Yeah. I have to get this job.
I fidget in my seat, suddenly afraid that I might not. Scary Art Girl has been in there for a while, and she had the forethought to bring a portfolio. That doesn’t bode well for my chances. By the time she exits the trailer and Jeff motions me in, I’ve chewed the nail on my pinkie down to the quick.
“Sorry about your wait,” he mumbles as he leads me into a shabby little room that’s decorated with cheap wood paneling, a few old file cabinets, and a small bowl with a beta fish in it. He catches me eyeing it. “That’s Merlin.”
I laugh loudly at that, and when he quirks a brow at me, I offer an explanation. “I used to have a guinea pig when I was little. I called it Dumbledore.”
Jeff looks amused by that. “Two of the greatest wizards of all time. Please, have a seat.”
As we sit in our respective seats, I take the opportunity to study his outfit. He is dressed for the job, like Will, only his outfit is truly fit for a king, in hues of luxurious gold and burgundy. His sleeves are so puffy it’s almost comical, and though he’s not overweight, a bit of gut spills out over a braided gold belt. Behind him, on a hook on the wall, is a cape and what looks to be a genuine metal crown glittering with rhinestones.
If he is going for a Henry the Eighth look, he’s certainly achieved it.
Jeff shuffles some papers on his desk and holds his hand out. It takes me a second to realize he’s asking for my resume, which in spite of everything, I’m still carrying. I hand it over.
“I’m surprised anyone showed up at all, the way that ad was worded. It sounded creepy. Totally my fault. Didn’t even read it over before I put it on the website, but I had no time. Our last girl was poached by some weird sort of artsy circus and it had to be quick.” Jeff lifts a brow at me. “You do realize this is for face painting and not for something freakier, right?”
I try hard not to laugh. “Right.”
He sighs and looks at my resume, reading parts of it out loud. “Babysitting . . . waitressing . . . Do you have any actual art experience?”
“Not paid, but I’ve been taking art classes at school for years. I . . .” I stop talking because I can’t really offer any excuse for my lack of work experience. Instead, I do the only thing I can: I take out my phone and pull up pictures of my paintings. I lean across the desk so I can give him a view of my screen.
“I started my freshman year, because I needed an art credit and it was that or choir, and there’s no way I should ever sing in public.” Jeff snorts at that, but his attention is all on my phone, on the still life of a fruit bowl that was my first painting. “It turned out I had some talent for it, and Mrs. Robertson, that’s my art teacher, has been helping me ever since. I go in and paint during study hall, and sometimes even lunch. So I’ve been doing this for three years.”
I don’t know if three years of art classes and giving up my free time to practice really impresses Jeff, but when I flip to a recent sketch I did of Kara, his eyes take it in eagerly. I am rather proud of that sketch. I somehow got the light in her eyes just right so it looks like she’s about to laugh, or maybe even about to spill some juicy gossip.
After a moment of staring at it, Jeff turns his chair around and begins to rifle through a filing cabinet. When he speaks, his voice is all business.
“Food and board is included in this gig, as you’ll be living on the grounds. You are not allowed inside the faire in plain clothes and you must be in character at all times. No exceptions. King Geoffrey’s Faire prides itself on creating the illusion that our guests have traveled back in time, and any disturbance of that illusion is not looked on kindly. You will speak like you are from the Renaissance, you will act like you are from the Renaissance, you will dress like you are from the Renaissance. Can you handle that?”
I trip over my words. “So . . . I got the job?”
Jeff places a form on the desk in front of me. “I prefer that my staff be . . . how should I put this? Personable. Your competition looked like she’d rather eat the children than laugh with them. So yes, you got the job. As long as you can duplicate the pictures in the sample book, you’re good enough.”
I straighten. Good enough? I can do better than good enough.
“I can do that,” I promise. “I can wait tables too. I’ve got plenty of waitressing experience.”
Jeff studies me, rubbing his mouth. “Yeah, you’d make a good serving wench, and we have a shift open, so it’s a deal.”
Jeff taps the form he put in front of me, and I notice that it’s an employee contract of sorts. In addition to all the rules he laid out about keeping the illusion alive, it also states what food and board is expected to be, and my hourly wage, plus tips. I suck in a breath. With tips I’d be making way more than I ever did at TK’s.
“Have your parents sign the release form, since you’ll be under our watch over the next few weeks,” Jeff continues. “The faire is closed on Mondays, so you’ll start Tuesday. Welcome to King Geoffrey’s Faire, Rowena.”
It’s the second time I’ve heard those words today, and I’m starting to really like the sound of them. I thank Jeff and shake his hand, running out of the trailer with a lightness I haven’t felt for nearly a week. My summer is going to be awesome. Painting, the woods, and boys calling me “lady.”
All of that happiness deflates like a balloon when I realize there’s one big roadblock standing in the way of me and my fantastic summer: I still have to convince my parents.
3
FRIDAY
“How’d it go?”
Will’s voice surprises me so much that I whirl around at the sound of it, managing, somehow, to twist my feet around themselves so that I trip and fly face first into the grass.
“Whoa there,” Will says, coming over to offer me a hand. “Walking can be a tricky thing, what with gravity and all.”
I take his hand and he pulls, and then I spend a few seconds brushing myself off and avoiding eye contact. I muster some pride. “Shuddup. You scared me. Were you waiting out here the whole time?”
“Well, I couldn’t leave not knowing who I’d be working with all summer.” Will’s eyes widen dramatically. “You or the psychopath.”
“Me, not the psychopath.”
“Aw. That’s too bad. I was looking forward to learning all about dark magic from her.”
Will laughs at himself and then there’s a weird, static squawk and his pocket says, “Fuller, make sure our new girl gets back to the parking lot without incident, will you?”
I blink. “Did your pocket just order you to take me to the parking lot?”
Will pulls out a walkie-talkie that’s covered in leather with what looks like the plans for some sort of machine sketched all over it. “Behold, the Renaissance talk box. One of da Vinci’s lesser-known inventions.” He holds it up to his mouth and presses a button. “Aye, King Geoffrey. And good morrow to you, my lord.”
The “talk box” squeaks to life. “Kiss-ass.”
Will chuckles and pockets the walkie-talkie. “I’m clearly his favorite. Want to see a little of the faire on the way back?”
Will takes my grin as a yes and we begin to walk, Will leading and jabbering a mile a minute. “So the faire has games, entertainment, shopping, food. Especially food. If you’re hungry, we’ve got fried cheese on a stick, steak on a stick—we call it steak on a stake, ha—baked potato on a stick, corn dogs—”
“Is there anything at King Geoffrey’s Faire that isn’t served on a stick?”
Will thinks for a while. “Turkey legs. Those are technically on a bone, not a stick.”
I briefly wonder if this summer is going to make me gain forty pounds. “Sounds like I’m going to need a corset.”
“We sell those here too.”
“Of course you do.”
“Actually, you’ll need some clothes. You can’t wear flip-flops and shorts around here, you know. Not very Renaissance-y.”
Will leads us behind the shops again, and once more my ears
fill with the sounds of music and swords clashing. This time, however, I notice something else. A pleasant sound. A hum, a buzzing, like a busy hive full of enthusiastic bees.
I turn to Will and he’s grinning a very satisfied grin. “The post-joust rush. Seems like everyone and their mother gets hungry after a good fight. It starts at four p.m. on the dot, and it’s chaos until about six. So we’re right in the thick of it. Come on, follow me.”
Will jogs off between two of the shops. We come out onto a dusty street, and I feel like I’ve truly gone back in time. Both sides of the street are lined with Tudor-style cottages and buildings, doors thrown open wide, shopkeepers beckoning the crowds to come in and explore. Hundreds, possibly thousands of people in modern clothes walk around slowly, fascinated, trying to take it all in.
I can understand that. For a moment I stop and just stare.
Somewhere to my right, a pair of acrobats does a routine in the middle of the street, one leaping from her partner’s shoulders to the ground with a somersault and a flourish. Onlookers clap as they stretch and pose and go into another tumble. A woman hangs out of the window of a shop, looking very scantily clad for the Renaissance period, in not much more than a corset and an underskirt. She winks at a woman passerby, suggesting she come in to pick up something to wear for her husband later that night. Next to her shop is a store called The Bone Needle, and leather goods hang outside on displays and in the windows. I can smell the leather, tangy and sweet, even from this distance. Farther down, I spy a beautifully scripted sign reading MICHELANGELO’S GALLERY, which piques my curiosity. I’ll have to check it out later and see what kind of art they have for sale there.
My gaze travels down the street and back up. There have to be about twenty different shops, stages, or work areas, and about twenty more of what look to be food tents. The smell of grilled meat and fried potatoes is inescapable, and so is the enthusiasm.
A young couple passes me and I catch them teasing each other about how many turkey legs they can eat. A little boy dashes by, waving a wooden sword as his father trails behind, calling his name. A handful of people dressed in velvet robes pass as well, and they look at me with an intense gaze, like they’re trying to cast a spell. Everyone in that group has plastic elf ears, making them look like something other than humans, and I find myself walking a little closer to Will.
“We always get some Ringers,” he says as he eyes them too. I raise a brow in question. “Lord of the Rings fans,” he explains.
I grimace. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”
“Unfortunately.”
Ringers. I’m going to be spending my summer with people who dress up like Lord of the Rings characters.
I stop right there in the middle of the busy street and start laughing. Probably from the shock of it all. It’s the kind of laughing that won’t quit, but rather snowballs until it’s completely out of control and there’s nothing you can do to stop it. I double over, clutching my stomach, and simply let it all out while Will watches in confusion.
“Are you okay? We do have a cart that takes away people like you, you know. The mad ones. The deeply disturbed ones. Takes them right off to the looney bin. I mean, it’s fake, but I’m sure we could get you somewhere for help.”
I hold up my hand, my laughter finally petering out. “I think I might need that cart. I’m sorry. This just isn’t what I expected at all. I was going to have a nice, normal summer. The beach. The mall. Working at a stupid themed restaurant. Not working at a place where I have to speak old English and talk to hobbits.”
“They were elves, actually.” Will winces. “And let’s just ignore the fact that I knew the difference. Anyway, it might not be normal, Ro, but it’s fun. I promise. You’ll like it here.”
Will looks at me. There’s still a hint of laughter in his eyes, maybe even a twinkle of mischief, but his voice is sincere. It’s not an empty promise, not in the slightest, and it fills me with something warm that feels a lot like hope.
Yeah, this place isn’t even close to normal, but maybe I could use a little abnormality in my life.
I’m about to say so when a group of little girls runs by me, talking to one another in high-pitched, excited voices. They’re all wearing crowns of flowers on their heads, and they run toward a shop that has beautiful dresses and dolls in the window.
Will watches them too, then turns to me. The seriousness is still there, though he grins wide and impish. “Looks like they’re onto something. Let’s follow them.”
We head toward the shop, following the girls in. They take off in all directions, darting around to the back, where I can see that there’s a whole other room just for children. It’s filled with dolls and small dresses.
The door closes behind us with the jingle of sleigh bells and I lose myself in my new surroundings. There are racks and racks of dresses in every color, material, and style you could imagine, and they all look like they could be straight out of the Renaissance. There are plain gowns, everyday gowns for everyday people. There are gorgeous layered dresses of gold and blue and purple, fit for royalty. There are dresses made of Scottish tartan, with leather vests and scabbards, for the girls who feel a bit more rebellious, for the warriors. There are also wedding dresses, for the ladies who have found their lords, I suppose.
A woman steps out from behind one of the racks. Her ash blond hair is pulled into a loose updo, and her hazel eyes have deep laugh lines around them. “Will, how are you, love?”
I watch as Will embraces her, curious.
“Can’t complain,” Will answers. “Showing our new face painter the ropes. Ro, this is Lindy, the fairy doll maker and resident seamstress. She can make anything—dolls, dresses, quilts. She’s the one who does the fancy stuff on the knights’ horse blankets.”
Lindy steps back from Will and studies me. It’s a bit like how Kyle’s mother looked at me the first time I met her, like she was searching for my flaws. I stand up a little straighter and speak clearly.
“These dresses are beautiful.”
“Thank you, dear. I’ve been at this almost twenty-five years now.”
“Lindy’s a lifer,” Will says to me, and I look to him, hoping he’ll explain. He does. “Been in a Renaissance Faire all her life.”
“Born at a faire, raised at a faire. Hope to die at a faire.” Lindy studies me again, and I don’t know exactly what test she’s putting me through, but I find myself really wanting to pass. “You’ll need clothes, then. I’m surprised Jeff hasn’t issued some sort of demerit to you already.”
Lindy stalks back to a desk in the corner of the shop and snatches a tape measure and a pincushion full of pins from the top of it. She stands in front of me, head tilted to one side, staring.
“What are you, about five-four?”
With this question, I finally understand why she’s been studying me so much—she’s trying to dress me. Relieved, I breathe out an answer. “Yes, exactly five-four.”
Lindy makes a sound of agreement and gestures vaguely to my arms. Because I’ve been fitted for a formal dress before (prom and all the homecoming dances, thank you) I know what she’s asking for, and I lift my arms out so my body makes a T. She starts measuring. Hips first, my waist, finally my bust.
“Hmnm, a B cup, then?”
I glance over at Will, who is staring intently at a doll on the windowsill, but I see the corner of his mouth twitch and I know he’s heard. I whisper back to Lindy, hoping she’ll get the hint.
“Um, yeah.”
Lindy hums again and steps back, staring at me like a sculptor might stare at a slab of stone. “Well, my daughter, Susannah, has a few dresses that don’t fit her anymore. They would do if I take them in for you.”
“Really?” I ask. That seems like a lot of work, and we barely know each other.
“Oh, sure. Won’t take me any time at all.” Lindy drapes the tape measure around her neck. “So what do your parents think of you running off to join the circus?”
“I ha
ven’t told them yet. Jeff just gave me the job today.” I can only imagine what my parents will say when I tell them I want to spend my summer out here, surrounded by people who talk funny and wear elf ears and eat steak on a stake. I grimace. “My parents are very . . . practical people.”
Lindy nods as if that explains everything. “Well, if you’d like me to chat with them, give them an adult’s perspective, I’d be happy to.”
That’s the second time she’s offered to do something nice for a complete stranger and I am completely amazed and humbled by that. “Thank you,” I say.
Lindy merely waves me away. “Not a problem. Good luck breaking the news to your practical parents.”
I give her a smile, even though my stomach flips at the thought. Ted and Louise might just blow a gasket over this. “Speaking of, do you know what time it is? I promised my mom I’d be home by dinner.”
Both Lindy and Will glance out the shop window, but it’s Will who answers. “Nearly six.”
There’s no clock outside that I can see, and it takes me nearly a whole moment to understand that they were looking at the shadows of the buildings to tell the time.
Telling time by the sun’s position? They really take this whole historical accuracy thing a little too seriously. I hope vainly that I won’t be expected to do that, or to navigate by using the stars or something.
“I’d better get back then,” I tell them. “It took me nearly an hour to get here.”
“Then let’s make haste, my lady,” Will says with a gentlemanly, if not a little mocking, bow.
I thank Lindy again as we head out the door of her shop. I follow Will through a large crowd who all seem to be heading in the opposite direction like a herd of sheep. They’re in a hurry too, and Will’s far more capable of crowd dodging than I am.
My Faire Lady Page 3
