Suze’s words feel directed at me, even if she didn’t mean to do it. I try to keep the focus on her. “So do you want to teach or work in a museum?”
“I’m not sure yet. Probably teach. But you’re avoiding the question.”
“Am not.” I sniff indignantly, even though I am totally avoiding the question.
“Then answer it. What do you want to do?”
“Will is majoring in physics,” I say in reply. Suze growls at my nonanswer in exasperation, but I go on, determined to make a point. “Did you know that? He’s going to MIT. He’s that smart. And he’s so passionate. I didn’t know people could be passionate about physics, but he is. He really loves it. You should hear him talk about it.”
“And you should hear yourself talking about Will,” Suze teases. She gathers my hair up again and starts to do her magic with it. “But you’re just friends, right?”
“Quiet, you.” I’m smiling as I say it. “Anyway, I guess I want something like that. Something I can talk about endlessly, something I’m totally in love with.”
“You talk about art like that,” Suze says quietly. “During our break yesterday you talked about some watercolor thing you did for nearly the whole twenty minutes. I thought Ramón was going to kill us.”
“I did, didn’t I?” I ask, and I grin like a goon as I realize it. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. It was far more interesting than complaining about Ramón’s stew.” Suze finishes up my hair with one last twist and a snap of my elastic. “All I’m saying is that if you want to do something you’re in love with, maybe you should stop listening to your parents and listen to your heart instead.”
Suze hops onto her own air mattress and wiggles under her blanket. She leans over and grabs hold of the knob on the gas lamp, turning the flame down low. “And it wouldn’t hurt to do the same about Indy. You have a week until the Revel. Plenty of listening time.”
“He’s just a friend,” I say, as stubborn as Patsy when she’s arguing with Quagmire. “It’s Christian I want.”
“Everyone wants Christian. That’s not the question,” Suze says. “What’s important is what you need.”
I repeat those words in my head, memorizing them for later, when I’m not so tired and confused that I might actually be able to make sense out of them, and lean over to turn the lamp the rest of the way down. As I do, I spy my Kermit the Frog–colored toes. It’s one thing to hope Jeff might miss my multicolored toes; it’s just plain idiotic to hope he won’t see bright neon green.
“Hey, Suze? Should we take the polish off? What if Jeff—”
“Oh, screw Jeff,” Suze mumbles, already half asleep. “He can eat my dainty slippers . . .”
Laughing, I turn out the light and go to sleep.
15
WEEK 3—MONDAY
The upside to having my car at the faire is that I can leave any time I want. The downside is that since you can leave any time you want, people often want to leave with you.
Which is how, on my second day off at King Geoffrey’s Faire, I ended up with Suze and Will and three baskets full of laundry in my car, headed into Sugar Grove to wash our clothes.
Not that I minded them coming along. I got up and showered that morning, only to realize I didn’t have a single clean pair of underwear in the tent. I looked over to Suze, who was rifling through what remained of her clean clothes, and I could read it on her face as well: The underwear situation was dire. We would have to act now.
Then Will saw the two of us making our way to the car, laundry in tow, and he begged to come as well.
“My shirts,” he complained, grimacing at some remembered smell. “I’m making myself gag.”
Which is why he is in my back seat, sitting dangerously close to my dirty underwear. Yes, he’s just a friend—and this whole week all but proved that; I’d seen him only a handful of times, and each time? Not a whiff of any sort of attraction to him. And no awkward moments involving whips, either—but still, a boy that close to my underwear seemed just a little too intimate for my taste.
When we reach the laundromat, I make a dash toward the washer at the end of the row, hoping I can get my undies in without Will seeing that I have a few scandalous red lacy pairs, a few that have Hello Kitty on them, and worse, ones that read, right across the butt, ALL THIS AND BRAINS TOO. Luckily, he seems just as embarrassed by his own dirty clothes and heads off in the opposite direction. Suze, who is never embarrassed about anything, plops right down in the middle and sorts her dark thongs out from her whites.
As soon as all the washers are spinning around in tandem, we meet at a rickety old table in the center of the laundromat and sit down.
Will sighs, a satisfied and somewhat smug grin on his face. “Ah, I’ve missed that clean detergent smell. And the fabric softener. And machines that work on both indoor plumbing and electricity.”
Suze lets out an unladylike snort. “I’ve missed McDonald’s. And Starbucks. And movies. Remember movies, guys? I mean, I think it’s been four months since I’ve seen a movie, unless you count Jeff’s safety training videos.”
Suze and Will turn to me expectantly, and I realize they’re waiting on me to voice my complaints. I clear my throat. “I, um . . .”
“Wait a minute. She isn’t bitching and complaining. Could it be?” Will asks Suze. “Is the newbie in love with the faire?”
I feel my face redden, and I look down at my hands. “I do love it,” I admit to my friends. “I haven’t missed electricity like I thought I would. Maybe texting and talking to my friends, but I haven’t missed Facebook, or TV, and I certainly haven’t missed my job at the mall.”
Will and Suze exchange a glance that I can’t read. I go on in my own defense. “Besides, it’s giving me time to work on art. I’ve been painting so much, and not just faces and teacups. In fact, I should probably see if I can buy another sketchpad here in town.”
“She’s gotten so much better at flirting with the customers, too, Indy. You should see her.” Suze beams like a proud mama. “Sassy and efficient, all at once.”
“And Sage says she’s getting good at horseback riding. She told me you took Jiffy on a trot the other day.” Will wipes a pretend tear from his eye and leans in to Suze, choking out, “Our little baby’s all grown up!”
“I have,” I say, accepting their teasing as a compliment, because it’s not untrue. I add, with a good dose of pride, “And Robbie says my teacups are practically her bestsellers.”
Suze looks at Will with fake concern. “I think our Ro may have drunk ye olde Kool-Aid.”
Will nods solemnly. “Yep, she’s one of us now.”
One of us. I smile at that. Everything does seem to be falling into place. Everything, that is, except for the Revel date situation. Or lack thereof. And one other small, minor detail that has been gnawing at my brain like one of the horses with an apple: my future. I had been so content, just marching straight on the path my parents laid out for me, and then Suze, Will, Lindy, and even Robbie started putting all these thoughts in my head about majoring in art. They’re getting my hopes up, showing me new paths, making me want other things . . . things I can’t have.
“Earth to Ro . . .”
My head jerks up and Will and Suze are staring at me. Will waves in my face. “You still with us?”
“Um, yeah,” I say, and try to shake myself out of my thoughts. “Sorry. I guess I must be tired. Still worn out from the tavern shift yesterday.”
I laugh, but no one else does. Will’s eyebrows scrunch together. “Are you okay?”
Warmth spreads throughout my chest at his concern, and I give him a half smile. “Yes,” I lie.
“Liar,” Suze says. She purses her lips. “You’re obviously not okay.”
“It’s nothing,” I tell her, but she’s not buying it, and from the way Will’s eyebrows come together in a V across his forehead, I can tell he’s not either. “Really, guys. It’s nothing.”
“Oh, come on, Ro. Spill,”
Suze says, and I’ve never been able to keep things from Suze, even when it’s embarrassing to talk about, so I tell her.
“It’s just that you guys know exactly what you want to do with your lives, and I’m so jealous of that. I have no clue what I want to do.”
Suze quirks a brow at me, her lips making a flat line. “Bull. You know what you want to do. Doesn’t she, Will?”
Will looks uncomfortable, like he’d really rather not be brought into this conversation. He gives me a gentle smile before he speaks. “I think she does.”
I roll my eyes at them and tease, “Okay then, wise career gurus, what do I want to do?”
“Art,” Suze says simply. “You love it.”
“I like art. What’s your point?” I say. My tone is a bit sharp, but Suze and I have been down this road all too often lately and there’s not much more I can say. She’s been pestering me about it ever since our conversation the other night. Tirelessly. And I keep repeating the same stuff back, rather fatigued. I hate that she’s bringing it up again, in front of Will, no less.
“You know it’s not an option for me, Suze,” I say, and hope that’s the end of it. I plaster on a smile, which I hope looks casual, not strained. “So I was thinking maybe communications, or perhaps even pre-law. I don’t really see myself in a courtroom, but I’d be great at legal research.”
“You don’t see yourself in a courtroom because you see yourself in front of a canvas,” Suze says. “I wish you’d just tell your parents. You should at least try.” Suze looks to Will for support. “She loves it, so she should go for it, right?”
Will looks at me, and I can see something pass in his golden brown eyes. He nods once. “I think you should, Ro.” He tries to smile at me. “I mean, if it’s what you really love, you need to try. I think if you gave up art, you’d regret it.”
“I don’t have to give it up. I can still paint no matter what I major in,” I snap at him, and he blinks, stunned. It’s the first time I’ve ever even sounded angry at him, and honestly, it surprises me too.
“It’s not the same,” he argues, keeping his voice quiet and level.
I look between them, Will with his pitying eyes and Suze with her smug grin because she’s right. Of course she’s right. I love art. I liked it before, but I didn’t understand how much, and now, with this summer experience, I know I’ve fallen in love with it. It’s just like Will said when he was talking about physics: I think about it all the time. I dream about it when I sleep. I can’t get it out of my head.
“You know Indy’s right,” Suze says, catching my gaze with her own, trapping me. “They want you to be happy, I’m sure, and I bet they’ll surprise you. Lindy and Peter sure surprised the hell out of me when I told them I didn’t want to be a lifer. I don’t understand why you won’t just tell them.”
Suze’s words strike a dissonant chord within me—a bitter, jealous chord. Suze’s parents are wonderful. They are loving and affectionate, they are happy with what they have, they are artistic and strange and they love others who are artistic and strange. They don’t care about their image; they don’t care if they aren’t rich. They count their friends and talents as successes, not their house or their car or their status in their social circle.
They are the exact opposites of my parents.
So how could Suze understand? How could she possibly know what it feels like to be afraid of disappointing her parents? To feel like she isn’t good enough? To feel like she can’t veer from the path they have created for her?
“Of course you don’t understand, Suze,” I tell her. “Your parents are different than mine.”
Suze leans back into the rickety chair, crossing her arms over her considerable chest. “So?”
“So . . . ,” I start, impatiently. “My mother is a lawyer. My dad’s a partner in an accounting firm.”
Suze’s eyes narrow. “I’m failing to see your point.”
I shrug. “I just mean that they’re important people, and they want me to do something just as important.”
“I see,” Suze says. Her voice is tight and eerily flat. “So they’re more important than my parents.”
“That’s not what I’m saying.”
“Then what exactly are you saying?”
I take a breath and try to regroup. This conversation has gone off the rails a bit, heading toward a dangerous place, and I’ve got to get it back on track. I try to choose my next words carefully.
“I’m just saying that they expect a lot more from me.”
“Because they’re so important. And mine don’t expect much from me, since they’re unimportant,” Suze says.
“No,” I protest. “Stop. You’re putting words in my mouth. All I’m saying is that it’s easier for you because all they do is go around to Renaissance Faires. I mean, they wanted you to be a lifer instead of going to college. They don’t have high expectations for you like mine do for me.”
Suze looks at Will, nodding as if she understands what I’m saying completely. And for a moment, I’m relieved that she might understand. But then she starts speaking again, her tone acidic, and my stomach drops.
“You hear that, Indy? Being a lifer isn’t a high expectation for Ro. It’s not good enough. Because, apparently, all my parents do is go around to Renaissance Faires.” Suze turns her sharp gaze at me. “I’m sorry my family’s not important enough for you, Ro.”
“Suze . . . that’s not what I meant,” I say, but Suze has pushed back from the table and is standing.
“Isn’t it? You said it yourself. Being a lifer isn’t good enough for you.” Suze shakes her head, slowly and with disgust.
“No. I was talking about my parents. What my parents think. Being an artist won’t be good enough for them. That’s what I meant.”
“Oh, I know what you meant, Ro. And I suppose being a seamstress or a falconer or a whip cracker probably isn’t good enough either.” Suze laughs, but it’s without mirth. “I can’t believe you. After all my mom has done for you . . . no, you know what? I’m glad I found out what you really think of us. I won’t waste any more time with you.”
“Suze . . .”
But Suze stalks off toward the laundromat exit, mumbling over her shoulder. “I’ll walk back. Wouldn’t want you to have to drive around a lowly Renaissance Faire worker . . .”
The bells on the laundromat door tinkle and Will stands, his eyes following Suze out to the parking lot. “I’ll walk with her,” he says, not looking at me at all, and I reach out, putting my hand on his forearm. He doesn’t jerk away, but he looks down at my hand like it’s done something offensive, and I pull back.
“I didn’t mean that. I was just trying to say that my parents are stricter. And they have all these plans for me. That’s all I was trying to say.”
Will looks at me then, and I almost wish he hadn’t. His brown eyes are dull, his shoulders are slumped, and the worst part is that he isn’t angry or hurt, just disappointed. His family is deep in the Renaissance Faire circuit; he had no other choice than to take my words the same way Suze had.
“See you back at the faire,” Will says, and takes off after Suze. I watch as he jogs to her and wraps her up in a hug. I can tell from the way she’s hunched over and the way she’s covering her face that she’s crying, and that hits me hard. It feels like the fight with Kara all over again, maybe even worse. At least with Kara, I had faith that she’d come around no matter what and we’d forgive each other. With Suze, she doesn’t have to forgive me and be my friend again. She can find a new tent to crash in and never speak to me again if she wants. And what about Will? Another new friend I might have just lost because I was too angry and jealous and proud to see that they were trying to help me.
I watch them until they disappear behind a building down the street. It’s almost three miles back to the faire, as the crow flies, longer if they don’t cut through the woods. I should get in my car and go after them, but then again, if I know Suze, she needs some time to cool down before sh
e’ll hear me out. And maybe by then, Will can convince her I didn’t mean it the way she thought.
If he believes that himself.
I spend the next hour watching the clothes spin around in the dryer. When they’re done I take them out and meticulously fold all of Suze and Will’s things, because it’s the least I can do.
Storm clouds are gathering as I pack all the laundry into my car, and I hope Will and Suze are already back at the campgrounds, safe and dry. It’s barely past noon, though, and I can’t face going back to the faire and seeing their hurt faces again, or worse, going back to the tent to see Suze packing up and moving out. So, like the coward I am, I go to the nearby grocery store with the Starbucks in it and have some coffee. I sit at a table by the window and watch the gray clouds swirl and roll, the wind blowing grocery bags around in shopper’s hands, but it hasn’t yet started to rain. I figure I could wait out the storm, maybe have another cup of coffee, but the truth is that it doesn’t taste as good as Ramón’s black sludge, and I don’t even want the cupcake I bought to go along with it. To make things worse, the caffeine is making me feel jittery. I’m not sure if it’s the coffee or my anxiety that’s making my hands tremble, or a little bit of both.
After staring a bit longer out into the oncoming storm, I pick up my cupcake with trembling hands and set off toward the faire.
When I get back to the tent, Suze isn’t there, as much as I hoped she would be. To kill some time, and to give myself a chance to think, I decide to take a long, hot shower. It helps more than I expect it to. The steam calms me, the warmth of the water soothes my aching muscles and makes the chill I felt under my skin fade slightly. Every time I think about the fight, though, the chill comes back with a vengeance and I’m left with goose bumps all over my skin.
But as I step out of the shower and wrap myself in a robe—Suze’s robe—I feel guiltier than ever.
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