by Susan Amesse
“Peter can’t judge the teen writing contest,” she says. “He’s been funded to do research in Tuscany and he’s leaving tomorrow.”
Mom punches in some numbers on her cell phone. “Hi, Laura. It’s Helen. Can I speak with Brian?”
“But Peter found a replacement,” says Beth.
“We need someone who is used to dealing with serious literature, not fluff,” says my mother. “This is the first year of the contest and its reputation will depend on how this judge handles it.”
“She’s a very popular writer,” says Beth.
“Don’t make me laugh. Brian, hi, it’s Helen. I need to ask a huge favor.…”
“Who did he find as a replacement?” I whisper to Beth.
“Antonia DeMarco!” she says.
“Antonia DeMarco,” I repeat. “The Antonia DeMarco!”
Beth nods. “Your mom doesn’t think she’s qualified.”
“Mom,” I say, pulling on her arm. She shoos me away.
“Mom,” I say even louder. “Antonia is perfect for the contest.”
She turns away from me. “Oh, I didn’t know you were moving, Brian. Of course, I understand. I’ll find someone else.” She clicks off the phone and goes back to her stack of papers.
“Mom, Antonia DeMarco is a great writer!”
Mom pulls at her hair. She has more spikes than ever. “There are lots of good writers in New York City who would be very happy to work with young talent,” she mumbles. “I’ll be darned if I have to settle for a silly romance writer. I’ve heard she’s impulsive, irreverent, and irresponsible.”
“People exaggerate when it comes to celebrities,” I say. “I’m sure she’s wonderful. She’s such a good writer.”
“I have to find someone else.”
“Helen,” says Beth. “Who else could we find at this late date? Why don’t you stop driving yourself crazy and just use DeMarco. She’s a big name. She’ll attract people to the fair. After all, it is a fund-raiser. That’s the bottom line.”
“Right,” I say. “How did Dr. Boswin get Antonia DeMarco to agree?”
Mom looks up. “She was a student of Peter’s. He was her mentor and they’ve kept in touch.”
“Dr. Boswin and Antonia are friends? A great writer and a boring historian! It doesn’t make sense.”
“Totally illogical,” says my mother. “Only it’s a boring writer and a great historian.”
We glare at each other.
“I like them both,” says Beth. We glare at her. “She’ll draw a crowd. We could use that.”
“Beth is right,” I say. “She’ll attract lots of people and that will raise a lot of money for the Preservation Society. Isn’t that what you want?”
“If only Peter had told me this a month ago,” says Mom, pacing.
“Go with DeMarco,” says Beth.
“I don’t have a choice.” Mom collapses in a chair.
If I write a play, Antonia DeMarco will read it. If Antonia is anything like the women she writes about, then my play will be read by someone who isn’t afraid to fantasize or be frivolous. Someone who would understand the way I write. This is fate. How could I lose? I go to my room. I won’t budge until I have written a masterpiece.
SIX
At five-thirty, Jason has us both up. Since sleep isn’t going to happen, I use the time wisely by practicing how I will introduce myself to Antonia. “Hi. I just love your books. They are filled with romance, passion, and intrigue. You’re my favorite writer.”
I look in the mirror and pretend my reflection is Antonia. I smile sophisticatedly. Well, sort of. I will have to work on developing a more sophisticated look.
I grab my big straw hat. From the book jackets, I can tell Antonia is a hat person—just like me. She wears big, floppy ones. I just know I’m going to like her. We’ll be kindred spirits. Maybe I’ll invite her in for tea. Many of her characters have tea parties. I’ll make cucumber sandwiches.
The only problem will be my mother. I plop on the bed and toss my hat aside. My mother is going to ruin everything. She won’t be able to help herself. She is going to embarrass me in front of Antonia. Now I really have something not to sleep about.
I go downstairs, where Mom is nursing Jason. She looks tired and worn out. “Sorry about the baby keeping you up,” she says softly.
“It’s okay.” Jason has finally quieted down and the silence feels good. I sit on the sofa and pick up Antonia’s book from the coffee table. I open it to the back inside flap. She has such a warm smile and a round, pleasing face. Her wavy chestnut hair cascades from under the big, floppy hat. How could Mom not like her?
Mom sees the book and groans. “I really wish I didn’t have to work with her,” she says. “I’ve heard that she can be very difficult.”
“She’s only going to read the plays,” I say. “How difficult can that be?”
She winces. “Peter says she can be very demanding. Just what I need when I’m going back to work.”
I suddenly have a great idea—a way to keep Mom and Antonia far from each other. I choose my words carefully. “Since you think Antonia’s so difficult and since you’re going to be very busy, I thought maybe I could help you deal with Antonia.”
“What did you have in mind?”
“I could make sure she reads the plays by the deadline. And if she’s demanding, I could do whatever has to be done. I’d be her personal assistant. You could just concentrate on your job and the fair.”
“That’s a fabulous idea,” says my mother.
“It is?” My heart pumps faster.
“Yes. With going back to work next week, I won’t have time to supervise Antonia and the fair. I want her to take this contest seriously.”
“I can make her take it seriously,” I say.
Mom yawns. “I’ll let her know that you’ll be her assistant.”
Me! Antonia’s assistant!
“Promise me that you will come straight to me if there’s any problem.”
“Of course, but there won’t be any.” I’m so clever. I glide back to my room and look in the mirror. “I’ll handle that. I’m Ms. DeMarco’s personal assistant.” I will help her organize the contest. I will attend to her every need. I’ll keep Antonia and Mom as far away from each other as possible.
My destiny is getting better every minute.
SEVEN
It’s stifling in my room and it’s only 10:30 A.M. What a horrible time for my air conditioner to stop working. For days now, I have been trying to come up with a plot for my play. I’ve been successful only in driving myself crazy.
I hear voices in the foyer below. Mom calls my name and I slouch lower in my window seat. Jason is sleeping, and Mom wouldn’t dare raise her voice. The nanny is supposed to drop by today and it’s probably her. I’m not budging from my room until I’ve written at least another page. The deadline to hand in manuscripts is next week.
So far, all I’ve written is the beginning of a scene between two Staten Island farmers fighting over property lines. It seemed like a good idea last night, but this morning, I find nothing exciting about acreage and I can’t imagine anyone else finding it exciting either. I delete the entire scene.
If only this were a fiction contest. Then I’d write about a girl living a dreary life as a farmer’s daughter until the day she finds out that she is really the long-lost daughter of the king of Romania.
I lean back and look out at New York Harbor. A hundred years ago, there had to be tall ships passing by, maybe even pirate ships. What did pirates want? Treasure. Maybe one of the farmers has treasure buried on his land and he doesn’t know it, but his neighbor does … or maybe the neighbor is a pirate himself … or he’s in cahoots with the pirates. I love the word cahoots.
I spring up, pull open the closet door, hoping to find my father’s old tuxedo shirt that I used to play around in. It’s scrunched up like a ball on the floor. I unravel it. It’s billowy and long—perfect for a pirate. I put it on over my tank top and tuck it into my shorts
so the shirt billows in grand pirate style.
I spin around and stare at my reflection. It’s not quite right yet. I find my old sailor hat under the bed and tuck in most of my hair. Under the junk on my desk, I find a ruler and brandish it in the air.
“Aha, Farmer Brown,” I say. “I’ve come for me treasure and I’m not leaving without it.” I begin a mock sword fight. “En garde!” I say, leaping at the farmer. As I’m doing this, the door to my room pops open. I freeze. Mom and some girl gape at me.
“Playing dress-up, I see,” says the girl in an English accent. She giggles.
I’m mortified. My mother has embarrassed me in front of a stranger. We’ve talked about her walking in on me. I’ve even begged to have a lock put on the door.
“Why didn’t you knock?” I ask.
“I did,” says Mom. “I guess you didn’t hear me.”
I turn to the girl. “Let me get one thing straight. I am not playing dress-up. I happen to be working on an idea for a story. I am a writer.” I turn to my mother. “Who is she?”
Mom gives me a wary look. “This is Georgina. Our new nanny.”
“What?” Georgina couldn’t be more than a few years older than I am.
I throw off my makeshift pirate outfit and follow Mom and Georgina into the nursery. It bothers me that this girl thinks I’m playing dress-up like a little kid. I’m a serious writer.
“Uh, Georgina,” I begin.
“Shhh,” says Mom as she points to Jason, who is still sleeping.
Georgina smiles. “He’s a love,” she whispers. “I’m going to adore being with him.”
Mom smiles back radiantly.
We tiptoe down the stairs to the kitchen. “Basically, he’s a good baby,” says my mother.
“Naturally,” says Georgina.
“Georgina,” I say. “I want you to be clear that I wasn’t playing dress-up.”
“I know, you’ve already told me.” She smiles, but it’s not the kind of genuine smile that tells me she understands.
“How old are you?” I hadn’t planned on that question popping out yet.
“I’m twenty-five.” She smiles again. Mom gives me an annoyed look.
As she saunters across the kitchen to look out the window, I’m amazed at how cool she looks on such a hot morning. She’s wearing an aqua shirt that sets off her blue eyes. Georgina is beautiful and graceful.
“What a gorgeous view of New York Harbor,” she says. “In fact, this whole house is fabulous.”
“We’ve put a lot of hard work into it,” says my mother. “Would you like some iced tea?”
“Yes, please,” says Georgina. “If you love old homes, you must come to England.” As she passes by, I get a whiff of roses. It’s her perfume. It has a gentle garden smell.
Mom takes out two glasses and begins pouring.
“Where in England are you from?” I say, knowing this is a good question.
“Camden Town,” she says. “It’s just north of London.”
I nod, pretending I’ve heard of the place. There’s something mysterious about Georgina.
“Have you really been a nanny before?” I ask.
“Oh, yes,” she answers. She sits at the table. “I’ve been watching over babies all my life.” She crosses her legs and smiles at my mother.
“I see. Did you bring references?”
“Of course.”
Mom gives me a cross look. “Sarah, have you cleaned the bathroom like I asked you?”
“Not yet, Mom. I was working on a story.” I sit next to Georgina. “Have we seen your references?”
“Sarah,” says Mom, “I’ve already interviewed Georgina. Maybe you should start cleaning before it gets too late. We have to visit Nana Elsie soon.”
Mom hands Georgina a glass of iced tea and keeps the other. She sits.
I’m bursting to find out things about Georgina, but I march upstairs. There is definitely something mysterious about Georgina. For one thing, she’s too pretty to be a nanny. She should be on the cover of a magazine or gliding down a runway. I spray the tub and begin scrubbing it.
I should be concentrating on my play but I don’t feel like writing about pirates anymore. It seems silly now. Am I ever going to come up with a plot?
I finish the tub, clean the sink and the toilet, and dust the picture frames and around the doorframe. I smile at the S etched into the doorframe. Mom found out that the initial belonged to Suzanne Anderson, a young girl who lived in our house more than one hundred years ago.
I trace the S with my index finger. S for Suzanne. S for Sarah. Was Suzanne like me? I don’t know a lot about her, just a few facts, like her father, Captain Anderson, died on a voyage to the Caribbean.
While I’m sweeping, I visualize Suzanne sweeping this exact room on the morning her father has left for a long voyage. Was she worried about ever seeing him again? I think about this drama, and suddenly, I wonder why I’ve been looking all over town for a character when there’s an interesting one in my bathroom.
Finally, a good idea! I type my thoughts into my laptop. Then I jump up and run to the closet, looking for the Victorian dress I wore to last year’s fair. It’s similar to something Suzanne would have worn. When I find the dress, I pull it over my shorts and tank top. I spin around and stare at my reflection. I spin around again, letting the skirt twirl in the air. I’m so absorbed that it takes me a moment to realize I have company.
Mom and Georgina are standing in the doorway. It’s an instant replay. I hold my arms in front of me like a shield. I can’t believe that this has happened to me twice in one day.
EIGHT
I turn up the volume on my CD player to drown out the world. Actually, to just drown out Georgina, who is downstairs singing to my brother. Besides being beautiful, she has a great voice. It’s so annoying.
It’s almost noon and beginning to get too hot to think. Mornings are best to write—that’s when I feel most like a writer. If only the morning could last all day.
Yesterday, I went to the library to find information about Suzanne. All I found was a record of her engagement to a Civil War lieutenant named Richard Philips. Need to find out more info.
I begin to read the scene out loud. My play takes place in 1862. The Civil War is raging. Suzanne’s family is facing financial ruin. Many of the shipping routes are dangerous because of Confederate raiders. In Scene Three, Suzanne has caught the maid, the beautiful, sophisticated, coordinated Gabriella, stealing the household money.
I walk to the window in a huff because Suzanne is mad at the maid. I sit down, trying not to wrinkle her dress. I find myself needing to wear the Suzanne dress whenever I’m writing the play. It helps me get into the mood of the Victorian period. I wonder if Antonia does this as well. Perhaps I will ask her tomorrow.
“Sarah.” Georgina bursts into my room. She lowers the volume on my CD player. “This is too loud.” She looks at my dress and smirks. “Playing dress-up again, I see.”
“I told you, I’m working.”
“Oh, sorry. Your mum called. She asked me to remind you to sell raffle tickets today.”
“I didn’t hear the phone ring,” I say.
“I’m not surprised, with the music that loud.”
Georgina grabs my favorite straw hat and puts it on. “Lovely,” she says. “Might I borrow this?”
“I’m using it for one of my characters,” I say.
“Perhaps after you’ve finished your story.” She tilts my hat back and admires herself in the mirror. I hate to admit that she looks good in my hat. It takes all my willpower not to snatch it off her head.
“Would you be a love and pick up some Pampers when you go out to sell the tickets?” She takes off my hat and tosses it onto the bed. “Let me know if you change your mind about letting me wear that hat. Maybe we could make a trade for a day, if you fancy something of mine.” From down the hall, Jason cries. “I’d better see to the baby,” she says, leaving.
Didn’t I just buy some Pampe
rs yesterday? I think I did. And I don’t remember the phone ringing. This is all very mysterious. Is there a reason Georgina wants me out of the house?
I change and go downstairs. I don’t intend to sell any raffle tickets, but I grab a ticket book as a ruse, a ploy, a clever cover.
“Oh, Georgina,” I say, waving the tickets. “I’m going out.”
She nods. “Tootles.”
“Tootles,” I answer. I’ll sneak back in ten or fifteen minutes. That should give her enough time to begin whatever mysterious thing she’s up to.
I walk to the end of the block and turn the corner, feeling very much like a spy. I avoid making the first left, even though my feet naturally want to turn. That’s Lynn’s street. I sigh, trying not to think about how much I miss her. I fan myself with the book of raffle tickets. It’s unbelievably hot.
“Hey!” Twenty feet away, Brendan is coming toward me, carrying a basketball and wearing a T-shirt that reads “I can only please one person a day and today isn’t your day. Tomorrow doesn’t look good either.” He eyes the raffle tickets I’m carrying. “You’ve got to be kidding. You promised you weren’t going to sell any. I knew you’d weaken.”
“I’m only pretending to sell them.” I try passing him, but he dribbles the ball and blocks my path.
“Let’s play horse.”
“What in the world is horse?”
“It’s a two-person basketball game. I need to practice my shooting and you need to get your mind off those stupid tickets.”
“I don’t play basketball.”
He dribbles the ball some more, behind his back and then between his legs. “How come?”
“How come what?”
“How come you don’t play basketball? It’s fun.”
“I don’t know. I never learned.”
“That’s terrible. I’ll teach you.”
“I have to go.”
“To do what? Sell raffle tickets! I won’t let you.”
“I’m not selling them,” I say, waving the tickets. “This is just an excuse to get me out of the house. Actually, I’m in the middle of spying on someone.”
His eyebrows arch upward. “Who?”
