocha with a splash of caramel for Suze and head out. Before I climb into my car, though, I look around at Sugar Grove. There’s a pizza joint up ahead, and beyond that, a little store that advertises homemade jewelry at great prices. For a moment I’m almost tempted, but then I remember that whatever Ramón is cooking is going to be better than some pizza joint, and the silversmith’s rings and earrings at the faire are probably prettier and better made than what the store might have. I get in my car and turn toward home—at least, the place that’s truly beginning to feel like home.
Suze practically explodes with gratefulness when I hand her the mocha, and she trades me for a plate of fried chicken and green beans. We eat and drink, and I fill her in on my phone calls, the conversation coming to rest on my parents.
“I don’t know how to make them understand about art. They seem to think it’s only about how it’ll make me look on college applications.”
Suze takes a long, thoughtful drink of her mocha and says, “So, what is it about, if not that?”
That gives me pause. “I don’t know,” I admit. “I just like it. I like helping people see the world a little differently, I guess. I like how it makes me feel when I do it.”
Suze studies me for a long moment, enough for me to grow anxious. She looks as if she might say something, something important, but then thinks better of it. A smile blossoms on her face and she raises her paper cup in my direction, like she’s toasting me. “Thanks for this. I swear. I can give up everything about the modern world but a Starbucks mocha.” We share a laugh. “I’m going to head over to Grant’s.”
I know what that means. It means she won’t be back tonight, which means I’ve got some time alone again. Unlike the other night, though, when I felt bored and lonely, this time I’m looking forward to some quiet time.
I tell her to have a good time, and as soon as she’s out of sight, I push my dinner plate away and drag out my art supplies. After that conversation with my parents, I need to draw something. I spread the supplies out all over my air mattress, contemplating what I want to do. I’ve been using paints so much for my job that it’s been a while since I’ve used oil pastels, or even just my charcoal pencils, and I’m longing to make some bold, defined lines again.
I choose a pencil and set to work. If there’s anything I’ve wanted to capture perfectly with my art, it’s Christian’s face, so I try that, starting with his chin and the strong cut of his jaw. I get the shadowing perfectly and move on to his features, creating the swooping curve of his lips and the gentle slope of his nose.
But when I get to his eyes, something is off. It’s not at all like that sketch of Kara, where I’d managed to show her personality in the light within them. With Christian’s sketch, nothing I try seems to get it right. Everything I draw looks lifeless or worse, sad or angry. Frustrated, I give up and reach for my oil pastels instead, turning to a new page in my sketchbook. I look down at the box, the varying shades daring me to unleash all the emotions I’ve got swirling around within, and I know that this time I’ve chosen the right medium.
Although all the colors call to me, it’s the yellows, blues, and oranges that are the loudest, and I start with those. Soon I’m lost in a daydream of paints, the colors twisting to make tongues of flame, burning in the long, curving lines of a whip.
13
WEEK 2—SUNDAY
It’s no wonder I
had trouble drawing Christian two nights ago. I’ve barely seen him.
It’s Sunday, a.k.a. Campfire Day at King Geoffrey’s Faire. I caught sight of him only briefly yesterday, as he exited the stables after the last joust. He was scowling, clearly not in the mood for company, so I kept my distance, and I hadn’t seen him since.
“Some family thing,” Sage said after breakfast this morning, as she and I walked in the direction of the tents. I inquired as casually as I could about Christian’s absence because paranoia was beginning to set in that maybe he was avoiding me. “He’ll be back before the noon joust.”
Sage’s words weren’t nearly as comforting as they could have been, and I spent most of my shift at the tavern and the face painting tent wondering if I’d get to see Christian tonight, and selfishly, if his “family thing” would interfere with him finally kissing me and officially locking it down.
“You did a great job on that last kid.”
Cassie’s voice, which is surprisingly kind, pulls me out of my own neuroses. The kid she’s referring to was a girl who wanted to look like a flower. Instead of just drawing a bright center on her nose and some petals, I drew an entire bouquet, stretching from the right side of her chin to the left part of her forehead and fanning out across her cheeks.
“Thanks,” I say. In truth, that girl wasn’t the only one who got a Rowena Duncan special design. Ever since that scared little boy who wanted the fuchsia dragon, I’d become braver myself, hardly sticking to the B.A.B. at all. Every customer I’d had the past two days exited the tent with a huge smile on their face, and I was pocketing some great tips. As they got happier, my designs got bolder, more whimsical. In fact, I was thinking about perhaps altering some of the B.A.B.’s designs, or adding to them.
The village clock tower chimes, letting Cassie and me know it’s time to close down shop for the evening. Until Tuesday, to be exact.
My Faire Lady Page 14