“We are!” my mother answers, and so I lead them toward the bakery.
Ramón isn’t in, of course. He’s too busy at the tavern this time of day, readying things for lunch, but Magda’s there. She flashes her gap-toothed grin and I introduce her to my parents.
“Three sticky buns?” Magda asks, and I nod my head, though after my mom has her first bite she decides to get a whole dozen to take home.
We sit on the bakery steps, finishing the buns and licking our fingers clean in a way that is decidedly un-Duncan of all of us. Then, for the next few hours, we make our way around to all the vendors. My dad spends a freakish amount of time in the men’s costume shop, asking questions about how chain mail was made and what it could protect you from, and my mother is absolutely enchanted with the teacups at Robbie’s, and seems startled when I tell her I painted some of them.
Of all the shops we visit, though, Lindy’s is by far my mother’s favorite. Lindy seems to be a favorite as well, and she bends over backwards to charm my parents—as if they wouldn’t have loved her anyway. Everyone loves Lindy. She even tries to convince my mother to buy a corset, even if she never wears it “outside of the bedroom,” which makes my mother blush furiously and my father inquire exactly how much the corsets are.
Gross.
We arrive at the face painting tent right before the afternoon shift starts. I introduce them to Cassie, who acts so syrupy sweet that I almost go into a diabetic coma. I show them my station and talk a little bit about my routine, and they listen with interest. I can tell they’re both wondering how to turn this experience into a college essay; I can see the gears grinding in their heads like an old rusty machine.
My parents see my Polaroid wall before I get the chance to point it out to them, and my mother turns to me, her hand on her mouth.
“Ro. You did all these?”
I nod and go to them. “I took a picture of almost every face I painted this summer. Just, you know, for posterity or something.” I point to the upper left hand corner and then extend my arm to the right, then back to the left again. “They’re in order. I like to think I got better as summer went on.”
“Oh, you did,” my mother says. She turns her gaze to my first Polaroids. “But the first ones are good, too. It’s just that these, at the end . . .”
Mom doesn’t finish her sentence but nods, as if agreeing with whatever she just said in her head.
“Well, it’s different, you know? I had to get used to working on skin, and on a surface that wasn’t flat,” I explain. “It’s different than working on a canvas. A lot of it is like you’re just working with art that’s already there. Like, if a person has great cheekbones or eyebrows or something, you can incorporate it into the design and highlight it.”
“Sounds more like makeup than paint,” Dad says. I catch a whiff of disapproval, but I shrug it away.
“Sometimes.” I think of Anna, the little girl I made into a butterfly princess, and Colin, my shy fuchsia dragon. “It can make people feel better about themselves. Make them feel beautiful. That sort of thing.”
“I know,” Mom says. She gestures to the wall of Polaroids. “You can see it in their faces.”
My throat goes all dry and tight at that. “Wow. Thanks, Mom.”
“Wouldn’t that make a wonderful essay subject, Ted? Seeing inner beauty?” My mother gets a far-off look in her eye, like she’s imagining some old college dean at Harvard reading my essay. “ ‘The Beauty Within: My Summer at a Renaissance Faire,’ by Rowena Duncan. Oh, that’s just lovely.”
My father turns suddenly, and I think he’s going to agree or perhaps even comment on the value of my work, but instead he says, “Do you think we should see the joust now, honey?”
I deflate. He’s not getting it, he doesn’t see it at all. I’m going to have to make him listen and make him understand. The problem is I have no idea how to do that. My father’s never been much of a listener when he’s not on board with the subject, and I’ve never been one for keeping my cool when I feel like someone’s not listening. The Duncan stubborn streak is too prominent in both of us.
“No,” I answer him, resigned. “See the last joust of the day with me. Trust me, it’s the best one. It’s for all the marbles.”
“Sounds like a plan, Stan,” my father says, a strange little saying that takes me back to family vacations in my childhood. “Can we eat again? I’m starving.”
“The two sticky buns you wolfed down aren’t cutting it, huh?” my mother asks wryly.
Dad looks sheepish at that. “Hey, it’s been hours since the sticky buns and I can smell turkey legs and potatoes from here. You can’t blame a man for getting an appetite.”
“I’m hungry too,” I say, more to earn brownie points with my dad than out of actual hunger. “Let’s go to the tavern. Suze can wait on us. She’s my best friend here. She’d love to meet you.”
I can’t believe it.
I’m at Will’s show with my parents, stuffed so full of Ramón’s cooking we can barely stand, and my dad is guffawing.
Like, not chuckling, not a few polite laughs at the right time—guffawing. He thinks Will’s act is hysterical. Which it is. I just never imagined that Will’s over-the-top French accent, his painted-on mustache (which I still haven’t helped him with), and his jokes that are as cheesy as Ramón’s cheddar biscuits would be my father’s style. But Dad gets really into it, even clapping along to the beat when Will does his awesome whip routine.
My mother doesn’t find it as humorous, and after a while I notice that she’s looking at me more than she’s looking at the stage. I bite the corner of my mouth and try to stifle the pride for my almost-boyfriend that’s making me grin like an idiot.
“He’s kind of cute,” Mom whispers to me, and with that small statement, I know that she knows Will is more than a friend. “Much better looking than Kyle, if you ask me.”
“He is, isn’t he?” I whisper back.
“Is he just as charming offstage?”
“More.”
“Sounds pretty serious.”
I shrug, my eyes focusing on Will, and try to force a smile. “Maybe. I’m not sure yet. I like him a lot.”
Mom hums at that as if she understands everything that’s packed into my few words. She rubs the center of my back. “I suppose I should meet this young man.”
“I don’t know. Dad might ask him for his autograph.”
We both glance over at my father, who is bobbing his head to the rhythmic crack of the whip, and chuckle to ourselves.
I do take them to meet Will, who seems nervous for only a moment before turning on his considerable charm. He compliments my mother and spends a long time explaining his training and some behind-the-scenes stuff about his show to my dad. My dad asks him about a thousand questions, and Will keeps sneaking glances at me whenever Dad looks away for a second. Of course Mom notices this and leans in to whisper, “So is he your age?”
I shake my head. “He’s going to college in a few weeks.”
“Where?”
“MIT.”
My mother seems impressed, thank goodness. She lowers her voice even more. “Should we tell your father that you’re dating his new hero?”
I try to suppress a smile and whisper back, “Please don’t. At least not until after you leave.”
When Dad finally lets up, I thank Will for his time and hope my parents don’t catch it when I mouth, “See you tonight,” to him.
“Is it time for the joust yet?” my father asks. His voice is laced with excitement, and he’s looking all around as if he’s afraid he might miss something.
Huh. Seems like maybe Dad had some of ye olde Kool-Aid.
I laugh and sling an arm around his shoulders. “We have a few more hours yet. There are some other shows you need to see. My friends Patsy and Quagmire do this hilarious mud show, and the acrobats are incredible. Then I’ll take you to see the animals in the menagerie. Suze’s dad trains the birds . . .”
&nb
sp; We pass the hours leading up to the joust so quickly, and with such great entertainment, that my father almost forgets to be impatient. Almost. By the time the bell tower chimes out the hour and hordes of people start to break for the jousting field, he’s practically vibrating with anticipation.
Amused to no end, and feeling some of that excitement myself, I lead them toward the jousting field, right up to the fence line so they’ve got a great view of the whole ring. At the opposite end of the fence, the knights are suiting up for the final chapter of today’s script.
I don’t explain how jousting works to my parents; I want them to enjoy the illusion, even if my dad may see right through it. But I do try to sway them in the right direction of who to root for.
“The one in black is the good guy,” I tell them. “The guy in gold is great too. Hopefully, they win the round.”
As it turns out, King Geoffrey’s kingdom is threatened by the mysterious knight in blue today, and the knight in black is chosen by the king to defend the realm, which means that Christian is about to get knocked off his horse. I can’t believe my luck.
When Christian comes out, everyone in the crowd boos and I and my parents join in. Though I would like to think of myself as a bigger person, the truth is I hope he falls on his butt. Hard. And he feels it for a week.
The reality is as satisfying as I could have hoped, and Christian lands in thick mud, dirtying his fancy doublet. I at least have the decency to stifle a smile when I turn to my parents and ask if they enjoyed the joust.
“How does it work?” my dad asks in response, his eyes shining as he tries to work out the secrets in his head. “Is it cues that the audience can’t see? Are they wearing a lot of padding under the armor?”
My mom and I exchange an amused glance, then I turn my dad in the direction of Richard and Grant. “Go ask them. Tell them you’re Ro’s dad, and they’ll talk with you all day if you want. But I should get ready for dinner. I’m not wearing this dress out.”
“Sounds great, honey. Invite Suze to go. She’s a lovely girl.” Mom winks at me, then lowers her voice. “I’ll go with him and make sure he doesn’t embarrass you too thoroughly with your knight friends. We’ll meet you by the gate in twenty.”
I leave them at the jousting field and head back to my tent.
“They really want to take me?” Suze asks, flattered.
“Yes, but you’re going to have to help me.” Suze’s face crumples in concern, so I tell her. “My dad was seriously unimpressed when I talked about art today in the face painting tent, so I haven’t told them yet.”
The look of pride on her face reminds me of Lindy, and it eases some of the fluttering nervousness in my stomach. Suze puts her hands on my shoulders and looks into my eyes.
“You’re going to be fine, Ro. Just tell them how you feel. They love you. They want what’s best for you.”
“Yeah,” I say miserably. “But what they think is best isn’t what I want.”
“Then convince them.” Suze pulls me in for a tight, strong hug. “I know you can. I’ve seen you paint. You love it and you’re good at it. Show them that.”
Mom and Dad take us to Max and Erma’s, which is a little ways down the highway, and Suze is so happy to get a cheese-burger that she talks about it most of the way through dinner. My parents ask us every question they can think of about the faire, and about our friends there, and Suze and I do an admirable job of regaling them with our tales of summertime adventure and doctoring them into a PG rating.
It’s not until Suze and I are halfway through the sundaes we made at the sundae bar that the questions run out, and I realize it’s now or never to talk about art school.
I clear my throat and push my sundae away from me. Suze, God love her, squeezes my hand under the table and kicks off the conversation for me.
“So, Mr. and Mrs. Duncan, have you seen Ro’s Polaroids in the face painting tent? They’re so good.”
My parents nod, my mother punctuating it by saying, “I was quite impressed.”
“Thanks.” I swallow. “You know how I was talking about how I could paint things that might make people feel better, or highlight their good qualities? Well, I wasn’t so good at that before. This summer has really helped me see the good in others.” I pause to think about how I’d seen everybody at the beginning of the summer—Will and Christian, but even Kyle and Lacey too—and how I see them now. “I think art has changed me. It’s helped me grow and learn how to be a better friend, and to look inside a person instead of just looking at the outside.”
“All very good lessons,” my father agrees, and raises his glass of iced tea as if to toast. “And a fine topic for college application essays.”
“Yes, but . . .” I struggle for the next words, but Suze squeezes my hand again, and that gives me courage. “I want to write this essay for art schools.”
“Art schools?” my mom asks. My father, on the other hand, seems to be having trouble understanding.
“What do you mean, art schools?”
“I love painting,” I tell them. “I do have a talent for it, but more than that, it’s something I’m so passionate about that I have to paint every day or else I get itchy. Whenever I see a face that interests me, or a scene, the only thing I can think about is how to paint it so everyone else can see it like I see it, too. I’ve really fallen in love with it.”
My father reaches for his glass and takes a giant gulp of ice tea, and I bet anything he’s wishing it was the Long Island variety. “Rowena,” he begins, “I’m sure you’ve had a fun time this summer painting faces, but it’s not a way to make a living.”
“I don’t want to paint faces, Dad. I want to paint canvases. Real art. Like Monet, or Rembrandt, or Picasso.”
My mother is shaking her head. “There’s no money in that, sweetheart.”
“It’s not about money, it’s about doing what I love to do.” I blink back some tears that are starting to fill my eyes.
“But what about Boston College?” my father asks me. “Why this sudden change? It’s very unlike you, Rowena.”
“I never wanted to go to BC, Dad.”
“But then why—”
“Because you wanted me to go and major in economics, like you did,” I say. It’s not angry; it’s more like an apology. “You had my whole life planned out for me and I didn’t know how to tell you it wasn’t what I wanted. Even if you don’t want me to go into art, I’m not sure I’m cut out for the business world. I’m sorry, Dad.”
I swirl my spoon around the ice cream soup my sundae has become and stare at the Reese’s Pieces and sprinkles as they dance around my dish, counterclockwise. Next to me, Suze is doing the same thing and I know the tension in the air and her nervousness for me killed her appetite. The waitress comes to our table and Dad asks for the check. When she’s gone, I finally look at him again.
“Say something, please.” I swallow. “I hate thinking that I’m disappointing you.”
“We’re not disappointed, Rowena,” Mom says gently. She has her hand on Dad’s. “We’re just surprised, that’s all. We’ve talked about Boston for so long, this is quite a shock.”
“Yes, but I think it was us doing all the talking, Louise,” my father says. He looks at me like I’m a puzzle and he can’t figure out where the last pieces go. “Art, huh?”
I smile at him. “Art.”
My mom lays her hand over mine. “If this is what you want, Ro . . .”
My father’s face next to her is serious. “This is your future, Rowena. You can’t just jump into this, you need to—”
“Do my research, I know.” We smile at each other, and I could swear there’s pride there in his eyes, not to mention a few tears.
“A Duncan always does their research,” Dad explains to Suze. “Our family motto, passed down for generations.”
I turn to Suze. “Don’t listen to him. He’s full of it.”
“That’s our actual motto,” Mom quips.
Suze finds th
is uproariously funny, and by the time we’ve left the restaurant, she’s deemed my parents super cool. I shake my head at her, but I’m flattered that she likes them. And she’s right: Maybe they’re not so bad. It just took us way too long to talk honestly, and that’s as much my fault as it is theirs. But they’re letting me try art school, and we had a great, honest talk tonight, and I feel very loved and very relieved.
As my dad jokes with my mother about buying a whole suit of armor before they go home, I turn to Suze, shaking my head at them, and say, “Yeah. They’re pretty cool sometimes.”
Back in the tent, I plop myself down on my air mattress before taking out my sketchpad. I turn to the page where I’ve started putting together my thoughts for Phase Two of the Thank the Mulligans Project, something that will show Suze’s family how grateful I am for all of their kindness to me this summer. I’ve been slowly piecing ideas together since I painted their Revel masks, building on one theme to the next, and if I can pull this off, it’s going to be amazing.
I look up at Suze, teasing, “I can’t wait until you see what I’m doing for them.”
“Show me.”
“Nope. Remember the deal. Not until it’s done.”
“Ro . . .”
“No way.”
Suze lunges for the sketchpad but I’m too quick. I dodge her and Suze ends up sprawled facedown on my air mattress, both of us giggling and snorting like hyenas.
“Uh, hi. Did I come at the wrong time?”
We look over at the tent flaps and Will is parting them, looking at us with an eyebrow raised to such an arch that it looks pointy.
“Not at all,” Suze says, standing and smoothing down her hair. “I was just about to head out and see Grant. Maybe I’ll just, um, stay with him. So, Indy, if you’d want to, you know, stay here tonight to make sure the bears don’t eat Ro, well, that would be the gentlemanly thing to do.”
Suze slips out of the tent, wiggling her eyebrows at us, and when she’s gone, Will says, “Well. That was subtle.”
“Suze and subtle don’t belong in the same sentence,” I say. Will chuckles and enters the tent, sitting on the mattress cross-legged so we’re facing each other.
My Faire Lady Page 24
