by A. Destiny
An instant later, I was backing Jacob up with a little percussion—tapping that rock against my iron spike with sweet little clangs. I sang, too.
“When I die don’t bury me at all
Just hang me up on the spinning room wall
Pickle my bones in alcohol,
It’s hard times everywhere.”
Just as when we’d sung “Clementine” together, I barely noticed the dreariness of the lyrics. As the last note rang out, then drifted away into the sky and the woods, Jacob whooped with joy.
“Yeah!” he yelled. “I can’t believe we did that. And with you playing a . . . a nail?”
I laughed and shrugged.
“Spoons, washboards, nails, whatevs,” I said. “Hey, do you like it? I made it!”
I held out my spike for him to see.
“It’s . . .” He smiled politely, at a loss for words.
“It’s okay,” I said with a laugh. “It’s a big-ass, bizarro nail, but I’m still in love with it. Because it used to be just a chunk of metal. I hammered it into submission!”
“That’s great,” Jacob said.
But his smile had faded, and he no longer sounded poised to scoop me into a celebratory hug. I dropped my hand and resisted the urge to hide the spike behind my back like a little kid.
“You think it’s dumb,” I said.
“No!” Jacob protested. “But—”
He halted, but I gave him a look that said, You can’t get out of this now. Just come out and say it.
“It just kind of kills me that you can do this,” Jacob said, holding up his fiddle and bow, “like, so much better than me. But you choose to do . . .”
His eyes fell on my spike.
“. . . that.”
I felt heat rush to my face.
“So you don’t think I should have a choice in the matter?” I said. “I should just join the family business whether I want to or not?”
“No,” Jacob said quietly. “I just don’t believe that you really don’t want that. Not when you play fiddle the way you do. Not when you can’t help but turn a railroad spike into an instrument.”
I blinked at Jacob.
And that’s when I realized that there were two sides to swooning.
A moment ago Jacob had looked past the black circles ringing my nails, my ash-dusted skin, and my dirty tank top. He’d seemed to swoon for me.
But maybe the swoon had only happened because Jacob had thought that I was just like him. He couldn’t understand that music was an obligation for me, a tether holding me back. All he knew was what it was for him: a pair of wings, setting him free.
He didn’t really see me. He saw who he wanted to see, and that’s who he liked.
I couldn’t speak.
Because when your heart hurts as badly as mine did, it takes your breath away.
That makes it hard to dash into the woods and hurry back to your dorm, then linger too long in a shower and maybe even cry a little bit.
But those things—I managed to do.
Chapter Eleven
After my shower, I didn’t have the heart to do my usual twenty-minute hair ritual, slathering it with product, then laboriously blowing it straight. Instead I just flopped onto my bed, grabbed my e-reader, and spent the twenty minutes staring at it without comprehending a word.
Annabelle came back to our room just before dinner. She froze in the doorway and said, “Oh! Your hair!”
I jumped, and my hand flew to my now-dry hair. It felt soft and poufy—like a dandelion.
“Uh-oh, how bad is it?” I said, swinging myself off the bed. “I got it cut into this bob a few weeks ago, and I haven’t let it air-dry since.”
When I peeked into the mirror over the dresser, I gasped.
“I look like a goth Orphan Annie!” I whisper-screamed. My hair had frizzed into ringlets that sproinged up and out all over my head. So not only did it feel like a dandelion, with its fuzzy, spherical shape, it looked like one too.
“Urgh,” I groaned. “By the time I get this straightened out, I’m going to completely miss dinner.”
Annabelle frowned at me.
“Nell, can I give you some advice?”
Normally, I would have hesitated. Every time Annabelle offered me advice, she used all these life-coachy terms like “listen to the universe” and “get in touch with yourself.” All of it made zero sense to me.
My mom, on the other hand, would have loved Annabelle. They both did yoga and wore the kind of gauzy skirts you can buy off a street rack for fifteen dollars apiece.
Also like Annabelle, my mom wore her curls long. They trailed down her back, all soft and springy, the same dark-blond color my hair had been before I dyed it. Black and blunt suited me better, or so I’d thought.
But given my currently desperate situation, I said to Annabelle, “Okay, yes. Please tell me what to do about this mess.”
“Well, don’t call it a mess, for starters,” Annabelle said. “Your hair is part of you. You have to embrace it. You have to love it!”
“Easy for you to say,” I said, pointing at her glossy, tightly corkscrewed mane. It was tied loosely at the nape of her neck, and a few tendrils bounced adorably on her cheeks. “You’ve got the hair of a goddess.”
“Well, it’s not easy,” she reprimanded. “I hope I don’t have to tell you about the history of African-American women and their hair.”
I tried not to sigh as Annabelle launched into a lecture about the social politics of hot combs and relaxers. I wondered if she ever got tired of being so meaningful.
As she moved onto a history lesson about Madam C. J. Walker, she also began to work on my hair. She sprayed it down with a water bottle, then worked some fruity-smelling hair gel through it. She quickly worked her way around my head, coiling small sections of my hair around her fingers. Finally she grabbed a couple of lobster-claw clips out of a dish on her dresser and loosely clipped my bangs back at the temples.
“And . . . done,” Annabelle said. She put her hands on my shoulders and turned me toward the mirror.
My mouth popped open.
My hair was frizz free. The curls that had been standing straight up, looking frazzled and angry, were now prettily framing my face. But I hadn’t been transformed into a clone of Annabelle or my mom. My hair was still a bit blunt and edgy, the way I liked it, but instead of being crisp and straight-edged, it looked light and springy.
It had taken Annabelle all of five minutes to achieve.
“You’re welcome,” Annabelle said, before I could get it together to thank her.
“I—I love it!” I said.
“Just promise me you’ll own it,” Annabelle said. “Your hair is you, Nell. Always remember that.”
I nodded even as I was thinking, No, Annabelle. Hair is just hair.
Nevertheless, I did feel kind of different, even floaty, as Annabelle and I walked together to the dining hall. Something about my head feeling so light and breezy made my hurt feelings lighten too.
That didn’t mean I was ready to face Jacob yet. At our table, I strategically positioned myself three seats away from him. I was far enough from him that we couldn’t talk, yet close enough that we couldn’t make eye contact across the table. Our view of each other was blocked by Marnie and Isabelle chatting animatedly between crunchy bites of radish salad.
I ate as quickly as possible and headed for the kitchen. Not only did I have Jacob to avoid, it was fried chicken night again, and I really didn’t need to watch all the carnivores enjoying their dinners, not tonight, when I really could have used some comfort food.
There is nothing comforting about radish salad.
In the kitchen, I gave the staffers a quick, morose wave hello, then headed for the supply closet to tie on my apron and grab my hat. When I made to leave the closet, though, Jacob was blocking the door and looking at me.
My body seemed to be running a few hours behind, because as usual, my heart quickened and my cheeks went hot at the sight of
him.
But my brain. It was weary and sad after the day’s emotional roller coaster.
“What is it, Jacob?”
“Your hair . . . ,” he said.
“Oh, that.” I gave my ringlets a self-conscious pat. “Annabelle did it.”
“It’s . . .” Jacob stopped himself, then started over. “Well, it looks nice.”
Inexplicably, this made a lump form in my throat. So I just stared at the floor and gave him a quick nod of thanks before pushing past him out of the closet.
“Hey,” Ms. Betty called from the stainless-steel table where she was cutting butter into a big bowl of flour. “Don’t forget your hat, sweetheart.”
“Oh yeah,” I muttered, glancing down at the baseball cap, forgotten in my hand. I smushed it down over my curls.
I trudged to the dining hall window to load the first wave of dishes onto the cart. Next, I should have delivered them to Jacob, who was waiting at the sink. But I still didn’t feel fully ready to face him. So I stopped and called out across the kitchen, “Ms. Betty, the scones at breakfast this morning were delicious.”
“They were not,” Ms. Betty said, waving me off with a plump hand. “They looked terrible.”
“Well, yeah, they were pretty ugly,” I admitted. “But they tasted amazing. That’s what matters.”
“Well, bless your heart,” Betty twanged at me. In the next instant, though, her rosy, smiling face went hard. “But you’re all wrong, kid. Martha Stewart’s scones are perfect golden triangles, and so shall mine be. You’ll see.”
“I’m rootin’ for you,” I said while Ms. Betty laughed.
I laughed too. It calmed me enough to deal with Jacob. I pushed the cart toward him, my head ducked low. The brim of my baseball cap prevented me from meeting his eyes.
But I couldn’t help spotting the plate he held in his hands. It wasn’t an empty, waiting to be scrubbed. In fact, it was neatly covered with a grease-dotted paper napkin.
“I—I got this for you,” Jacob said, thrusting the plate toward me.
Warily, I stepped around the dish cart, took the plate, and peeked beneath the napkin.
Then I nearly swooned.
Jacob had given me a piece of fried chicken.
It was a big drumstick with a deep-brown crust. I could tell, without even touching it, that it was super crunchy, just the way I liked it. It smelled better than delicious—it was intoxicating.
I stared at Jacob.
“But—?”
“Listen, I was an idiot earlier,” he said. “I want to apologize.”
My knees suddenly felt weak, either from the apology or the smell of the fried chicken. Probably a little of both.
“But,” I said, “why are you apologizing with . . . a chicken leg?”
“Nell.” Jacob’s serious sorry-face was starting to twitch with amusement. “I know.”
“You know what?”
“I know,” he repeated, failing to fight off a smile, “you’re not really a vegetarian.”
I opened my mouth to protest, but I didn’t have the energy. I slumped as I admitted, “You’re right. I’m a total carnivore. And I’ve never been so hungry in my life. Is it that obvious?”
“Only on fried chicken night,” Jacob said with a grin.
A clatter at the dining room window made us jump. Two tall stacks of plates had just arrived.
Painfully, I re-covered the chicken leg.
“No, no,” Jacob said. “You eat, I’ll start the dishes.”
“Jacob,” I said, “you know I’m not going to eat meat in front of you. Not after the whole Sally thing.”
“What if I promise to eat something you don’t like in front of you?” Jacob bargained.
“Already done,” I said. “It doesn’t get any grosser than radish salad.”
“Hey, I heard that!” Ms. Betty squawked, glaring at me over her sticky scone dough.
Clang!
A bowl full of clattery silverware appeared in the window. Jacob pointed at the screened door that led to a patio behind the dining hall.
“Listen,” he said. “I promise you, being a vegetarian is my thing. I honestly don’t care what anybody else does. So, go.”
I stared down at the plate in my hands.
And I went.
Outside, I sat on a bench looking out at an empty, grassy field. A breeze seemed to amplify the scent of the fried chicken, making it officially irresistible.
I took a bite.
It was so delicious, I had to suppress a groan. With each successive mouthful, I felt happier—and not just because I felt truly full for the first time all week.
When I returned to the kitchen, the Hobart was beeping insistently. I whipped the tray out and began cheerfully stacking hot, clean dishes.
“Thank you,” I said to Jacob on the other side of the Hobart. “And thanks for being non-judgey about the whole carnivore thing.”
“I’m really not,” Jacob assured me, nodding his head emphatically. “But I am kind of curious . . .”
“About why I’m a completely fraudulent vegetarian?” I said. “At the time, I didn’t really think about what I was doing. I guess I just wanted to do something, anything, unexpected. And not just surprising to Nanny or the rest of my family, but to me. So I became a vegetarian blacksmith. I guess I didn’t completely think it through, though. That this would be my life for the next thirty days.”
“So how does it feel now?” Jacob asked.
“It feels . . . well, surprising, for sure!” I said with a laugh. “I barely recognize myself, especially now.”
I flicked at one of my curls with a fingertip.
Of course, I didn’t tell him the biggest surprise of all—how I felt about him. He made me both swoony and wary, ambivalent and obsessed. I barely knew him, and yet half the time, I could have sworn I knew what he was thinking.
Of course, the other half, I had no idea what he was thinking. Particularly, what he was thinking about me.
Part of me wanted to retreat into the blacksmithing barn, where the only hurts I risked were burns and bruises.
But the other part of me—most of me—was dying to see what would happen next between me and Jacob.
Chapter Twelve
To say I was nervous the next night—our last night in the kitchen—would be an understatement. Twenty-four hours after the Drumstick, I still didn’t know how to feel.
Was I relieved that our punishment was almost over? And that somehow over the past two nights, I’d managed to evade Nanny’s detection? (It helped that teachers never cleared dishes, an honor strictly enforced at Camden.)
Or was I bereft about saying good-bye to these evenings with Jacob?
As he and I walked together from the dining hall to the kitchen door, we were both quiet. Too quiet.
So, of course, I had to go fill the awkward silence with even more awkward small talk.
“So . . . have you had a nightmare about Hobart yet? Heh, heh.”
I turned my head so he wouldn’t see me roll my eyes at my own lameness.
But Jacob just shook his head.
“Hobart’s not so bad,” he said. “As long as you respect the beast, right?”
I looked at him in surprise.
“That’s so funny, that’s what we say in blacksmithing,” I said. “About the forge.”
Now Jacob looked a little squirmy.
“Oh, um, yeah, I knew that,” he said. “I ran into Clint earlier. We were talking about blacksmithing . . . and stuff.”
“Oh,” I said, pushing open the kitchen door. “What kind of stu—”
Before I could say anything else, Ms. Betty’s voice rang out, practically making my eyeballs rattle.
“That’s it!” she cried. “#$&%ing Martha Stewart!”
“Whoa,” I whispered to Jacob. “That’s something else we say in blacksmithing. Minus the Martha Stewart part.”
While Jacob laughed, I headed for Ms. Betty.
“What happened?”
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But as soon as I reached her, the answer was evident. She was staring at a half-sheet pan that she’d clearly tossed onto the worktable. It was covered with three-cornered lumps, walnut brown and puckered. They resembled the gravel in the parking lot more than baked goods.
“Fig balsamic scones,” Ms. Betty said with a curled lip.
“Oh,” I said. “Well, maybe you could tr—”
“I’m making cinnamon rolls instead, durn it!” Ms. Betty screeched. As she began slamming around measuring cups, I retreated to the dishwasher.
“Hobart seems absolutely tame,” I whispered to Jacob, “now that I’ve experienced the wrath of Ms. Betty.”
He laughed again as he shoved the first tray of dishes into the churning washer.
“Don’t let Hobart hear you say that,” he said. “You don’t want him to get revenge.”
I giggled as we settled into the now-comfortable rhythm of ferrying dishes to and fro, of spraying and stacking and pulling and unloading.
Behind us, Ms. Betty seemed to take about three minutes to whip up her cinnamon roll dough. As she began to knead, she turned up the radio, which was tuned to an oldies station.
A moment later, though? “Respect” came on—and Ms. Betty started dancing.
Now, Ms. Betty was not a small woman. In fact, she was probably about the same size as Aretha Franklin, who was singing the song. So even though Ms. Betty didn’t jump while she danced, all her body parts did.
“Ooh, I’m jiggling like a jelly doughnut over here,” she whooped.
My effort to suppress a laugh was desperate and futile. The laugh happened and it happened big, accompanied by a tremendous snort.
Then Jacob started laughing. I don’t know if it was my snort that got to him or Ms. Betty’s bounce.
Luckily, Ms. Betty laughed along with us.
“Oh, I know I should lose a few pounds, she admitted. “Okay, fifty. But I’m so much happier when I can eat.”
“Amen, Ms. Betty!” I said, holding my wet, soapy hand out for a high five.
Instead she grabbed my hand and pulled me away from the sink. She propelled me into a spin, and before I knew it, we were bumping hips and whooping it up.
“Shake what you got, girl, even if you don’t got much!” Ms. Betty hollered.