We don’t speak, which is for the best, and I organize my station in the silence until the first customers arrive. The silence continues all the way up to when Cassie leaves for her shift at the tavern, and I could swear that even the customers sense the tension. More than a few children cast nervous glances from me to Cassie, then back to me again, as if they’re afraid World War III might break out between us.
But after Cassie leaves, all the tension and chill in the tent evaporates. Finally relaxed, I get up to stretch the strain out of my shoulders and back and my stomach rumbles. Almost time for Lindy’s meatloaf. In fact, I haven’t had a customer in a while. I could probably get away with turning the sign to closed and taking off for the night.
I’m about to do just that when a little girl wanders into the tent, destroying my hope of leaving early. She looks to be about eleven, and she’s a tad overweight. She also has really curly hair, which I know from personal experience can be a pain in the butt.
I fix my frown into a smile and ignore my empty stomach. “I’m Ro, what’s your name?”
“Anna,” the girl replies. She bites hard on her lower lip.
“Do you want your face painted?” I ask, praying the answer is no.
“Maybe.” Anna lowers her gaze to the ground.
I sigh. This might take a while. “Are your parents around?”
“Mom’s in the jewelry shop with Mike.”
I don’t know if Mike is a brother, the girl’s stepfather, or just the mother’s boyfriend, but I have to wonder if Mom even notices Anna’s gone.
“Does she know you’re here?”
Anna worries her bottom lip between her teeth. “She told me to stay in here for a while.”
Ah. So I’m a babysitter. Great.
I look at her, with her cute little dimples and her sad expression, almost like she wants to apologize to me for being such a bother, and my heart breaks for her. Suddenly my rumbling stomach doesn’t matter and my impatience shames me.
“Well, Anna, that’s fine. We’re going to have a great time.” Her face lights up, which makes me melt. “Why don’t you come over here and pick out some colors you like? Once you have the colors, we can think of something to make out of them.”
I lead her over to look at the colors on my desk. She takes a long moment, studying the colors with the kind of scrutiny I usually see only from my parents, or teachers, or Jeff. Then she points out three colors: orange, turquoise, and purple.
“Perfect,” I say, and the approval of her choice makes her beam. I sit and motion her into the chair opposite me, then take the small tins of color out so I can arrange them close to my hands. I study her and an idea forms in my head, as clear as if someone had whispered it in my ear. She’s got a pretty face, heart-shaped with a strong chin, and she’s got lovely long eyelashes and a sprinkling of cute freckles over her cheekbones. I need to highlight that, show everyone how pretty she is, and make her feel important all at once.
“How about I make you a butterfly princess?”
The question is met with a small squeal and excited nodding, and I completely understand. I’m just as excited to get started.
I begin with purple over her left eye and draw the outline of a butterfly’s body all the way down over her nose and right cheek, and then outline two large wings that take up the rest of her face. I shade that in with the orange, giving the outline of the butterfly’s body and wings a sparse tinge. It’s the turquoise I want to use the most.
When I lean over to get a cloth to wipe my brush, I balance myself on something thick and leathery, and I look down, realizing it’s the B.A.B. I push it aside. It’s just taking up space that I need for my paints. I don’t need it. Not for the butterfly princess; not really for anything. I’m a better artist than that.
And it feels good to know it.
Anna and I chat as I work, bonding over our curly hair and our love of Ramón’s sticky buns. In the end, I end up painting on a shimmering golden crown and even sticking on some rhinestones that I found in an old jar in the tent. When I’m done, Anna’s in awe of how she looks, gaping at herself in the mirror for ages. Then she reaches into her pocket and pulls out a crumpled five-dollar bill.
“Is this enough?”
I take her bill and give her two dollars back, which will cover the paint and the rhinestones. “Yes. More than enough. You get the curly hair discount.”
I wink at her, and she giggles. It’s that giggle, shy but happy, that I capture in my Polaroid of her. I don’t know if the camera will catch the pride there in Anna’s face, but I don’t need it to. I might just remember it forever.
As Anna scampers back out into the faire, I call after her, “Have fun! Go see Cracker Jacques. He’s awesome!”
It’s time for dinner at Lindy’s, and I turn the sign to CLOSED, but before I leave I take a moment to just look around the tent and breathe. My hands are tired from gripping the paint brushes all day, the callouses prickly and sore. My lower back aches from sitting in a chair for so long, leaning forward to get close to my particular canvas. The tent is a mess of color, drips and splashes, looking thoroughly used and abused.
I’m tired. Exhausted, even. But as exhausted as I feel, there’s an even bigger sense of accomplishment, of pride. Of feeling like I’ve found something I needed, or that maybe it’s found me. And as I stand there, inhaling the scent of grass, dirt, and paint, I realize: I don’t want to give this up. I want this always. I have to take a risk and major in art, even if it means disappointing my parents.
As I step out of the tent and head off toward the Mulligan wagon, I have the feeling that, for the first time in my life, I know where I’m going.
Lindy sets down a plate of meatloaf and cheesy broccoli in front of me and my stomach makes a noise of appreciation. Or perhaps it’s a demand.
Lindy hears and laughs. “You poor thing, spending most of your time all the way out in the kids’ section, nothing but ice cream if you get hungry.”
“Yeah, Mom, because ice cream is terrible,” Suze says, hoisting a considerable chunk of meatloaf toward her mouth.
“It is if you want to stay healthy.” Lindy tucks herself into the table but adds another slice of meatloaf to her husband’s plate before she lifts her own fork. “Or fit into a dress for the Revel.”
“I don’t think that’s going to be a problem, since I’m not going,” I mutter.
“Nonsense. Of course you are,” Lindy says, jabbing her fork in my direction. “You can’t miss the Revel. It’s so lovely, and everyone’s there, all dressed up. . . .Tell her, Suze.”
“She’s right, you can’t miss it,” Suze says, grinning, knowing she’s being no help whatsoever.
“I don’t have a date,” I say.
“Why don’t you ask that Fuller boy? He’s always seemed like such a sweetie,” Lindy says, and Suze coughs, covering an errant giggle.
“Yeah, Ro. Why don’t you ask the Fuller boy?” she asks, feigning innocence.
I kick at her under the table and miss, making her snort. I turn to Lindy and try my best to act ladylike. “It’s . . . complicated with the Fuller boy.”
Lindy barrels right over me, oblivious to Suze’s and my exchanged looks and my obvious discomfort.
“I have always thought Will Fuller was handsome. He looks so much like his father. Suze, I know you don’t remember his father from the circus days, but Jack Fuller? Rugged. Handsome. Always seemed like the type to do something crazy and adventurous, like run off to explore the rain forests or join the Peace Corps or something. He’s so charming, too. You wouldn’t believe the way he’d make us all laugh. Very charming, indeed.”
“I am right here,” Peter mutters around a mouthful of broccoli. “Your handsome husband who is also adventurous and rugged.”
“Aww, sorry Pete. My love. My life,” Lindy says, and when Peter’s focus is back on his food, she mouths to us: “Seriously, Jack Fuller? Dreamy.”
Suze and I giggle quietly, but then I grow melan
choly. I frown at Suze, and she sticks out her bottom lip in sympathy. “Unfortunately, I think maybe I blew it, and I don’t think Will will want to go with me. And I can’t go dateless. I just can’t face Kyle and Lacey if I’m a lonely loser.”
“I wouldn’t give up yet,” Lindy says, and Suze agrees.
I shrug. “It’s just as well. I don’t have a dress anyway. I didn’t bring any of my dresses with me.”
Suze makes a face that says she’s both shocked and disgusted. “Oh, you’re such a newbie. I forgot. You can’t wear modern clothes to the Revel anyway. The faire staff has to be in period dress. Jeff’s rules.”
My heart sinks. There’s no way I can go to the Revel then, even if Will would go with me. None of my day-to-day costumes are fancy enough. I’d need a fairy godmother to make me a dress and turn a pumpkin into a carriage and turn Jiffy into . . . well, a bigger horse.
It’s as if Lindy can read my mind. “Don’t worry about that! I have just the thing for you in my shop. It’ll take some hemming, but that’s no problem.”
Her offer nearly reduces me to tears, but I can’t let her do that. She’s been so kind to me, and I’ve done nothing but insult her to her daughter in return, however accidental it may have been.
“I don’t want to take up your time,” I tell her, the ball of guilt in my throat making it hard to speak. “You’ve done too much for me already, and I’m sure you have your own costumes to work on.”
Lindy laughs, her voice echoing around the wagon. “Oh no, dear. Peter and I always go as the same thing. Our hawk and dove are famous! I’m working on Suze’s peacock costume, but it’s almost done. Really. It’s no trouble at all.”
“Thank you. I don’t know what I’d do without you. You’re so incredibly generous,” I say, and I think my earnestness embarrasses the lot of them, because Suze helps herself to more meatloaf and Lindy titters on about how excited she is that I might be hooking up with Jack Fuller’s son. You’d think it was her own daughter she was talking about, which makes me feel all gooey and warm inside, the embodiment of Ramón’s sticky buns.
I’ve got to figure out some way to repay their kindness, or at least express my appreciation, since there’s no way I can truly repay them for all they’ve done. I start by gathering the dinner plates when we’re finished eating so that Lindy can enjoy the rest of her dinner without playing hostess.
There’s a small wastebasket under the countertop, and I scrape the leftover crumbs into it before laying the dishes in the sink. Lindy’s taken up a good portion of the tiny counter displaying a beautiful tea set. It’s Robbie’s handiwork; I can tell by the way the petals of the roses are shaped out of curving brushstrokes. On the window ledge, Lindy’s propped up a few family photos (one of Suze as a toddler, enchanting in a tiny little Renaissance dress) and a cross-stitch that says HOME IS WHERE YOUR RUMP RESTS. Lindy has certainly made this wagon feel like home—with personal touches that show all the love and warmth they share.
Maybe if I want to thank them, I could bring my own personal touch to this place. Maybe I could make my own mark on the wagon somehow.
I think of the fading, cracked mural on the side of the wagon and know what I have to do: The Mulligans need a new mural, an updated one that includes Suze. I’ll have to spend every minute of my free time to get it done before the faire closes for the summer, but it will be totally worth it. There’s just one problem . . . there’s no way I can keep it a secret. Not exactly.
I turn back toward the family. “Hey, Lindy, have you ever thought about repainting the mural on the wagon?”
Lindy frowns and her gaze shifts to Peter, and I wonder if I’ve brought up a touchy subject. “Well, honestly, we’ve been meaning to for years. But Robbie gets so busy during faire season, and everyone else is so expensive . . .”
Peter rubs Lindy’s forearm. “We could always just put some red paint over it.”
“No,” Lindy says, and though it’s not forceful, it’s obvious she won’t budge from that answer. “This wagon’s been in your family for generations. It’s got to say Mulligan.”
“Would you let me paint a mural?” I ask, and all three Mulligan heads jerk towards me in surprise. “As a thank-you for all you’ve done. I totally understand if you don’t want anyone besides Robbie to touch it, but I’d love to do it for you. You’ve done so much for me.”
Lindy and Peter exchange a look that’s then exchanged with Suze. Then, at the unspoken agreement, Peter stands and offers his hand. But before I shake it, I add an important condition to the deal.
“Wait. You have to promise me you won’t look until I’m done,” I say. “I’ll cover it up each night and none of you are allowed to peek until it’s finished. Deal?”
Lindy looks over at Suze, who has taken a sudden, intense interest in a floret of broccoli. “Suze, can you promise not to look?”
Suze bites down on the broccoli and chews, mumbling around the green, “You know I’m no good with surprises . . .”
“Suze . . . ,” Lindy, Peter, and I say in unison.
“Fine,” she says, swallowing. She holds up three fingers like a Boy Scout. “I won’t look. Promise.”
Peter and I shake on it, Lindy hugs me, and Suze gives me a bright smile, even though I know she’s going to beg me about seeing the mural later, despite her promise. The air in the wagon is charged with elation, and as a bonus, Lindy suddenly remembers there’s dessert waiting for us. She reaches into their small fridge and pulls out a strawberry pie that looks heavenly, and doles out whopping pieces for each of us.
We sit and dig in, picking up the conversation right where we left off.
“Did you know the Burkes are coming to the Revel, Peter? Won’t that be fun?” Lindy says while scooping up a juicy strawberry. “Now, if only the Hansens and the Fullers came too, it would be like a circus reunion. We should invite them . . .”
Although Peter grunts at hearing the Fuller family name again, Lindy’s excitement about a possible reunion is palpable, and it also seems contagious. I’d love a reunion with my own friends. It’s been so long since I’ve seen them, or even talked to them, and I’m dying to tell them all about my summer and to hear what’s going on with them as well. The Revel would be the perfect opportunity to do that, and they’d love getting all dressed up and seeing all the staff (mainly me) in period dress.
Plus, as an added bonus, if Meg and Kara and Brian can come to the Revel, I won’t be alone when Kyle and Lacey make their appearance, and it might help make up for leaving them behind over the summer. I’ll have to go into town to e-mail them an invite, but I’m sure I can find some time soon to sneak away.
I pick up my fork and dig into Lindy’s strawberry pie, smiling so wide I can barely chew, and start to make plans.
18
WEEK 3—SATURDAY
The morning of the Fairie Queen’s Revel, it seems as if the very air is buzzing with excitement.
King Geoffrey’s Faire is closed for preparations, officially, but inside it might as well be Christmas Eve at the North Pole. Everyone (save for Ramón and his cooking team) has abandoned their usual posts and is busy readying the whole village with dazzling efficiency for Revel guests.
For a place that frowns on electricity during the normal season, it is surprisingly electric. Even in the sun’s noonday brightness, the village glows. Some of the men, including Peter, are on ladders, hanging long strands of lights across the walkways and paths, connecting to outlets on poles and buildings. I never noticed the outlets before, but then, I never needed to. To make things even more festive, they hang garlands of bright greens, purples, and golds in between each string of lights. The vendors have gotten into the spirit too. They’ve decorated their doors and windows, and their wares are sitting outside their shops, displayed elegantly on tables, looking even more tempting than usual. I can only imagine that at night, when the sun is down, this place is going to look like a carnival—a strange, gorgeous Renaissance dreamland.
I’d he
lp with the decorations, only I’m busy doing some of my own. For the past few days I’ve been working on Phase One of the Thank the Mulligans Project: painting their masks for the Revel. I asked to do that in addition to the mural after seeing the masks they were planning to wear. Although they were nice, they were starting to fade and crack, and I promised Lindy and Pete that mine would be better. To get it done away from their curious eyes, I’d been stealing time during the day at the face painting tent, at Robbie’s sometimes, and at night too. In Will’s tent.
Once I explained what I wanted to do for the Mulligans, Will was eager to help and offered his tent as a secret place to work on the masks. Unfortunately, the nearness of him also makes me hyperaware of how much I like him, and I have to bite my tongue when I want to tell him so. We don’t talk about our feelings for each other, and we certainly don’t mention the incredible kiss we shared, but despite these awkward land mines in our conversation, it feels comfortable with him. He’s helping me hone all my ideas for the masks, and we seem to get a little closer every day. I guess we can be good friends, once I get over wanting more.
When I get to Will’s tent, he’s already working, my paints spread around him. He’s decorating his mask too, in plain black and white with an interesting geometric pattern, but he refuses to tell me what it is.
“Some kind of jester,” I say, making him jump in surprise.
“Even if that was it, which it’s not because that’s lame, I will never tell.” He pauses his brushstrokes long enough to hand me my mask, which is almost finished. It’s just as well I haven’t told him what I’m going to be either. I actually can’t, because Lindy hasn’t even told me what she’s dressing me as, but still, we’re even. I pick up my brush, move the glittery gold paint closer to me, and get to work.
We’re silent for a while; easy, comfortable silence, and while we work I try to convince myself it’s for the best that he’s not my date to the Revel. It’ll be better if he’s not there when Kyle walks in; that way he won’t think it was all about getting back at an ex.
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