Colonial Madness

by Jo Whittemore

  Mom raised an eyebrow. “Really? You’re staying vegan during this? I’m pretty sure the Pilgrims didn’t have Tofurkey at the first Thanksgiving.”

  Aunt Zoe took a bite of her protein bar. “There are other legumes.”

  “Not to mention milk made from said legumes,” added Uncle Deke.

  My interest in legumes was down to le nothing, so I turned to Angel while our parents talked. The eagerness on her face had vanished, and she yawned wide enough for me to see a poppy seed stuck in her molar.

  “You just woke up a few hours ago! How are you already tired?” I asked. “It can’t be from all the toothbrushing you did.”

  “Huh?” Angel ran her tongue over her teeth. “No, we stayed up until one this morning planning our strategy.”

  “Strategy?” I repeated.

  “Yeah. Didn’t you guys?”

  I scoffed. “We did one better. We actually practiced cooking over a fire.”

  We actually roasted marshmallows over the stove.

  “Why didn’t you just let your parents talk while you slept?” I asked.

  Not that I’d followed my own advice. While Mom went into a sugar coma, I’d stayed up reading about edible plants. Sometimes, I wish I could actually be the kid in our crazy dynamic.

  Angel shook her head and yawned again. “My folks were really happy that I’m so . . . excited.”

  I regarded her dull eyes and blank expression. “This is you excited? I’ve seen couches show more emotion.”

  She stuck out her tongue. “I’m fake excited. It makes them happy.”

  “That seems healthy,” I said. “Also, you have aluminum foil in your hair.”

  “It’s from breakfast,” she said, feeling around for it. I plucked it loose and handed it to her.

  “Perfect for a fishing lure,” she said. “Fish think shiny things are minnows.”

  “Too bad it’s not from colonial times,” I said, squishing it between my fingers.

  “Again, it doesn’t have to be foil. It jsut has to be shiny. Clearly you have much to learn about survival,” said Angel. “You don’t take advantage of your surroundings.”

  “Sure I do,” I said as we followed our parents to the gate. “Watch as I take advantage of my mother.”

  I hurried to catch Mom and tugged at her sleeve. “Can I have change for the penny squasher, please?”

  I loved the souvenir machines that would flatten a penny and print an image on it. It was kind of an obsession of mine that started as an obsession of my dad’s. My mom said he always had pockets of loose change, and any time he was somewhere that had one of those machines, he’d get a flattened penny in every pattern. There weren’t many ways for me to bond with a dead man, but it was better than Mom’s idea of holding a séance.

  Uncle Deke reached into his pocket and fished out a handful of coins. “Here.” He offered them to me. “I’ll be three pounds lighter if you take them.”

  Mom smirked. “Looks like you picked up someone’s bad habit.”

  “Actually,” said Uncle Deke with a grin, “he picked it up from me.”

  The adults stood around and watched Angel and me flatten pennies until it was time to board our flight. When the plane touched down in Boston, Dylan and his dad, my Uncle Max, were waiting for us at the gate.

  “Hey, future runners-up!” Uncle Max greeted us with a tip of his cowboy hat. After he and Dylan moved away, he’d become a cattle baron out in Texas and was now probably the richest living member of our family.

  Uncle Max shook hands with Uncle Deke and kissed Mom and Aunt Zoe on the cheek. Then he turned to Dylan. “Say hi, son!”

  “Hey, future losers,” mumbled Dylan, not bothering to look up from the frozen yogurt he was eating.

  For a kid who came from money, Dylan dressed like he came from a Dumpster. His cargo shorts were baggy and frayed, his T-shirt was stained, and his hair was a shaggy nightmare.

  “That’s a healthy snack,” Aunt Zoe told him with an encouraging smile. “All that active bacteria is good for you.”

  Dylan stopped midbite and scowled at her. “Gross.” He spit the yogurt back in his cup and turned to Uncle Max. “Give me money for ice cream.”

  “Now, Dylan, you know that’s a bad idea.” Uncle Max chuckled again and turned to us, tapping his head. “He gets brain freeze.”

  “Hard to imagine,” I said. Mom nudged me.

  “Whatever,” said Dylan. “I’m gonna go talk to people that matter.” He pulled a phone from his pocket and wandered off.

  Uncle Max shrugged at us apologetically. “Since his mother and I divorced, he’s been going through a rough stage. At least, that’s what the therapist says.”

  I had a feeling the therapist said more than that . . . like “Get out!” or “I can’t help” or “Have you thought of adding a dungeon in your house?”

  “Well, hopefully this experience will be beneficial,” said Mom. “And really bring you two together, like me and my gal.” She put her arm around me and squeezed. I beamed up at her.

  “Shoot, Dylan’s headed for the escalator,” said Uncle Max. “I’d better catch him before he gets it going in reverse.”

  “There’s a shuttle van waiting for us!” called Uncle Deke, tapping his watch. “Don’t be too long!”

  “They’ll be fine,” said Aunt Zoe. “It’s not like they need the money anyway.”

  I glanced at Angel. Neither of us said anything, but I knew we were both secretly hoping the shuttle would leave without them. If they came along, Dylan would be a huge pain and probably make poor Uncle Max do everything.

  But when we reached ground transportation, Dylan and Uncle Max were already there, standing beside a man holding a sign that said ARCHIBALD FAMILY.

  “That’s them,” Uncle Max told the driver, pointing us out.

  The man nodded and tucked the sign under one arm.

  “This way, please.” He gestured for us to follow him to a shuttle van with an ARCHIBALD FARMS decal on the side.

  “Archibald Farms?” I said. “I didn’t know Great-Aunt Muriel was a . . . a woman of the land.”

  I realized I didn’t know much about her at all.

  “Is that how she got so rich?” asked Angel.

  “The second time,” said Uncle Deke. “The first time was from steel during World War II.”

  “She was one of the few respected women in the upper echelons of the business world back then,” added Aunt Zoe.

  I shook my head. “That doesn’t make sense. A woman at her attorney’s office said she was in the business of knowing other people’s business.”

  The adults all chuckled.

  “I don’t doubt it,” said Uncle Deke. “Great-Aunt Muriel knew your parents had eloped weeks before anyone else.”

  Mom smirked. “She was a crafty one. Always one step ahead.”

  I smiled, picturing Great-Aunt Muriel in her thick rope of pearls, making deals at a table of scowling businessmen. Something told me she had no problem holding her own in that crowd. If she were still alive, I might have actually liked her a little.

  “Please watch your heads as you enter the vehicle,” said the driver, “and place any belongings that aren’t medically necessary in the back.” He popped open the rear door. “They’ll be returned to you when you leave the contest.”

  Mom handed over our backpack (we’d eaten the bananas on the plane), and we climbed into the passenger side of the van. Dylan climbed in next, pausing long enough to fart beside my seat before walking back to his.

  “Gross!” I screeched, punching him in the arm.

  “Get used to it,” he said. “That’s the smell of victory. My victory.”

  I looked to Mom for help, and she shrugged. “Things are going to smell a lot worse by the end of two weeks.”

  “If you last that long,” said Dylan.

  I whirled around to look at him. “Care to make a side bet, smart aleck?”

  Dylan snorted. “You want to give me extra money? Sure.”
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  “Not money,” I said. “Pride. If you lose, you have to wear one of my mom’s dresses on the first day back to school. And I want photographic proof.”

  Dylan hesitated a second before nodding. “Fine. And if you lose, you have to do my homework for a month. I’ll e-mail it. And it’ll be hard.”

  “Awww, still can’t stack the blocks by yourself?” I asked. “Deal.” I extended a hand, and we shook. His fingers were sticky.

  He leaned back in his seat. “I’m going to enjoy kicking your butt no matter what the stakes.”

  “Stakes . . . steaks,” said Mom, rubbing her stomach. “Now I’m hungry again.”

  “Steaks would definitely hit the spot,” said Uncle Max with a chuckle.

  “Lunch will be waiting when you reach the estate,” said the shuttle driver, climbing into his seat.

  “Are we the only ones competing?” I asked. If that was the case, the odds weren’t looking too bad.

  “No, some of the others are already at the property, and the rest arrive tonight.” He pulled away from the curb. “Ten families in total.”

  Dylan fiddled with a monitor and DVD player on the ceiling.

  “Does this thing get cable?” he asked.

  At least there was one family I didn’t have to worry about.

  “Actually, I do have a little something for you to watch,” the driver said, reaching back to offer a disc.

  I took it and slid it into the player.

  Great-Aunt Muriel appeared on-screen, wearing a neck-choking blouse clasped shut with a huge diamond brooch. A frown creased both sides of her face, giving her a bulldoggish appearance.

  “Greetings, contestants. I see you’ve chosen money over self-respect.” She narrowed her eyes in what was probably meant to be a disapproving manner but made her appear comical instead.

  “Nevertheless,” she said, “I applaud your intrepid spirit. Very few people would willingly give up everything to start over with nothing. I should know.”

  I turned to Mom. “What did she mean by that?”

  Uncle Deke paused the video. “Remember how I said she was successful during World War II? After the country started to recover, she suddenly wasn’t necessary anymore.”

  “Because she was a woman,” said Aunt Zoe with a disapproving tone. “And they didn’t belong in the boardroom unless they were secretaries taking memos.”

  Dylan laughed. I leaned over and punched him in the leg.

  “Anyway,” said Uncle Deke, “the only way she would be allowed to stay in business was if she gave up control and became a silent partner. Of course she refused, so the others in her company ruined her and drove her into bankruptcy. She had to sell everything.”

  “That’s so sad,” said Angel.

  “She survived worse, from what I hear,” said Mom. “She grew up during the Great Depression, and her family lived in a Hooverville.”

  At the confused look on my face, Mom added, “A poor area of town where all the houses are just shacks of scrap wood.”

  “Really?” I couldn’t see Great-Aunt Muriel living in a shack. I could see her maybe bulldozing one to build a stable for her pony, but never living in one.

  Uncle Deke restarted the video.

  “My groundskeeper and his family await you at the manor. They will be your instructors and judges. Even if you don’t win the contest, I hope you leave this experience with more than Lyme disease,” said Great-Aunt Muriel. “History has a great deal to teach us if we are willing to learn from it. That being said, I bring you a brief film on colonial life that may come in handy during the contest. Best of luck, and please don’t die in my koi pond.”

  Her image faded and was replaced by a documentary on colonial living. It ended just as the shuttle driver turned onto a dirt road and stopped the van.

  “This is as far as I go,” he said. “The dirt road will lead you all the way to the manor, and you can either continue on foot or take the wagon . . . once you assemble it.”

  He pointed to a stack of wheels and tools leaning against a wheelless wagon bed. We all thanked him and climbed out of the van.

  “So where do we start?” I asked.

  Uncle Max chuckled. “By deciding who’s going to pull this thing once it’s built!”

  As if on cue, there was a whinnying sound from a nearby grove of trees. Dylan walked over to investigate and returned holding the reins of two horses.

  “They’re not fast, but they’ll do,” he said, pulling them alongside the wagon bed.

  “Actually, they’re perfect,” said Uncle Max. “We need work horses, not racing ones.”

  “Not if we want to win!” said Dylan. “Let’s go, Dad!”

  He jumped atop the wagon bed, and from there leapt onto the back of one of the horses, digging his heels into its sides.

  “Dylan!” we all shouted, but he was already galloping toward the manor.

  And proving that he was smarter than I thought.

  Chapter Four

  But he wasn’t the only one full of surprises.

  Mom swung onto the other horse, shouting, “No you don’t!”

  The horse reared and gave a terrified whinny, but Mom gripped the reins and took off. A second trail of dust appeared next to Dylan’s.

  The rest of us stood there, wide-eyed and slack-jawed.

  “Did that really just happen?” asked Aunt Zoe. She turned to me. “Your mother, who I’ve seen fall off a yoga ball, just . . .” She trailed off.

  “I know!” I said, still in shock. “She told me she worked at a summer camp. I didn’t realize it was Camp Stuntwoman.”

  “Well, hopefully she’ll catch Dylan and we can get out of here,” said Uncle Deke.

  “Sorry again, folks,” said Uncle Max with a chuckle, though it was strained and his face had turned bright red. “I guess my son’s more of a go-getter than I thought.”

  “It’s okay.” Uncle Deke patted him on the shoulder. “Any of us would have done the same.”

  None of us would have done the same, but I nodded and said, “Let’s put the wagon together so it’ll be ready when they come back.”

  We all set to work with one eye on the wagon and one on the road, and after ten minutes the two horses appeared with only one rider—Mom. She sat atop one while pulling the reins of the other.

  Uncle Max frowned and approached her as she slowed her horse to a walk.

  “Where’s Dylan?” he asked.

  “He’s fine,” said Mom. She passed over both sets of reins and dismounted. “I left him standing next to the road so both horses wouldn’t be weighed down. Is the wagon ready?”

  “Almost,” said Uncle Deke, hammering a wheel onto the back axle. Uncle Max helped him while Mom and Aunt Zoe hitched the horses to the wagon. Then everyone piled in, and Uncle Max coaxed the team forward.

  We moved like snails over gravel.

  “Can’t this thing go any faster?” asked Angel.

  “Sweetheart, if it did, your teeth would rattle out of your head,” said Uncle Max. “A contraption like this doesn’t have shock absorbers, you know.”

  “Not to mention the horses are probably tired from running,” said Mom. “Just sit back and enjoy the scenery.”

  I tugged her arm and made her sit beside me.

  “What if Dylan’s already at the estate setting up booby traps?” I whispered.

  “Won’t happen,” said Mom, pulling her hair into a ponytail.

  “I don’t know. He was smart enough to hijack a horse.”

  Mom shook her head. “No, I mean he won’t be going anywhere. Trust me.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “How can you be sure?”

  She smiled. “Because we’ve almost reached the tree I threw his shoes into.”

  “Ha!” I blurted, then clapped a hand over my mouth. “Mom, I’m pretty sure that’s sabotage!” I whispered louder.

  Mom blinked at me innocently. “I was trying to knock some peaches out of the tree, and I needed something to throw,” she said with a
shrug. “Nobody could argue with that.”

  The wagon slowed to a standstill, and we poked our heads around the horses.

  “I think Dylan could,” I said.

  Dylan waited under the tree, scowling at us. His cheeks had turned a ruddy pink, and he wore his shirt wrapped around his head like a turban.

  “If he crossed his arms, he’d look like a genie.” Angel poked me, giggling.

  “Yeah,” I said, “but I don’t think he’s going to be granting any wishes.”

  “Son,” said Uncle Max with a raised eyebrow, “where are your shoes?”

  “Ask her,” Dylan snarled, pointing at Mom.

  She stood on the driver’s seat of the wagon and reached into the tree limbs, extracting a pair of tennis shoes with the laces tied together. Dylan snatched them from her and climbed into the wagon. Nobody said anything, even Uncle Max. He simply shook the reins, and the horses pressed on.

  After another ten minutes or so, a butter-colored building with green trim appeared through a break in the trees. It stood a couple of stories tall, with windows spanning six across.

  “Is that Archibald Manor?” I asked.

  The others shifted forward to get a better look.

  “It is indeed,” said Uncle Deke.

  “It’s beautiful,” said Angel.

  “It’s tiny,” said Dylan. “I thought mansions were supposed to be huge, with fountains and bushes shaped like things.”

  “It was huge for that time period,” said Aunt Zoe. “And the value now is in the fact that it’s still standing, as well as whatever antiques it contains.”

  As we got closer to the trees, I could see that the manor stretched back as far as it did across, with a few smaller buildings behind it.

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “Please let it be a day spa,” Angel whispered.

  “I’m guessing servants’ quarters,” said Uncle Deke.

  And sure enough, a woman in a white apron and purple frock stepped out of one of the buildings, toting a basket piled with corn. She waved to us and bustled over.

  “Well met, weary travelers,” she said, her warm smile reaching her eyes. “You’ve arrived just in time for dinner.”

  “Dinner?!” squeaked Dylan. “How long was I standing under that tree?” He shot an accusatory glance at Mom.