by A. Destiny
Then he laughed again. I didn’t know if he was joking or just thought losing a thumb was funny. When he held out his hand to shake mine, I couldn’t help but take a digit count. No fingers were missing, which eased my mind a little bit.
The fact that his hand was also as big as an oven mitt and covered with scars and burns—well, that ratcheted my nerves right back up.
“I’m Stan,” the teacher said. “But all the boys call me Coach.”
“Nell,” I said, smiling nervously.
“Okay, Nell, seeing as how I’m not letting you anywhere near a forge today,” he said, “I’m not gonna send you back to your room to change. But tomorrow, I want to see you in close-toed shoes and a shirt that’s not so . . .”
Coach seemed at a loss for words as he regarded my tank top, which had several panels of ruffly fabric cascading down the middle of it. It was one of my favorites, because it created the illusion of curves I didn’t really have.
“Flammable,” he finally said.
I’d actually tried to dress appropriately for the blacksmithing class. I’d paired my tank with denim cutoffs and sturdy walking sandals, and I’d clipped the front bits of my bob away from my face with a couple of glittery hairpins.
I regarded the other students, who were giving me glances over their piles of heavy tools. Their faces looked either curious or curmudgeonly—it was hard to tell through the flinty gloom. They were all dressed pretty much exactly alike.
“So, the plaid shirts and overalls,” I asked Coach, “that’s not just fashion?”
“It’s not at all fashion,” Coach said.
“Hey!” called one of the boys, who was pumping air into one of the forges with an old-fashioned bellows. “Speak for yourself, Coach. I think I look fabulous.”
Deep, throaty laughter rippled around the echoing space, and I joined in.
But the laughter died down quickly when it came time for me to actually join the class. At Coach’s instruction, I went to grab some hammers and tongs from the tool wall.
Two of the guys were still there. One of them had a thick unibrow and dark sideburns that never ended. Literally, they snaked across his full cheeks and joined together beneath his nose. He looked about eighteen, but his mustache looked more like thirty.
The other boy had biceps so big they strained the seams of his plaid shirtsleeves.
Their tools made heavy, clanking sounds as they lifted them off the hooks on the wall.
“Hi,” I said, giving the two guys a little wave that was so girly, it made me cringe. “Um, I’m Nell.”
“Yeah, we heard about you,” said hams-for-arms, easily hoisting a hammer that looked more like a ten-pound dumbbell. He shot a quick glance in Coach’s direction, and I wondered if Coach had warned them before I arrived to be nice to the fiddler’s granddaughter. “Listen, don’t take this the wrong way, but what the heck are you doing here?”
“Yeah, look at that scrawny arm,” mustache guy said, pointing at my bare bicep. “You’re gonna get hurt.”
“I’ll be fine,” I said, sticking out my chin.
“No, you won’t,” he replied, and all laughter went out of his black eyes. “You’re gonna suck up all of Coach’s time because you don’t know what you’re doing.”
I grabbed one of the smaller hammers off the wall and tried not to grunt at its unexpected weight.
“Seriously,” I said. “Don’t worry about me. You just do your thing.”
“Our thing?” Ham-arms said. “Uncensored? Because let me tell you, I just used the word ‘heck’ for the first time in my life, and I didn’t like it.”
“Yeah, bring it,” I blurted. “Swear all you want. I can take it. I don’t want things to be any different just because I’m here. And I promise I won’t get in your way.”
“Uh-huh,” muttered mustache guy. “I’ll believe that when I see it.”
“You’ll see it,” I said to his very broad back as he headed toward the forge. “Promise.”
• • •
Here’s what I’d learned by the end of my first day as a student blacksmith:
• Mustache boy was named Clint, and ham-for-arms was Joe. The other guys in the plaid crew were named Michael, Jack, and Anthony. Jack was my age, but most of the other boys were seniors in high school. Clint, the oldest, was twenty and worked on his family’s farm in South Carolina. (I’d been right about the farm thing.)
• Once I insisted, they did indeed use words a lot stronger than “heck.”
• They were strong. Really strong. And in comparison, I was as floppy-armed as Olive Oyl. I know this because that’s what the guys called me after they saw me wield a hammer.
• Pounding molten metal? It’s excruciating. But also kind of fun.
• Clint had been right—I did get hurt.
I didn’t lose a thumb. I only burned the side of my palm when I rested my right hand on a hot anvil.
I snatched my hand away and bit my cheek to keep from crying out. Then I kept the burn hidden at my side until class was over. Luckily, that happened only a few minutes later.
As I headed for the door, Coach clapped me on the shoulder and said, “Our girl did all right on her first day, didn’t she, guys?”
They responded with a grudging grumble of agreement, which only made me feel guilty.
Finally, after promising Coach that I’d show up the next day in boots and a simpler (if not necessarily plaid) top, I dashed back to the dorm to shower. The burn was one big blister by then, and it hurt badly when the warm water ran over it.
I knew exactly what a burn like this needed—antibiotic ointment and a gauze bandage. I’d packed neither. I was sure that Nanny had, though. Grandmas always remembered that kind of practical stuff when they traveled.
But if Nanny learned that I’d singed a single arm hair in my class, let alone gotten a nasty burn, I knew she’d get all mother hen on me and try to make me drop out. I wouldn’t be surprised if Coach and the rest of the plaid crew backed her up.
But here was what I’d realized a moment after the burn happened, once the initial searing pain had subsided into a mere painful throb: I really wanted to stay in the blacksmithing class. I didn’t know exactly why I did, but I did.
Maybe I wanted to fall in love with ironwork. I might even discover that I had a hidden talent for it. That way, nobody could argue that I was destined to be just another fiddling Finlayson.
Maybe I just wanted to get some muscle definition in my noodle arms and learn some new swear words.
Or maybe . . . I had something to prove to myself. I wasn’t sure what that something was. I bet if I mentioned it to Annabelle, she’d give me a dozen theories, all in a dialect of psychologese that I couldn’t begin to understand.
But of course, I wasn’t going to discuss my desire to keep blacksmithing with Annabelle, or with anybody else. If I kept my burn a secret, I wouldn’t have to fight to stay in the class. I could just show up the next morning and keep on going.
So how was I going to hide this two-inch long blister from everyone? Simple.
I would break into the infirmary.
The infirmary was just a little office in the lodge, located off the long corridor between the lounge and the dining hall. The door didn’t even have a proper lock on it. It was just one of those deals with a push-button lock in the interior knob and a hole in the exterior one. Poke around in that hole with a bobby pin—much like the ones that were jabbed into my hair—and pop, you were in.
I decided to pop in right after dinner.
I also told myself that I wasn’t really doing anything wrong. If I’d gone to the infirmary when it was open, Mrs. Teagle or some other Camden staffer would have happily given me the ointment and bandages. But they’d probably be accompanied by a lecture, a concerned look, and finally: “I’d better discuss this with your grandma.”
And that couldn’t happen.
My resolve increased as I gingerly got dressed for dinner, sucking in my breath every time
a bit of fabric grazed my blister.
I became even more determined as I walked across campus and smelled a hint of steely forge smoke in the air.
In the dining hall, I pretended to be chilled by the air-conditioning and crossed my arms over my middle, hiding the burn against my body.
I’m actually doing the Camden staffers a favor, I told myself as I headed for my table. Why should anybody go to the trouble of helping me, when I can help myself?
Chapter Six
From the moment I made my decision about the infirmary, everything went perfectly.
At the vegetarian table, I ended up sitting between two of the aloof older girls. They spent the meal talking about college-y stuff and ignoring me, and they definitely didn’t notice that I was awkwardly eating with my left hand and hiding my burned right hand beneath the table.
Then there was homemade butterscotch pudding for dessert, which almost made up for the fact that dinner had been yet another casserole, this one involving cream of mushroom soup and green beans. After dessert, everyone cleared out, some for a twilight nature walk and the rest for the nightly sing-along in the great hall upstairs.
All those activities left the corridor outside the infirmary empty. The only other rooms along this hallway were the front office and the kitchen. The office was closed, and when I pressed my ear to the kitchen door, I heard the loud clatter of dishwashing in full swing. It was the perfect moment for a break-in.
Except it’s not really breaking in, I reminded myself. I’m just helping myself to something they’d be giving me anyway.
Then, trying not to feel shifty and evil, I slipped one of the bobby pins out of my hair and poked it into the little hole in the doorknob.
I twisted it. I wiggled it. I jabbed it in and out of the knob several times. But I didn’t hear a pop.
Sighing, I squinted into the tiny hole. When I saw nothing but blackness, I tried the bobby pin again, maneuvering it this way and that.
“What are you doing?”
I yelped and straightened up so fast, I knocked my forehead on the doorknob.
Great, I thought. Injury number two.
When I saw that it was Jacob who had snuck up behind me, I didn’t know whether to be relieved or doubly panicked.
“Um, hi!” I said. “What are you doing here? Don’t tell me you want seconds of that green bean casserole.”
I gestured lamely at the kitchen door, then laughed even more lamely.
Jacob wasn’t fooled for a second. He looked at the little red sign on the door: INFIRMARY, SEE STAFF FOR HELP.
“You’re trying to break in,” Jacob said, his eyes widening in shock.
“No, see, it’s not breaking in. . . .”
I started to explain my logic to him, but I knew if I said it out loud, it would sound . . . not very logical. And not very sane. So I just said, “Listen, it’s not how it looks.”
“Well, it looks pretty bad,” Jacob said. He folded his arms over his chest, and his face went hard. “I bet it’s also futile. I seriously doubt you’ll find anything stronger than Tylenol in there.”
“Wait a minute,” I gasped. “Do you think I’m here for drugs? Are you crazy?”
Jacob looked confused.
“Well, why else does someone break into an infirmary?”
I held up my right hand, showing him the raw, blistery welt on the edge of my palm. He winced.
“I need Neosporin,” I blurted. “And some super-duper Band-Aids.”
“What happened?” Jacob asked. I dropped my gross hand to my side so he would stop staring at it.
“It’s nothing,” I said roughly. “I just had a little accident in blacksmithing class.”
“And they didn’t have a first-aid kit in the barn?” Jacob demanded. “I mean, that kind of thing must happen all the time.”
“I don’t know if they have a first-aid kit,” I said. “I didn’t ask.”
“Why not?”
“Jacob, I’m supposed to be assisting in your fiddle class,” I said. “That’s the whole reason my family shipped me out here against my will.”
“And you’re not supposed to be a blacksmith?” Jacob asked.
“I’m sure that’s what Nanny thinks,” I said. “And I know that’s what every guy in my class thinks. Probably the teacher, too.”
“I think Annabelle would call that sexist,” Jacob said. His face had lost its accusatory hardness. It was even warming into what looked like a pre-smile.
“ ‘I don’t think so, actually,” I said truthfully. “I think they’d like me just fine if I were built like Rosie the Riveter instead of Olive Oyl, or if I could teach them a swear word they’d never heard of. But trust me, these guys know a huge number of swear words. I can’t compete.”
“So your thinking is, all they need to kick you out of the class is proof that you’re not up to the challenge?”
I slumped against the hallway wall and nodded.
“But you want to stay in the class,” Jacob went on, cocking his head and raising his eyebrows.
“Why are you so surprised?” I said.
Now it was Jacob’s turn to look squirmy. He shrugged.
I straightened myself up and squinted at him.
“Oh, I get it,” I said. “You think I’m a quitter. Just because I didn’t want to be Nanny’s fiddle assistant.”
“No . . . ,” Jacob trailed off. He wouldn’t meet my eyes.
“Listen, Jacob,” I said. “I’m not quitting fiddle. It’s not mine to quit. Do you get what I mean?”
“But it is yours,” Jacob insisted. “You’re a Finlayson. Don’t you know how lucky that makes you?”
“Now you sound just like my grandmother!” I sputtered.
Jacob started to retort, but then closed his mouth and looked sheepish.
“Um, you’re right,” he said. “Your grandma is, well, she really gets into your head.”
“What you’re saying is she’s a brute,” I said with a grin. “How did she torture you guys today? Did she make you do scales until you cried?”
Jacob held up his left hand.
“I literally got a cramp in my pinkie,” he said. “That’s never happened to me before.”
“Yeah, Nanny always does that on day one,” I said. “It’s hazing. Students’ pain amuses her.”
Jacob laughed, but then gestured to my hand.
“Does that hurt a lot?” he asked.
I shrugged. My hand was throbbing, but he didn’t need to know that.
Jacob glanced at the doorknob.
“Maybe that’s why you’re having trouble popping that lock,” he said thoughtfully.
“It was a dumb idea,” I sighed. “I mean, I’m clearly going to get kicked out of the class one way or another. I might as well just go get Mrs. Teagle and tell her what happened.”
With my good hand, I started to shove my bobby pin into the pocket of my cutoffs. But Jacob stopped me by grabbing my elbow.
“Wait,” he said.
I wouldn’t say I gasped when Jacob grasped my arm. But I definitely inhaled sharply. Jacob’s cool, dry hand on my skin felt good—a kind of good that I’d never felt before. The pressure of his fingers was somehow strong and whispery all at once. It made the throbbing in my hand whoosh its way into my chest.
When he pulled his hand away, it left a tingling imprint on my skin. The tingle seemed to travel to my brain, blanketing it in fuzz. That must have been why I didn’t react when Jacob took the bobby pin out of my hand and went to work on the doorknob himself.
I should have stopped him, of course.
I could have pointed out that a girl who couldn’t even pick a lock had no business in a blacksmith shop anyway.
I might have channeled Annabelle and told Jacob not to treat me like a damsel in distress.
But instead I just stood there, feeling my arm tingle and staring at him. As he bent over the doorknob, Jacob’s T-shirt clung to his back, which had just the right ratio of skinniness to muscle. A
lock of his glossy dark hair flopped over his forehead in a perfect swoop.
What with the swooping, the tingling, and the staring, I sort of forgot how wrong this was. This boy was breaking into the Winnie J. Camden infirmary for me.
Then I heard the unmistakable sound of Mrs. Teagle’s voice. And very quickly, I did remember how wrong this was.
Her voice, warbling a few lines of a hymn, was coming from the dining hall, and it was getting louder. Any second now, she would turn the corner and spot us.
“Jacob!” I whisper-shrieked.
Pop!
Jacob turned the knob and the door creaked slowly open. But slowly anything wouldn’t do, not when we were milliseconds from being caught.
I crouched low and sprang at Jacob. Together we tumbled into the moonlit infirmary. Jacob landed on his side with an “Oof.” And me?
I landed right on top of him with such momentum that I tipped him over onto his back. When we finally stopped moving, a few things became instantly clear.
(1) My body was stretched out on top of Jacob’s. That meant our noses were touching. Our lips were within an inch of each other. And all sorts of other body parts were touching too.
(2) I’d hit Jacob so hard that I’d knocked the breath out of him. So while he could stare at me in shock, he couldn’t quite form words. This turned out to be a lucky thing, because . . .
(3) I could hear the squeak, squeak, squeak of Mrs. Teagle’s practical, rubber-soled shoes coming down the hallway.
I sprang off Jacob with catlike coordination. Clearly, complete mortification plus mortal terror had given me superhuman powers.
I skittered back to the door, then made myself screech to a halt before I smoothly but swiftly swung it closed. The last bit was the hardest—painstakingly untwisting the doorknob so it didn’t click into place.
I did a pretty good job keeping this maneuver quiet.
But was it silent?
Not even close.
Mrs. Teagle’s shoes stopped squeaking. She had paused, I was almost certain, just outside the door.
I looked around wildly for a place to hide. But the infirmary was lined with open shelves. There wasn’t a single closet. There weren’t even curtains on the small window. We had no cover whatsoever.